Secret Santa
"A Secret Santa!" I grumbled and shook my head with disgust. "Really?"
Such silly holiday customs were for children and women from the administrative services department. Surely, grown men in high-ranking government positions of international importance should not resort to such foolishness!
"We all need to pull a name out of the hat," Eloise Lydon instructed, holding a fur-trimmed, red velvet Santa hat in front of Luther Velasco. "I need not explain what to do after that. I'm sure you've all participated in this activity before."
Luther withdrew a slip of paper and, after reading the name written on it, placed it in an ashtray and set it on fire. Five other men repeated these actions before Eloise came to me. Such secrecy is ridiculous, I know, but so is the whole concept of giving anonymous gifts to one's coworkers.
"Honestly, is all this nonsense really necessary?" I complained.
"No, but it is Christmas. I thought the whole Secret Santa thing would be a nice change from how we normally operate. Come on! Don't be such a party pooper! Reach in and pull out a name."
Frowning, I reluctantly did what she suggested. When I opened the slip of paper and read what was written on it, I felt as though a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head. My stomach did a somersault, and although I could not see my reflection in a mirror, I was fairly certain my complexion grew three shades whiter.
Like the six people before me, I burned the slip of paper in the ashtray. Still upset at the identity of the person whose name I had drawn, I stared down at the smoldering remains of my Secret Santa pick.
"Why on earth did I have to draw that name?" I wondered.
Once all ten people in the room had selected names from the red velvet hat, a somber stillness descended upon the gathering. Eloise attempted to dispel the gloom by opening a bottle of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame champagne.
"Cheer up, everyone," she beseeched. "We've got a fantastic buffet here, courtesy of Uncle Sam. Fix yourselves a plate and eat up."
I mechanically picked up a dinner plate and got in line behind Levon Corman. Unfortunately, neither of us did justice to the sumptuous meal laid out before us. Although I normally had a healthy appetite, food was far from my mind at that point. I did, however, make an effort, putting a thick slice of medium-rare prime rib and a baked potato swimming in sour cream on my plate. I then picked up a fork and steak knife wrapped in a napkin and found a seat at a table decorated with cardboard pilgrims, a papier-mâché turkey and a chrysanthemum-filled cornucopia.
The conversation at every table was forced. Secrecy being paramount, no one mentioned or even hinted at the names we had drawn from the hat. Rather, we talked about plans for the upcoming holiday. Luther was taking his family on a skiing trip to Aspen. Eloise planned on soaking up the sun in Hawaii with her husband. Three of the other members of our elite group had booked trips to Walt Disney World in Orlando. The remaining four were content to have a quiet Christmas at home.
As for me, I had no wife or children, no family of any kind. I would spend the holidays, from Christmas Eve up through and including New Year's Day, getting drunk. It was a long-held tradition of mine. Since the tender age of twenty-four, I spent the last week of every year attempting to forget what had occurred the previous twelve months in the hope of starting the new year with a clean mental slate. This year, I was not sure how successful I would be.
Although a good portion of the food on the buffet had gone untouched, the ten people sitting at the tables had stopped eating. Nevertheless, Eloise signaled to a server to bring in the desserts: a croquembouche that would have made Martha Stewart proud, a Bûche de Noël, a trifle and a fruitcake. I appeased my sweet tooth by helping myself to a spoonful of trifle, a thin slice of Yule log and two of the cream puffs from the croquembouche. (Like my nine colleagues, I passed on the fruitcake.)
"There's an awful lot of food left over," Irwin Kerns observed, hoping Eloise would suggest we take doggy bags home with us.
"No need to worry. Once we leave, the servers will invite the people on the fifth and sixth floors to come down and help themselves," she explained.
Before we left for the day, a large punch bowl of homemade eggnog was brought in. I had not one but two glasses once I realized the "nog" was light on eggs but heavy on alcohol.
* * *
Once Thanksgiving came and went, preparations for the Christmas holiday went into high gear. Shoppers flocked to the malls and ordered gifts from online retailers. UPS, FedEx and Prime delivery trucks made their rounds, dropping off packages. I never could understand what all the fuss was about. To me, an atheist from way back, December 25 was just another day—except that almost every business, government office and school were closed.
