The Secret Santa Page 9
Zara watched, mesmerized as the snowflakes dissolved the moment they smashed against the surface of the heated pool. Snow fell on her face as she craned her neck to see how high the massive windows rose. All the way to the top where they peaked.
“Up here a house needs a steep pitched roof,” said Henry, “because of all the snow.”
“I’ve never been anywhere like this,” she said, brushing off the flakes that were sticking to her coat.
“Let’s go back inside,” said Claudine. “We want to show you the observatory, the library, study, the three master bedrooms. There’s so much more.”
“Is there a recording studio?”
“There can be,” Henry said. “I think I know the perfect place. Careful of the ice. The deck’s heated, but you never know.”
Henry offered Zara his arm. She took it. Henry was good with her, Claudine noted. They clicked. Zara responded to his natural warmth and openness, to the sadness just under the surface. Maybe she sensed the new vulnerability, now that he was also riddled with the fresh anxiety of Steve.
Before they went back inside, Henry brushed the snow off Zara’s back. Once safe and warm, he helped her out of her coat and handed it to Louisa. They’d been talking about the volcanic rock he’d used to build the steps below the deck that led to the raised garden bed. Claudine was glad he was loosening up. When he talked about the house, he couldn’t think about Steve. Couldn’t think about what he’d done. Yes, they could manage this.
“Henry, why don’t you keep going. I’ll make sure we’re ready to start the game.”
Henry
“Zara,” he said. “Would you like to see my favorite room in the entire house?”
“I’d love that.”
Reaching over to the stone wall beside her, he casually pushed one of the dark rocks and a door popped open. A secret passage. He was hit with the memory of Claudine calling it juvenile. How he had fought her on it and eventually won, but only when the Lions said their children loved the idea.
“No way!” Zara exclaimed.
“Follow me,” he said. “Every house should have a secret room. A place to hide, to be alone.”
The door opened onto a hall with plush red-velvet walls. Sconces led the short distance to a rather large domed room with no windows. Smooth padded walls, checkered carpeting, and rows of luxury viewing chairs sat before the large screen, protected by heavy black drapes.
“The screening room,” he said, “though it could easily be turned into a recording studio. You could take all the chairs out and this area could be for the musicians, and the projection booth is big enough that you could make that the engineering room. It’s already soundproof.”
“I don’t hate the idea of a secret recording studio,” Zara said. “Then I’d never have to leave.”
She flopped down in one of the front-row seats to test how comfortable it was.
“I could sleep here,” she said, pushing a button on the armrest. It reclined as if it had heard her.
Henry sat down in the seat next to her and told her about the original vision. That he’d been inspired by the old screening rooms from the thirties and forties. In the projectionist’s room they could do both 35-millimeter and digital. He could tell the Lions had had the sound system updated. Which was good, technology being so much better now than when it was built. They talked about movies for a while, her love of a good bio-pic, his penchant for old Westerns.
“My agent wants me to get in the acting game,” she said.
“Is that something you want to do?”
“Maybe. It would have to be a perfect fit. Lady Gaga was incredible. I’m not sure it gets better than what she did in A Star Is Born. Honestly, I’d worry about control. With music, it’s all mine. My ideas, my direction, my handpicked producers. I’m not sure I can trust a form that I don’t execute myself.”
“Understandable. I feel exactly the same about my work. I’m grateful I found my collaborators early. Jack and Bobby are the best in town.”
He was impressed by how articulate she was about her music. Also a bit ashamed that he’d never given her a chance in his mind to be an artist. Assumed there were boardrooms of people writing her songs, styling her, curating every part of her public persona. But no, she was smart. Talented.
“Seems like you know what you want,” he said.
“Yeah, I do.” She hesitated, then went on. “But I also want to keep changing, you know? I don’t like the idea that people will expect me to keep doing the same thing. That’s not interesting. Fifty years from now, I don’t want to be the Eagles still playing ‘Hotel California.’”
