Kissing Kris Kringle by Erin Quinn Page B

stolen goods if he could find their owners, and get on with things.
    He reached for the clean clothes he’d set on the bathroom counter. They weren’t there. Towel wrapped around his hips, he went into the bedroom, thinking he’d been mistaken about where he’d left them. What he found was the Santa suit spread out on his bed. The puppy snoozed in a little ball, half in, half out of one of the toppled boots. Frowning, Kris hurried to his closet and pulled out a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt and socks. He yanked the shirt over his head, donned a pair of boxers and stepped into his jeans, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he reached for his work boots.
    He was dressed in the Santa suit.
    The sight of his reflection caught him like a blow. He spun, looking at the bed where the suit had been laid out. His jeans and t-shirt waited in its place.
     
    ***
     
    For half an hour, Kris had tried to get the stupid suit off but like the doors that wouldn’t open, he’d failed. Finally, after being manipulated by God knew what freak of nature, he’d found himself fully garbed, from white wig, to beard, to shiny black boots. His front door opened without so much as a squeak. The back door, too.
    The puppy yapped with glee when he put on its leash and headed out, its little red and white hat bobbing merrily as it trotted ahead of him. It seemed to know where it wanted to go. Dazed and numb, Kris followed it.
    The streets of North Pole, Maine, looked bare and sorrowful with only a few intrepid shoppers out and about. He remembered going to Las Vegas once. He’d arrived at night amidst the glow of casino lights. The place had seemed magical to him. But the next morning, lit by the unforgiving sun, it had looked dry and dirty and completely without allure.
    That’s how North Pole felt these days. The flailing economy had taken a toll on this town. An apartment building just off Prancer Street that had once sported blooming poinsettias and immaculate lawns had been foreclosed on. Rumor had it that new owners had bought in, but Kris couldn’t see any signs of life in its future. The dark windows and dead plants served as a grim reminder of North Pole’s future. It felt like the whole town might dry up and blow away before too long.
    “Look, Mommy, Santa Claus!” a little girl cried in delight as Kris walked by. Kris recognized her mother, Merry. They’d been neighbors and gone to school together as kids.
    He smiled and gave her a self-conscious wave. Yeah, I know I look like an ass. “Hey, Merry,” he said.
    Merry returned the greeting with a frowning, nervous glance and kept walking, dragging her kid along when the little girl obviously wanted to pet the puppy.
    She’d acted like he was some creepy stranger in a Santa suit out trolling for kids to molest. Granted, after Mr. White—who’d been the town’s Santa for as long as anyone could remember—died, they’d had a couple of really bad Santa wannabes. The first had had the personality of a rock and the second didn’t know what sober might feel like. But Kris had known Merry most of his life and even if they weren’t best friends, she should recognize him behind the ridiculous beard and know that he wasn’t some creep.
    Surprised and a little hurt by her reaction, he kept walking. Frank Elveson, another native to North Pole who Kris had known since childhood, passed by, gave him a cheery wave and said, “Hey, Santa,” but Kris didn’t see even a flicker of recognition in his eyes. No curiosity about why Kris would be traipsing down Main Street in a freaking Santa suit. No teasing about the white beard and wig. It made no sense. Kris had been known as the town Scrooge for years. No one should take Kris dressed as Santa as the norm.
    Disgusted with everything, he veered into Sugar Plums Bakery for a cup of coffee and a muffin or two. The puppy sniffed with interest and let out a couple of excited yaps as the enticing scents of fresh baked muffins