After watching the New England Patriots play the San Francisco 49ers, I turned off my television. I looked at the clock on the wall; it was after five. Since I lived alone, I never saw the sense in learning to cook. Instead, I lived on takeout and frequently called on Grubhub, DoorDash and Uber Eats to bring me my meals. With mild temperatures hovering around sixty degrees, I decided to take advantage of a relatively warm day, knowing winter was right around the corner.
Having decided to go out to eat, I next had to determine where I wanted to go. Living in a diverse urban area, my choices were many. I could choose from not only Italian, Chinese, Mexican, French and American cuisine but also Greek, Thai, Japanese, Caribbean, Middle Eastern, Indian, Mediterranean and so on.
"What do I feel like having?" I pondered as I backed my Lexus down the driveway.
Suddenly, I had a craving for LA Galbi, Korean-style beef short ribs, so I turned left at the corner of Main and Washington Streets and headed for the closest Korean steakhouse. No sooner did I place my order than I saw a familiar face enter the restaurant.
"Fancy meeting you here!" Eloise Lydon exclaimed and headed toward my table.
"Where's Russell?" I inquired, expecting to see her husband walk through the door at any moment.
"He's home, watching a hockey game on TV," she replied.
"Don't tell me he sent you out to pick up food and bring it home to him?" I teased. "Isn't that task well beneath your pay grade?"
"If Russell wants something to eat, he can make a sandwich. I'm here to feed myself. I've been Christmas shopping all afternoon, and I'm starving."
"Why don't you join me?" I invited her. "No need for both of us to eat alone."
"Thank you. I'd love to."
Once Eloise sat down, the server appeared with a menu, a place setting and a glass of water.
"Everything looks so good. I can't make up my mind. You know what," she declared, closing her menu. "I'll just have what you're having."
We drank bokbunja, a traditional fruit wine, while we waited for our appetizer, yachae mandoo, Korean vegetarian dumplings. As I sipped my wine, I stared at her face over the rim of my glass. I must admit, I've always had a major crush on her. From the day we met, I considered her the total package. She had beauty, intelligence, a supermodel figure and what my mother referred to as "class." Yet, although we worked for the same government agency for close to a decade, I knew very little about her other than the fact that she was married to Russell, a college history professor—the lucky bastard!
"And what are you doing out alone on a Sunday evening?" Eloise asked.
"I was watching football, but the game is over. Rather than order in, I decided to go out."
"I'm glad you did," she said in a low, intimate voice.
The look in her eye was one I had seen before but never from her. Was she coming on to me, or was it just wishful thinking on my part?
"Did you manage to finish your Christmas shopping today?" I asked, seeing the server heading toward our table with our appetizer.
"No. In fact, I just started. I'll probably still be buying last-minute gifts on Christmas Eve. What about you?"
"I don't have too many people to buy for, so I usually just go to the grocery store and buy a bunch of gift cards to hand out to the few names on my list."
Neither Eloise nor I mentioned the Secret Santa names we had pulled out of the white-trimmed, red velvet hat. Secret was the keyword, and the ten people who were in that room knew how to keep a secret.
* * *
"The food here is good, but I'd prefer a more traditional dessert," Eloise opined once the server took away the empty dishes from our entrée.
"What did you have in mind? Ice cream? Cake? Pie?"
"It just so happens that while I was Christmas shopping, I bought a box of macarons from that pâtisserie in the mall. Why don't you invite me to your place for coffee, and I'll share my French cookies with you?"
"Won't your husband object?"
"I don't see anything wrong with two colleagues having a meal together. Do you?"
Surely, I did not misread the twinkle in her eye. She was coming on to me.
"Normally, I just make myself a cup of instant Maxwell House in the morning, but I can go through the drive-thru at Starbucks and get us both some decent coffee."
"Sounds good to me."
After leaving the steakhouse, I gave her directions to my home. Thankfully, there was no line at Starbucks, so I arrived shortly after she did.
"One Christmas blonde roast Clover Vertica with a splash of vanilla sweet cream," I announced, placing the beverage on my kitchen table in front of my guest.