“You won’t be.”
“Thanks. I hope not.”
He reclined his seat slightly and pointed up.
“My very favorite part of this room is the ceiling. How the wooden beams are bent like the shell of an arc. All coming together, meeting at the very top. Jack and Bobby Alpine helped me install them. They’re all from the same tree; it was fifty feet around.”
“Imagine that,” she said in awe.
“Extraordinary find. In its prime, a monster of the forest.”
A monster. Like him. That’s what he wanted to say. He didn’t tell Zara this secret room held another secret. Twenty-five feet above, at the very point of the beams’ convergence, was where he’d carved his initials. H.C. He traced the letters now on the back of his own hand, wishing there were blades on his finger so it hurt, cut, burned—anything to punish him.
Zara
The secret room sold me on the house. So did my conversation with Henry. Like I said before, working with my TM guru had helped me tap into auras, and, honestly, there was something so damaged about Henry. I could sense that he’d taken that—whatever his trauma was—and funneled it into the house, tried to create something good and beautiful that he was missing in his life. Walking out of the secret room, I was ready to sign the contract. We could have done the deal right then and ended the party, but I was looking forward to the Secret Santa game and decided to wait until after that was over.
When we got back to the party, everyone was trying to sneak looks at me without being obvious. Which made it all obvious. When you go to enough parties, pretty soon everyone starts seeming like extras. Hired to be there. Actors on a lot dressed for an Aspen Holiday Party, a fractured fakeness. Thankfully, I’m used to it. It didn’t take long before I was pretty sure I had everyone sized up pretty accurately. No huge crazies. Everyone who worked for Calhoun + Calhoun seemed very “regular,” very “normal.” They were all in charge of something. Lighting a candle, straightening the presents, stoking the fire. The whole crew seemed scared shitless even then if you ask me. But I did appreciate that they treated me like I had a brain. By this point, the few conversations I’d had weren’t about the music industry but about the history of the area. I even had what was almost a deep conversation with Kevin and Jerry about the holidays in general. What a strange time of year it can be. But also how you’re supposed to be happy all the time when in reality it just makes you miss all the things you don’t have anymore. It was actually nice. Some people automatically think I’m an idiot. Which gets old.
Then John approached me. We hadn’t really spoken yet, but I know the type. Overconfident. Clearly he thought he was sexy, because his eye contact was off the hook. Too much. This is why I started calling him Intense John. I wouldn’t say he loved it, but I told him he should feel pretty good; not everyone gets a nickname.
He was like, “Care for any party favors?” Hysterical. What a dork. I couldn’t resist fucking with him a little. I asked if he had any blow. It was like springtime on his face, flowers blooming, rainbows coming out of his eyes. Just thrilled. He dropped his voice and said, “Why, yes. I have lots of cocaine in my pocket.” I had to tell him to calm down, I didn’t do drugs, but Pip did. Could he cut her a couple lines down on the floor?
He was like, “Yes! Of course!”
“Fuck off, Intense John,” I said, but nicely
. “Pip doesn’t do blow either.” Then Pip was barking at him; she’s the best. He said something ridiculous like “Okay, great!” and walked away. Probably to go freak out somewhere.
The bartender overheard the whole thing and laughed. It gave me a little charge. It was a deep laugh, but he stopped himself when he noticed I was paying attention, becoming professional, but I could see traces of a cat grin on his perfect lips. I like the way his hair was disheveled but his shirt was ironed. Cute. Confident. What was this? I was racing toward heartbreak recovery faster than anticipated. I accepted a glass of champagne from him and was about to say something clever—I’m not above some light flirting—but that was when Claudine announced the Secret Santa was about to start.
