How Mrs. Claus Saved Christmas by Jeff Guinn Page A

and how I decided while still very young that I wanted to be, would become, a gift-giver.
    â€œThe inspiration came from the old stories, you see,” I explained. “In Lycia, people had spoken for a hundred years about a mysterious gift-giver who came silently in the night to give gifts to the very poorest people.” The nearsighted man whispered something to the wonderful man with the white hair and beard, who sharply whispered to him to keep quiet. “Well,” I continued, “ten years ago when my uncle and aunt died, they left me the farm and some money as my inheritance. Men in my village offered to marry me, but I realized it was the farm they really wanted, not me. I mean, it’s obvious I’m not beautiful.”
    Now the white-bearded man couldn’t keep himself from speaking. “You seem beautiful to me,” he blurted, and his nearsighted friend laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. For a moment, everything felt quite awkward. I felt myself blushing, and the white-bearded man’s cheeks turned bright red, too. I thought I should perhaps feel offended—the remark had been quite forward, as we used to term such a personal comment. But instead I was pleased. Never before had I really cared what any man thought of my appearance. But now I did.
    After several silent moments, the white-bearded man composed himself, poured all three of us more fruit juice, and remarked, “Do you know, we’ve been talking for some time and we haven’t even properly introduced ourselves. May I ask your name?”
    â€œLayla,” I said.
    â€œWell, Layla, we are honored to meet you. This fat grinning fellow here is Felix. He has been my friend and traveling companion ever since we met in Rome many, many years ago. And my name is—”
    Before the word was out of his mouth, I knew. A carved image on a tomb in Myra flashed into my mind.
    â€œYour name is Nicholas,” I told him. “I should have known. I recognized you right away, from the likeness on your tomb and from—” I was about to add, “my dreams,” but thought better of it.
    Nicholas and Felix exchanged a long look. Then Nicholas said carefully, “Well, it’s getting quite late. I suggest Felix and I escort you back to your own lodgings. Will you meet us again tomorrow night? We have gifts to give; a very needy family is spending hungry, cold nights hiding in a rich man’s barn. You could join us as we help them. Afterward, there are certain things I would like to tell you about.”
    â€œIt would be my pleasure,” I replied. There was a great deal I wanted to ask them, most importantly how a man who had died of old age in 343 still appeared very much alive sixty-nine years later. The odd thing was, though I wondered how it was possible, I never doubted it was true.
    Felix lagged a little behind Nicholas and me as we walked back to the inn where I was staying. It wasn’t a long walk and only took about ten minutes, but it seemed like much less even than that. Nicholas and I didn’t say much to each other, just casual comments about the coolness of the night air and how much more bread and cheese cost in the Constantinople markets than in Myra. When we reached the inn I found myself wondering, unexpectedly, whether Nicholas was going to kiss me good night, which certainly would have been forward and definitely unacceptable upon such short acquaintance. It was only after he formally shook my hand and turned and walked away with Felix that I realized I’d hoped he would kiss me. I’d sometimes kissed my Uncle Silas on the cheek, but I’d never kissed any man in a romantic way and had never really wanted to before.
    Needless to say, that night I slept very little. Perhaps I should have been awake because I was worrying. My money was all gone, I had only a bit of bread and cheese left to distribute, and after that, what would become of me? Instead, I