Eloise opened the box of macarons and put the cookies on a serving dish that I had gotten out of my dining room hutch. The blue, pink, yellow and green pastel colors reminded me of Easter rather than Christmas.
"I got an assortment of flavors. You pick first," she insisted.
"Which one do you suggest? I never had a macaron before."
"Seriously? You don't know what you're missing. Try the pink one. It's raspberry."
"Mmm! Good!" I declared after taking a bite.
In all honesty, I would have preferred an Oreo or a warm, homemade chocolate chip cookie that I could dunk in a cup of Maxwell House. But I did not want to appear unsophisticated. I sure as hell didn't intend to dunk such an expensive confection into a high-priced cup of gingerbread latte.
For the next fifteen minutes, we talked and took turns selecting flavors of macarons. By the time we finished the box, what was left of our coffee was lukewarm, bordering on cold. As I tossed the disposable cups in the trash, my heartbeat quickened. What was going to happen next?
I wondered if I should make the next move or let Eloise call the shots. Since she was a highly respected, top-level government employee, one pay grade above me, and not some waitress or low-level secretary I picked up at a bar, I decided on the latter. Given the fact that she had basically invited herself to my home, I was confident I would not be let down.
"That was nice," she said, reaching for her coat that was hanging on the back of her chair. "We'll have to do this again sometime."
"You're going?" I asked with disbelief.
"Yes. I've got a busy day tomorrow."
I walked her to the door, hoping for at least a goodnight kiss. However, once again, I was disappointed.
"See you," she called over her shoulder as she headed toward her car.
A heavy sigh escaped my lips as I shut the front door. Did I really believe the evening would end up differently?
"Dream on, Macduff!" I mumbled as I watched Eloise's headlights vanish in the night.
* * *
Signs of the approaching holiday were rapidly appearing around the nation's capital. Private homes and businesses alike were decorated with lights, blow molds, inflatables and wooden figures. The Salvation Army Santas popped up on street corners, seeking donations. Christmas carols were played in buildings around the city.
"I can't wait until January," I grumbled, feeling like Ebenezer Scrooge before the three ghosts of Christmas changed his grim outlook on life.
But then I remembered about the Secret Santa. Damn it! It was an obligation I had to fulfill before the twenty-fifth of December. At least I still had a few weeks before then. Normally, I am not a procrastinator, but this was a task I dreaded.
On Monday morning, I entered my office—apparently, the only one in the building without a wreath, miniature lights, garland or a holiday-themed coffee mug—closed the door, sat down at my desk and booted up my computer. It was not a place where I spent much time since my assignments usually took me out in the field. On that day, however, I had nothing on my calendar. I did not even have to show up for work since mine was an occupation that did not normally require paperwork or research.
So, why was I there? In truth, I hoped to run into Eloise. I was certain I did not misread her signals when we had dinner at the Korean steakhouse or coffee and macarons in my kitchen afterward. Since that night, I replayed her words over and over in my mind: "We'll have to do this again sometime." I hoped to suggest to her that we have that encore soon.
I glanced at the Rolex on my wrist. It was 7:48. If Eloise planned on coming to the office, she would arrive by 8:00-8:15 at the latest. I waited twenty minutes and then headed for the breakroom. A group of people huddled around the industrial coffeemaker, cups in hand, waiting for the READY indicator to turn green.
"What are you doing in here?" a surprised Levon Corman asked me.
"I had nothing better to do today. What about you?"
"Honestly?" he laughed. "I figured I'd come here to get away from the wife before she began nagging me to put up the tree."
"You haven't seen Eloise Lydon this morning; have you?" I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
"No. I don't think she's in today. If she's not working, she's probably at the mall. There aren't many shopping days left, or so my wife tells me."
"I'm done with my shopping."
"No kidding?"
"Yup. I got Amazon gift cards for everyone on my list."
"I can tell you're not married. A wife would expect an actual present. Mine likes jewelry. I bought her a tennis bracelet last year. I guess I'll get her a necklace this time."
Frankly, I didn't give a damn what Levon bought his wife. I never liked the woman, nor was I particularly fond of her husband.
