Author: Jaimie Admans
Category: Humorous
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/jaimie-admans/page,5,600588-the_post_box_at_the_north_pole_the_perfect_cosy_and_uplifting_christmas_romance_to_curl_up_with_in_2021.html
‘No, no, not at all.’ He hesitates. ‘It’s just that this place needs a lot of rejuvenation and it’s a lot for a man of my age to take on.’
‘So someone foisted it off onto you, you realised you’d taken on too much, and now you’re stuck with this huge failing business, and it’s your turn to palm it off onto someone else – someone much younger who can do the work it needs.’ I cup one hand around my eyes to block out reflections and look through the window towards the cabins on the hill opposite. From a distance, they look picture-perfect, but at a closer look, I can see pieces of wood hanging from their eaves, gaps in the wooden posts surrounding their outside deck areas, and dips in the blanket of snow covering them where the roofs have caved in. ‘Or bulldoze it completely and put everything out of its misery.’
Dad, unsurprisingly, ignores my cheery suggestion. ‘It’s not that big. Only thirty acres.’
‘Only?’ I choke on the hot chocolate. I have no idea what thirty acres looks like, but it sounds like a lot. And I’m once again struck by that prickling of guilt that my dad has been doing this for a year, and I didn’t know.
My eyes fall on yet another shiny red post box further along the road, in the direction Taavi took the dogs. ‘What’s with all the post boxes?’
‘They’re for Santa mail.’
‘Santa mail … Like when children write to Santa?’
He nods.
‘Do they still do that?’
‘Of course. You’re thinking it should all be email now, but there’s nothing like the magic of sending a real letter. For a lot of people, a letter to Santa will be the only letter they write that year. People don’t even write shopping lists anymore – they put it on their phones. The excitement of sitting down to compose a letter, maybe drawing a picture with it, decorating the envelope, and then posting it … That’s magic to a child. The whole world has gone digital, but Santa is one person who should always uphold tradition.’
‘Does Santa get a lot?’
‘About 500,000 a year.’
I’m going to have to stop drinking when he’s talking because I’ve made the mistake of sipping my hot chocolate again and I promptly choke on it again. ‘You’re having a laugh.’
‘It’s a fair split between us and the Lapland Santa village in Rovaniemi, across the border in Finland – they get about 500,000 and we get a similar amount.’
‘That’s a million. Are you seriously telling me that a million children write letters to Santa every year?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, Santa must be a multi-billionaire to provide that many presents. Don’t kids just give their lists to their parents so they know what toys to buy?’
‘Don’t be silly. The elves make the toys in the workshop at the North Pole. Santa only has to pay for materials.’
I genuinely feel like I’ve arrived on a different planet. He must be joking, but he’s definitely worked on his delivery because he didn’t used to be able to keep a straight face when telling a knock-knock joke, and no one laughs at a knock-knock joke.
‘Have you written to Santa this year?’
‘No, I haven’t, because I’m thirty-six.’ I give him my most incredulous look. How many more times can I ask if someone’s serious today? ‘You’re really into this whole Santa thing then?’
‘It’s magical. Our job is to make children believe in magic. Imagination is the most powerful thing any child has, and Santa’s job is to preserve that.’
Well, when he puts it like that … It does sound magical, and exactly what Christmas should be like for a child.
It’s just that I half-expect him to offer me a glass of reindeer blood and a spear carved from antlers for my initiation ceremony into the Santa cult.
Instead of anything quite so macabre, Dad goes into a big kitchen via an open doorway through from the living room. He makes us both another hot chocolate while I look around in awe.
The kitchen is the definition of somewhere you’d expect to see Mrs Claus pop up at any moment. A red and white tiled floor, dark wood cabinets, and a glittery marble worktop run around the perimeter of the room. There’s a ribbon-wrapped silver cooker hood on one wall, above what looks like a line of several professional-style ovens.
‘They used to run Mrs Claus’s Kitchen workshops from here,’ Dad explains. ‘Mrs Claus herself used to teach people how to make festive staples – gingerbread, Christmas cookies, mince pies, a nice fruit cake … That all ended before I started.’
There’s an island in the middle of the room with a few shiny red stools pulled up along one edge, and in the middle of the island is a tiny Christmas tree strung with micro fairy lights and decorated with gold chocolate coins. There’s a jar of candy canes, and a delicately iced gingerbread house on display too. It’s so perfect that it must be plastic, but on closer inspection I see that it’s real, and I’m awestruck that someone can do such intricate work.