Claudine
Tapping the side of a champagne flute with a cocktail fork to rouse the attention of a room brought Claudine immense pleasure. She was an expert. Knowing where to place her fingers on the glass, the exact part of the flute to strike, the right amount of champagne necessary to achieve the desired pitch, the right part of the fork to create the perfect ring. Strong and clear. The note sharp enough that everyone stopped talking and turned to find her.
“It’s Secret Santa time. Fill up your drinks and please find a seat. There are a variety of savory bites and I hope you brought your sweet tooth. There will be macaroons, mousse pots, classic candy canes. And much more.”
After a brief rush to the bar, anticipatory chatter at full blast, the guests made their way into the living room. Welcomed by the smoky scent of burning apple wood in the air. The Tigglemans practically trotting. The last time they moved that fast was to find the heat lamps at the Aspen World Snow Polo Championship. They might be old, but they were enthusiastic Secret Santa novices.
The room was inviting. Two long leather couches, three deep navy armchairs with foot stools, the white chair by the fire, and two mid-century benches. They were arranged in a wide semicircle so guests could enjoy the fire as well as watch the snow fall through the windows. A smattering of small side tables and chic wooden coffee tables for drinks. A white shag carpet in the center. Steve was talking close with John, Rashida, and Jules, then they were all laughing at something he was saying. It was unacceptable that they would even speak to him, let alone encourage him with laughter. He wasn’t even funny. The suggested intimacy made her think one of them invited him. No. She wouldn’t be distracted in this way. Watching him play the flitty guest, buzzing his way around her party. Apart from Steve, things were as they should be. The conversations light, the guests tipsy, a good moment to start the main event.
“I’ve saved you the best seat,” she said, leading Zara to the white corduroy wingback near the fire. The chair was wide enough for Pip to curl up next to her.
“Great,” said Zara, the blush from her champagne showing in her cheeks. Claudine gave the piano player a nod and he began playing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” Claudine had chosen each song personally, looking to tap into the very special holiday spirit. Involuntarily Zara began to hum along. This was almost too easy. Everyone took seats.
Of course Jules conveniently saved a place next to her for Henry. Fine. Claudine was about to take the seat on the bench next to Zara, when Steve jumped on it. He was becoming more impossible by the minute.
“Darling, we’re starting,” she called across the room to Henry. He stood and came dutifully by her side.
“As tradition dictates,” Claudine explained, “we’ll begin by reading the poem. Some people have taken to calling this game Yankee Swap. That would indicate it has origins in America. However, the pastime can be traced all the way back to this translated Danish poem from 1857 where it was referred to as a White Elephant. It pre-dates even Aspen.”
This was a complete lie. Claudine had written the poem herself. But as Steve had taught her, people wanted to believe, and the details were what mattered.
She took the old, yellowed envelope from the mantel, opened the flap with great care, slid out the card, and read:
Say now, young friend, it’s holiday time!
With snow and gifts and cheese and wine.
The night you wait for with all your heart
When at last the White Elephant game will start.
What awaits you wrapped tightly in ribbons and bows?
Mystery, excitement, and likely some woes.
The game is designed to expose your true nature
It is not for those afraid of a little danger.
Go forth, be bold, take the gift that speaks to you
Even steal from your neighbor if you want to.
Be nasty, not nice, take what you like best
Now is the time to put your treachery to the test.
Begin.
The ritual over, Henry returned to his seat and from the mantel Claudine took the Tiffany rock-cut bowl containing the numbers Jules had so delicately written. Of course she’d removed her own to secure her spot, and the one for Zara was expertly palmed in one hand. She began pacing in front of the fire.
“There are fifteen of us tonight,” she said.
“Sixteen,” corrected Steve.
“Every piece of paper in here,” she ignored him, holding up the bowl like an offering, “holds a key to the game. Your key. Each has a number. The choosing will be random. Stay where you are; I’ll come to you. Remember, this is the only time in your life that you don’t want to be number one. It leaves you open for the first steal.”
“How many times can you steal?” asked Zara.
“Once per round.”