"You going to the Christmas party this year?" he asked, taking his turn at the coffeemaker.
"I haven't decided. Are you?" I asked, taking my turn at the coffeemaker.
"Sure. My wife will go anywhere as long as she doesn't have to cook."
I was about to pour nondairy creamer into my coffee when I saw Eloise walking toward her office.
"Besides," Levon continued, "last year, we ...."
"Sorry," I apologized, interrupting him mid-sentence. "I just remembered I need to make an important phone call. Talk to you later."
I made it to Eloise's office just moments after she entered it.
"Good morning," I called, sticking my head through the doorway.
"Hi, there," she replied, surprised to see me. "Don't tell me you came in today just to get a cup of coffee."
"Hell, no! The stuff that comes out of that machine is a far cry from Starbucks. I'm here because I was curious about the Christmas party," I lied.
I was hoping she would ask me to sit down, but she didn't. With no invitation at hand, I took it upon myself to plop my bottom into one of the chairs usually reserved for guests.
"And why aren't you at the mall shopping?" I inquired since she, like yours truly, was a field operative, not a pencil-pushing desk jockey.
"I had some things I wanted to take care of," Eloise answered cryptically.
"Does it involve the Secret Santa?"
It was an innocent enough question, but one that caused an unexpected reaction in her.
"Why do you ask that?" she demanded to know in a quivering voice.
"I was just making small talk. Nothing more."
My response seemed to calm her. She even managed a slight smile.
"I came in to see the director of Human Resources," she explained. "I want to make some changes to my retirement fund."
"That shouldn't take all day. Maybe once your meeting is over, you and I can go out to lunch?"
She stared at me, and I could see she was giving a good deal of consideration to my invitation.
"All right," she finally agreed. "Why not? My afternoon is free."
We ate at a local seafood restaurant that featured a seven-foot Christmas tree decked out with nautical-themed ornaments. I ordered fish and chips—I acquired a fondness for them when I was on an assignment in London—and Eloise ordered a fresh tuna salad.
"I bet you can't wait to leave for Hawaii," I said, looking out at another cold, damp Washington day.
"I can't. I'm bringing a stack of novels with me so that I can lie on the beach, soak up the sun and read."
"Let me guess. You're either a Tom Clancy or Robert Ludlum fan. Or do you prefer Ian Fleming?"
"It may surprise you to learn that I like to immerse myself in historical novels, especially ones written about the British or French monarchy. I'm much more fascinated by Marie Antoinette, Mary Queen of Scots and Henry VIII's six wives than by Jack Ryan, Jason Bourne and James Bond. Do you read?"
"Not books. I'm more of a newspaper and magazine man."
For the next half hour, we discussed the relative merits of Time versus Newsweek and debated the wisdom of reading The Washington Post rather than watching news coverage on CNN or MSNBC.
"At least we agree on one thing," Eloise declared, finishing the last of her salad.
"What's that?"
"Neither of us wastes our time watching Fox News."
"Are you going back to the office?" I asked as I took my Mastercard Black Card out of my Gucci wallet.
"I wasn't planning on it. Why? What did you have in mind?"
Again, there was a twinkle in her eye that made my pulse race.
"I thought we might pick up dessert somewhere and go back to my place."
I could tell by the look on her face that she knew I was interested in more than macarons and lattes.
"I don't think that's such a good idea."
Both my ego and mood took a nosedive.
"Look, I like you," she admitted. "But now is not a good time to start anything. I've got way too much going on at the moment to worry about sneaking around, hoping not to get caught."
I frowned with disappointment but put up no argument.
"Why don't we wait until after the holidays?"
My mouth dropped open with surprise. She was not rejecting an affair outright; she was just postponing it to a later date.
"J-January is f-fine with m-me," I stammered like a lovesick schoolboy.
* * *
"Aren't you the jolly one!" Luther Velasco exclaimed when I arrived at the Christmas party, humming "We Wish You a Merry Christmas."
"Ho! Ho! Ho!" I laughed.
"And all these years, I had you pegged as a Grinch."
"Well, you were wrong."
