The Santa Society by Kristine McCord Page A

Are those wagon wheels? How hard would it be to replace the mantle?”
    “Yeah, that’s a security risk. We’d have to concrete it in.”
    No way. My father built that. I used to worry Santa couldn’t get in with no fireplace. He made it big to keep Santa from getting stuck—I worried for his safety—and he used oversized sled rails for the mantle. He said he got them off Santa’s old sleigh.
    “The wallpaper has to go too. That’s going to be a lot of work.”
    The group moves down the hall toward the bedrooms. I lift my eyes to Klaus. He’s now turned upright on his belly, definitely not sleeping. He watches me.
    Doors open and close. Someone drags something across the floor, probably the boxes in the Christmas room. One of the youngest children squeals with delight. They must be looking at the life size angel in the closet. This last sound should make me smile, but it doesn’t. I feel violated, like my mother’s memory has been sent to auction. No one knows this house like I do.
    Moon and Gypsy appear without their children. Reason follows close behind them.
    “It’s not quite big enough but maybe it could work.” Gypsy speaks in a whisper.
    “Kids!” Moon thunders. The kids trickle back in, one by one, giggling.
    “Knock it off,” Moon grunts.
    I plaster my eyes to the book and the word “mistake.”
    “Well, why don’t we step outside and talk.” Reason ushers everyone out onto the porch. I look up just in time to see him give me a big thumbs-up before he closes the door.
     I hear footsteps move to the rockers while others pound down the steps. The floorboards begin creaking in an out of sync rhythm as the rocking chairs rock. Farther away, the kids pick teams for a game of tag in the front yard. I try to block out the voices drifting through the window behind my head.
    “Her price is too high.” Gypsy and Moon speak in unison again.
    Reason responds in such a low, deep voice, it sounds like it's on some other frequency level. I can’t make out his words at all.
    “It needs too much work just to get it livable.” This time it’s Gypsy.
    I glance around the room. It’s totally livable. It’s cozy and—
    “It’s gloomy. Even the landscaping needs to be torn out and started fresh.”
    My father picked out those shrubs with my mother when they—
    “Yeah, the shrubs suck. Look, we’ll offer her fifty thousand less. It’ll take that much just to get the place livable,” Moon says.
    Reason says something again. I strain to listen. I hope he puts them in their place. I’m not going to give my mother’s house away. No, sir. Especially not to people who thinks it sucks.
    I jump to my feet and pace the floor. The muscles in my neck hurt when I turn my head. I head to the kitchen for some ibuprofen. I don’t want to hear any more negotiations. I can’t take it.
    As soon as I walk into the kitchen, I stop. Every cabinet door stands open. Seriously? I slam each one closed, hoping those arrogant Lawless people hear it. Then, something in the dining area catches my attention. I turn to look. My breath catches in my throat. My mother’s ceramic cow has been moved from the center of the table. Now, it sits precariously on the edge. The slightest shudder could send it crashing to the floor. They brought the cow into this? I rescue it with a cautious touch and return it to the center where it belongs. With fists on my hips, I survey the room for other disturbances. Then something occurs to me.
    The Christmas room. I race through the house.
    Sure enough, the door is ajar. I step in, my breath coming in shorts huffs. I try to relax, but my head starts to pound. Everything looks in order…except the closet door. It’s been left open and the boxes they moved haven’t been put back. I lift my gaze…and gasp. A life size zombie peers at me through hanging clothes. It’s the angel, but she’s hardly recognizable. A denim shirt encircles her head, its sleeves tied into a turban. Worse, the “o”