After another hot chocolate and a catch-up chat in which Dad dodges every question related to his health, we wander back into the hallway, and while I’m enjoying the heat of the fire again, Dad puts a hand to his ear. ‘There’s Tav now.’
He opens the door and I go over and stick my head out too, unprepared for the sudden icy blast. Taavi is trudging up the road, his hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, and his hat pulled down as far as it can go. He looks frozen, and I wish I’d been more insistent that he come in and warm up earlier.
My suitcase is still inside the door, and I have to jump out the way as Dad nearly runs over my foot as he hauls it outside.
‘Where are you going with that?’ I rush to take it off him because he shouldn’t be lifting anything heavy.
‘I didn’t think you’d want to room with your old dad, so we put you in the Candy Cane Cabin. The furthest one at the top.’ He points to the hillside opposite.
Tav lifts a hand in greeting as he clomps up the steps. ‘Dogs safely returned.’
‘I can’t make it to the top of that hill, so Tav’s going to take you up there now,’ Dad says.
I glance at Tav, who’s holding a hand out for my suitcase. A snowman would look warmer. When he lifts his head above the scarf, there’s a hint of dark stubble on his face, and there is literally ice forming on it. ‘No, Tav is going to go inside and stand by the fire.’
‘Sasha, I’ve lived here for many years. I appreciate you thinking of me, but being cold is in my blood. I’m used to these temperatures.’
I step out onto the wooden bit of decking that’s protected from the snow by the upper floor balcony above it, but still cold enough for the wood to start to freeze through my socks instantaneously. I put a hand on my hip and hold an arm out towards the house, and give him my sternest look. ‘I don’t care. You look cold. Go inside. Don’t make me start shoving you because I will.’
I raise a threatening eyebrow. I imagine trying to manoeuvre someone of his size would be akin to a meerkat trying to push over a rhinoceros, but I don’t let my doubts show on my face, until eventually my dad starts laughing.
‘Don’t argue with her, Tav. Women will always outsmart us, and this one takes after her mother, who was small but mighty.’
That’s quite possibly the most my dad has said about my mother since her funeral, twenty-four years ago.
Tav looks between us, but then his eyes meet mine and I raise my eyebrow higher, until eventually he smiles and shakes his head in resignation. Dad steps aside to let him in, and while he’s stomping snow off his boots on the red “Merry Christmas” doormat, I slip in and close the door gratefully behind us.
‘I’ll get you a hot chocolate.’ Dad disappears to the kitchen again, having seemingly taken on self-employment as a hot chocolate waiter.
‘Thanks,’ Tav says to me, his voice low and sounding rough from breathing such cold air.
‘You’ve just walked four miles in the dark in minus-fifteen. That’s ridiculous, no matter where you come from.’
His st
rangely coloured brownish-blue eyes, a colour I’ve never seen before, are glinting when he looks at me, and after a few moments, I realise I’m leaning against the closed door and staring at him as he pulls off his gloves, loosens his scarf, and removes his hat, revealing mid-brown straight hair, messy from the hat.
‘I’m glad you’re here.’ Dad comes back in, carrying another hot chocolate and yet another plate of Christmas cookies. ‘We missed proper introductions. Tav, this is my daughter, Sasha. Sash, this is Taavi Salvesen – Tav to his friends – which you are now, whether he likes it or not. Don’t let his grumpiness fool you, he’s a reindeer whisperer extraordinaire and a lifesaver to this old man. He’s my right-hand man, and he’s here to attend your every need.’
Oh, doesn’t that sound fun. ‘I’m quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you all the same,’ I say, quite horrified by the idea of him “attending” anything.
‘Thank God for that because I have no intention of attending a thing.’ He takes a sip of hot chocolate and sighs, the steam turning his cheeks red. ‘I’ll walk you up to the cabin in a minute. If you’ll permit me, that is.’
‘Not until your beard’s defrosted,’ I snap, completing today’s list of “things I never thought I’d say”.
He lets out another laugh and runs a hand over his stubble. It’s not really a beard, he just hasn’t shaved for a few days, and I find myself hypnotised by the way the dark hairs catch on long fingers.
‘Do you actually live here?’ I force myself to look away and turn to Dad. ‘Tav said it was a show house.’
‘It’s open for tours, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a real house,’ Dad answers. ‘It’s my home now. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.’