Not even seeing Eloise with Russell, her college professor husband, put a damper on my holiday cheer. December was half over, and January was less than three weeks away. She would be back from Hawaii on the fifth. And after that .... I smiled, my mind not filled with visions of sugarplums but with images of Eloise and me at The Jefferson Hotel.
I had hoped to sit at the same table with the object of my desire, but I found my name card at a table across the room. Two seats—one for me and one, unused, for a plus one—were between Levon Corman and Irwin Kerns, both of whom were in the company of their wives. Vicki Corman noticed the empty seat to my right, and immediately her mind went into matchmaker mode.
"I have a friend that I just know you'll adore," she announced. "She's an architect. Divorced but no children."
"I'm afraid I'm not one for blind dates."
"Oh, but she's a stunner," she argued, taking out her cell phone and finding her friend's Facebook page. "Look at her!"
I nodded my head. I had to agree; the friend was lovely. But she was not nearly as beautiful as Eloise.
"I can invite you both to dinner at our house," Vicki offered. "It wouldn't be a real date. You can meet her, and if you like her, then you can ask her out."
"Maybe," I said, hoping she would drop the matter. "Perhaps we can arrange something at the end of January."
"Great! Levon will let you know the date and time after I've spoken to her."
As the first course, a garden salad with house dressing, was being served, Irwin poured wine into everyone's glasses from the bottle in the center of the table. Since any discussion of business matters was frowned upon by our superiors in the agency, the conversation centered around domestic matters. Laura Kerns was happy to say that her Christmas shopping was nearly complete.
"All I need to buy is just one more gift. Our daughter is having a Secret Santa at school, and I have to pick up a present for one of her classmates."
The mention of a Secret Santa reminded me that I had yet to fulfill my obligation. It was the only black cloud on the otherwise sunny horizon of my immediate future.
"Next week," I promised myself. "I can't put it off any longer."
I glanced across the room at Eloise, certain that her face would lighten my doleful spirit. I was pleased and surprised to see that she was looking in my direction. She smiled at me, and all was right in my world again.
* * *
I first shot a man when I served in Afghanistan. When I saw what was left of the teenage boy I had killed, I vomited up my breakfast. I was assured by my fellow Marines that I would get used to killing. Sadly, I never did.
As I waited in the dark for my target to appear, I felt the sweat bead up on my forehead. The hands that held my Glock semi-automatic pistol were cold and clammy. My heart raced, and it felt as though every nerve in my body was on high alert as I listened for the sound of approaching footsteps. When at last they came, I steeled myself. I momentarily closed my eyes, took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. I emerged from the shadows, raised my arm and fired.
* * *
I was quickly hustled out of the building and shoved into the back of a van. Clearly, it was a well-developed plan. Following agency protocol, I was not to know the identity of the men (or women) who aided me in fleeing the scene of the crime. When the van stopped, the back door opened automatically.
"Get out," a nondescript voice commanded.
No sooner did I exit the vehicle than the van drove away. I found myself alone in a dimly lit warehouse. I sat on a wooden crate and waited. I knew someone from the agency would eventually show up and reveal a clear-cut plan for my escape.
Twenty minutes later, a door opened and another agent entered the room.
"Eloise!" I cried, astonished that she was my contact.
"You assassinated the President of the United States," she accused and pointed her own handgun in my direction.
"It's not what you think," I tried to explain. "I'm not some lone nut. I was following orders."
She made no attempt to lower the gun.
"Come on, you know me!" I whined. "We both work for the same agency. I picked the president's name out of the Secret Santa hat."
It was hard to tell if the expression on her face was a smile or a grimace. Maybe it was a combination of both.
"Eloise," I pleaded. "Put down the gun. You and I can ...."
I heard the soft, hushed sound of the silenced pistol just moments before the pain exploded in my chest. I probably ought to have been killed instantly, but I wasn't. Maybe it was a half-assed Christmas miracle that I lived for a few minutes before bleeding out on the warehouse floor.
"Why?" I managed to ask, with what was to become my last spoken word.
"Because I pulled your name out of the hat," Eloise confessed. "You were to shoot the president, and then I was to shoot you. Simply put, you, my dear friend, were my Secret Santa."
It's no secret that Salem is on Santa's Naughty List.