“Is that right?” asked Rashida. “I feel like we debate this every year.”
“And every year it’s the same answer,” said Claudine. “For example, if Rashida steals a gift from Alice, Alice can’t just steal it back. She must choose from the table. Your number is your number. No switching, no peaking, no cheating. We’ll go in order. Select a gift from the table, bring it back, and open it in front of the group. Let the games begin.”
Claudine did as she said, stopping before each guest with the bowl. Holding eye contact with them as they dipped their hand in, making the selection. It was another moment she liked. The locked gaze. Like the poem, it brought some extra drama. Raised the stakes and made everyone feel they were part of something important. Which, of course, they were.
When she reached Steve her eyes went cold. His twinkled as he picked his number. He’d never been able to hide his motives, whether it was a grope in bed or, like now, challenging her openly without saying a word. Telling her not to feel safe. He’d come for a reason and she’d better be on guard. There wasn’t a chance she’d react to his silent threats, and she moved on as quickly as she could.
By the time she reached Zara, she slyly let the slip of paper that had been cupped in her palm slide down into the bowl, careful no one saw. She wasn’t quite as stealthy as she thought and Zara caught it, giving her a quizzical look. But Claudine could tell she approved.
“Your turn.” Claudine smiled. Zara opened it to find the best number of all. The coveted finale, sixteen. She’d have her pick of the lot. The empty bowl went back on the mantel and Claudine gave Steve a look that said, scoot over. He obliged and made room for her on the bench. She took her seat next to Zara. Annoyingly, Pip gave a small growl. Making peace with the beast was a necessary move. She leaned down to its ugly little face until they were nose to nose and whispered just loud enough for Zara to hear, “Pip-kins, you ready for the game?”
“Wait!” said Zara. Whipping out her phone, she expertly positioned herself in frame as she propped Pip under one arm. The fire blazed behind them. “Quick selfie.”
Snap, snap.
“What’s your handle?” she asked.
“At Calhoun and Calhoun,” Claudine and Louisa said at the same time.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Oh,” said Zara. “I have zero service.”
“That’s not usually the case,” said Claudine.
“It must be the weather,” added Jules.
Not a setback; Claudine was confident she could get Zara to post later. For the moment she’d take pride in knowing collecting the phones set the right tone. And, now, it was time to start.
“Who’s the sorry soul that’s been blessed with number one?”
My father started whittling as a kid, could carve anything. Moving on to clay he’d take from the mountains. Soon he was making casts, teaching himself to heat metals and pour molds. You know the statue, the one on the dresser? He made that. It was the first one he was truly proud of. Worked endlessly to get the details perfect. The cowboy on the horse with the gun. His back arm raised so his aim was straight. Locked and loaded. The horse magnificent, with only the slightest hint of fear in its eye, though he held his head high in mid-stride. A true work of art.
He gave it to me when I was a young girl. And I gave it to Tommy. His room in Mr. Miller’s house had nothing. A bed, a dresser, that’s it. I was trying to help fill the space. Brighten it up. The whole house was pretty barren. I wanted Tommy to feel like it was his home too. Tommy loved it, said he knew exactly where it would go. Of course I thought it would be in his room—but the next time I was there I was surprised to find it on the mantel. When Tommy had come home that day, Mr. Miller complimented the statue and Tommy ended up offering to put it in the main room so they could both enjoy it.
The two of them had a sweet relationship. The old man was harmless, just the type who wanted to be alone. Not a cruel bone in him. And yes, Tommy could flare up, had a temper, but his deep kindness always won out. No way was he capable of doing what the police said.
Zara
I was impressed but not surprised that Claudine made sure I got the best number. I didn’t think she played like that, since up until that point she’d been so serious and earnest about the Secret Santa. Her focus had been all business trying to sell the house to me. Initially she let very little of her true self show. It was fun to find out she was a little bit bad. A little bit. Ha! That’s the understatement of the century.