large house.
Having a live-in dog trainer might be a
little unusual, but Charlotte found his exoticism entertaining, and
his training made her dogs fantastic models. Dog , she
corrected herself. She should really get another, but didn’t feel
ready.
“Morning, Ivan.” She opened a cupboard and
got out a coffee mug printed with a picture of Lila in a fairy
costume.
As usual, Ivan had pulled his glossy black
hair into a ponytail. His clothes – charcoal-colored slacks and a
silky shirt in dark purple – were a little slick for Colorado,
though they made him popular in the nearby casinos of Cripple
Creek.
Ivan reached down and fondled Lila’s head as
she put her front legs on the rungs of his chair. “It is getting
colder. It’s a good thing Lila’s elf costume has long sleeves, but
she should still not be outside for too long.”
Charlotte nodded absently as she picked up
the coffee pot. “They have those outdoor heaters. Did you see the
tracks in the back yard this morning? They don’t look like the
regular wildlife.”
Ivan got up and went to the large windows
that looked out on the back yard. He grunted. “Stray cat, maybe. It
won’t last long.”
“Poor thing,” Charlotte murmured. The phone
rang, and she put down her coffee to answer it. “This is
Charlotte.”
“We have a problem.” It was Shermont Lester,
one of Manitou Springs’ civic pillars. “Phil broke his leg skiing
moguls.”
“That’s not good,” Charlotte said. Every
Christmas Eve, the Manitou Springs Volunteer Fire Department
delivered Santa Claus to the town clock in an antique fire truck.
Phil Grant, a genial man in his sixties, usually played Santa.
Charlotte was going to be Mrs. Claus this year, and weather
permitting, Lila would be dressed as one of Santa’s elves. “Those
baggy red pants will hide a cast, won’t they?” Charlotte asked.
“It’s not like Phil has to walk for the role.”
“And what about kids bouncing up and down on
his lap?” Shermont asked. “It’s not very festive if Santa screams
and passes out.”
Charlotte sighed. “You’re right. I wasn’t
thinking.”
“I’d fill in, but I’m getting on a plane in
four hours,” Shermont said.
“What about Alex?” Charlotte asked.
“Already left to see family in Phoenix.”
“Paul?”
“In-laws are visiting, and he’s the only one
who can deep fry the turkey.”
Charlotte closed her eyes and rubbed one
temple with her free hand. “Did you call just to share the bad
news?”
“Actually,” Shermont said, “we were wondering
if Ivan would do it.”
Charlotte choked out a laugh. “You want Ivan
to play Santa?” She heard a chair push back and turned.
Ivan stood as tall as his five feet six
inches allowed. “I will do it.”
She looked at his straight black brows, high
cheekbones and olive complexion. “Um.”
Shermont spoke in her ear. “Did I just hear
him say he’d do it?”
“Hold on.” Charlotte covered the phone’s
mouthpiece with her hand. “Does Russia have Santa Claus? I mean,
are you familiar with the legend?”
Ivan waved a dismissive hand. “We have
someone very close. He and his granddaughter, the Snow Maiden,
carry presents and an evergreen tree in a sleigh pulled by three
horses. They bring gifts to the children in person. There is none
of this chimney business.”
Charlotte started to uncover the phone. “Do
you call him Santa Claus?”
“We call him Ded Moroz .”
Charlotte stared at him. “ Ded Moroz? That doesn’t sound very jolly.”
Ivan stared back. “No one in Russia is
jolly.”
Charlotte studied Ivan, trying to see him as
children might. Although only in his mid-thirties, his face was
weathered from time with the circus. In addition to his habitual
serious expression, he had a scarred patch under one ear from where
a wolf had challenged him for dominance – and lost. “Does Ded
Moroz have a beard?” she asked.
“A long white one.”
She lifted the phone to her mouth. “Shermont?
I
Having a live-in dog trainer might be a
little unusual, but Charlotte found his exoticism entertaining, and
his training made her dogs fantastic models. Dog , she
corrected herself. She should really get another, but didn’t feel
ready.
“Morning, Ivan.” She opened a cupboard and
got out a coffee mug printed with a picture of Lila in a fairy
costume.
As usual, Ivan had pulled his glossy black
hair into a ponytail. His clothes – charcoal-colored slacks and a
silky shirt in dark purple – were a little slick for Colorado,
though they made him popular in the nearby casinos of Cripple
Creek.
Ivan reached down and fondled Lila’s head as
she put her front legs on the rungs of his chair. “It is getting
colder. It’s a good thing Lila’s elf costume has long sleeves, but
she should still not be outside for too long.”
Charlotte nodded absently as she picked up
the coffee pot. “They have those outdoor heaters. Did you see the
tracks in the back yard this morning? They don’t look like the
regular wildlife.”
Ivan got up and went to the large windows
that looked out on the back yard. He grunted. “Stray cat, maybe. It
won’t last long.”
“Poor thing,” Charlotte murmured. The phone
rang, and she put down her coffee to answer it. “This is
Charlotte.”
“We have a problem.” It was Shermont Lester,
one of Manitou Springs’ civic pillars. “Phil broke his leg skiing
moguls.”
“That’s not good,” Charlotte said. Every
Christmas Eve, the Manitou Springs Volunteer Fire Department
delivered Santa Claus to the town clock in an antique fire truck.
Phil Grant, a genial man in his sixties, usually played Santa.
Charlotte was going to be Mrs. Claus this year, and weather
permitting, Lila would be dressed as one of Santa’s elves. “Those
baggy red pants will hide a cast, won’t they?” Charlotte asked.
“It’s not like Phil has to walk for the role.”
“And what about kids bouncing up and down on
his lap?” Shermont asked. “It’s not very festive if Santa screams
and passes out.”
Charlotte sighed. “You’re right. I wasn’t
thinking.”
“I’d fill in, but I’m getting on a plane in
four hours,” Shermont said.
“What about Alex?” Charlotte asked.
“Already left to see family in Phoenix.”
“Paul?”
“In-laws are visiting, and he’s the only one
who can deep fry the turkey.”
Charlotte closed her eyes and rubbed one
temple with her free hand. “Did you call just to share the bad
news?”
“Actually,” Shermont said, “we were wondering
if Ivan would do it.”
Charlotte choked out a laugh. “You want Ivan
to play Santa?” She heard a chair push back and turned.
Ivan stood as tall as his five feet six
inches allowed. “I will do it.”
She looked at his straight black brows, high
cheekbones and olive complexion. “Um.”
Shermont spoke in her ear. “Did I just hear
him say he’d do it?”
“Hold on.” Charlotte covered the phone’s
mouthpiece with her hand. “Does Russia have Santa Claus? I mean,
are you familiar with the legend?”
Ivan waved a dismissive hand. “We have
someone very close. He and his granddaughter, the Snow Maiden,
carry presents and an evergreen tree in a sleigh pulled by three
horses. They bring gifts to the children in person. There is none
of this chimney business.”
Charlotte started to uncover the phone. “Do
you call him Santa Claus?”
“We call him Ded Moroz .”
Charlotte stared at him. “ Ded Moroz? That doesn’t sound very jolly.”
Ivan stared back. “No one in Russia is
jolly.”
Charlotte studied Ivan, trying to see him as
children might. Although only in his mid-thirties, his face was
weathered from time with the circus. In addition to his habitual
serious expression, he had a scarred patch under one ear from where
a wolf had challenged him for dominance – and lost. “Does Ded
Moroz have a beard?” she asked.
“A long white one.”
She lifted the phone to her mouth. “Shermont?
I
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