Letters To Santa

It's that time of year and everyone, including fictional characters, is writing letters to Santa.  Stay tuned for more letters from my characters, plus some surprises from other writers. 

The first Letter to Santa comes from Darcy Hughes, the heroine of Twenty One Days to a Better Attitude. 

Dear Santa, 

As you are well aware from past letters from me, I do not need anything from anyone. I have my life well under control and if I could wish for anything it would be for people, including my new neighbor, Ben, to butt out. However, social convention, and my author, require that I write a letter to you. 

Therefore, I would like to request a new white cashmere throw which was ruined by the aforementioned Ben. 

He would say that it was my own fault for pouring wine on his head. Please bring him a stocking full of coal. 

Sincerely Yours, 

Darcy A. Hughes


Here is Ben's letter. 

Dear Santa, 

Please tell Darcy to get over herself. 

Merry Christmas, 

Ben

I'll let you decide who's right, Darcy or Ben. Here's the incident that caused Darcy to need a new throw. 

Ben, freshly showered and smelling of soap, was standing on the porch with a pizza in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. “I’m sorry for disturbing you this morning,” he said. “I thought maybe we could start our acquaintance over again.”

“That really won’t be necessary.” Darcy began to close the door. “Because I don’t intend for us to be acquaintances.”

Ben’s foot in the door prevented her from closing it as she’d hoped.

“Now you’re trespassing.”

He stepped into her living room. “If I’m trespassing, I might as well do it all the way.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Darcy watched dumbfounded as he made his way around the Cheetos, deposited the pizza on the coffee table and then headed for the kitchen.

“I haven’t unpacked my wine glasses or corkscrew,” he said over his shoulder while he busied himself in her kitchen. “I thought we could use yours.”

“We aren’t having wine. We aren’t having pizza. You are leaving.” Darcy gave him her best indignant look.

Ignoring her, Ben looked through the drawers in the kitchen until he found a corkscrew. He opened and shut cupboards, found wine glasses and plates, and returned to the living room to pour a glass of wine for each of them.

Darcy was still standing at the open front door. Ben handed her a glass of red wine and clinked the edge of his with hers. “To new neighbors,” he said.

She poured her glass of wine over his head.

Nonplussed, Ben picked up a white cashmere throw that was draped across the back of the couch and used it to wipe the wine from his face and hair.

“Get. Out. Of. My. House,” she hissed at him.

Ben tossed the now-tie-dyed throw back onto the couch. Despite herself, Darcy was impressed by his calm. Impressed and infuriated by it.

“It would appear,” he replied, his voice soft and even, “that despite your many years of education and professional acclaim, you have yet to learn good manners.”

“There is nothing wrong with my manners.” Darcy spat the words at him. “I should think that someone who barges in where he’s unwanted and then makes himself at home despite the obvious wish of his hostess that he should leave and who then,” Darcy pointed at the cashmere throw “ruins expensive items in the house, is the one who needs to learn some manners.”

The corners of Ben’s mouth twitched again. “If my friendliness has offended you, then I apologize.” He turned to gather up the food.

“Friendliness? You’re just short of a stalker!”