And I’m here to try to sell the place. This is going to go absolutely swimmingly, isn’t it? ‘You have people going on tours through your actual house? Poking around in your drawers and private parts?’
It’s Tav’s turn to choke on hot chocolate.
‘Only in December,’ Dad says, oblivious. ‘Interest in Santa’s House depletes after Christmas.’
‘Is the North Pole Forest open all year round?’
He and Tav exchange a look.
‘It used to be,’ Tav says eventually. ‘But custom has fallen and we haven’t had any interest outside of November and December in recent years. We used to be open year-round …’
‘But?’ I say when he trails off. ‘How bad are things?’
‘We’re surviving on day trips now,’ he says. ‘School visits, and people who come back every year for nostalgic purposes. It’s not a destination anymore. There’s not enough things to do to encourage people to stay, and not enough time and money to add new things.’
‘Or restore the old things,’ Dad adds, sounding more upbeat than I expected.
‘Some of the cabins need repair before we can rent them out again. Candy Cane Cabin is the only one I’ve done so far,’ Tav carries on. ‘We’ve got a few bookings in the Northern Lights igloos towards the end of the month, and a family coming in for the Gingerbread Cabin for five days before Christmas and I have to fix it up before they get here.’
‘You do all that? Renovate the cabins as well as handle reindeer? Alone?’
‘Other people will only let you down.’
‘You have a fair point and you make it well.’ I deliberately mirror his words from earlier.
It makes him laugh again and my cheeks heat up for no reason, especially when Dad looks between me and Tav with that look on his face.
This could be way more complicated than I imagined.
Chapter 4
Dear Santa,
Thank you for spreading joy and making so many people happy. Does anyone ever get you gifts? I made this bookmark for you because you look like the kind of person who enjoys reading, and maybe you can use it to keep your place in the naughty and nice list when you check it twice. My brother thinks you must get bored of reading it so many times, but I think you must enjoy it, like I enjoy reading my favourite books over and over again!
From,
Avery
‘See, now it’s even harder to go back out,’ Tav says as we step outside the door and he yanks his knitted hat down over his ears. ‘But I suppose I should say thank you for making me all warm and tingly.’
I choke on thin air and have to pretend the cold has got to the back of my throat. Maybe there is a language barrier after all, because that’s not the sort of thing a gorgeous guy can say to a woman and expect her not to choke.
There’s something nice about the idea of him being tingly as I zip up my wholly inadequate jacket and the air stings at my face again. I pull my hat down and my scarf up so there’s barely enough space to see where we’re going.
Tav picks up my suitcase with the same one-handed ease of earlier, and when I go to take it from him, he lifts it out of my reach and gives me a self-satisfied smile.
Dad presses a button on a remote control and the cabin at the very top of the hill is instantly illuminated with red and white fairy lights showing its outline in the darkness. The same Victorian-style streetlamps give out a warm orange glow at intervals up the hill, but not all of them are working.
Dad follows us out onto the decking and gives me another hug. ‘Thanks for coming, Sash. You’re going to love this place.’
His cherub-like face looks so innocent and hopeful that I don’t have the heart to protest. He releases me and waves us off as I rush to catch up with Tav who is already halfway along the snowy road with my suitcase.
He waits for me at the bottom of the hillside where the cabins are. It looks steeper than it did from the house. A lot steeper. I should have twigged when Dad said he couldn’t make it to the top, really. When a man who’s climbed the biggest mountains in the world has trouble with a hillside, then is the time you should figure out a cabin at the top of said hillside probably isn’t the best place to stay.
One of the streetlamps flickers as if to reflect my feelings of horror. ‘Oh, holy sh—’
‘Night.’ Tav frowns at me. ‘No swearing at the North Pole. There might be children around, and it’s a scientifically proven fact that an elf falls down dead every time they hear a swearword. “Oh, holy night” is what you meant to say, right?’
Just when you think things can’t get much worse, you find out a good swearword is forbidden. ‘I don’t think “scientific fact” and “elf” are words that belong in the same sentence.’
He ignores me.
‘Fine,’ I mutter. ‘Holy night, that is one heck of a hill.’
‘Do you want me to carry you?’
‘Good God, no!’ I recoil so fast that my foot slips in the snow and I struggle to keep my balance.
‘Steps, that side.’ He points across the hill to the right-hand side. ‘But I haven’t had a chance to shovel them off lately, so they’re too dangerous. Path, this side. Let’s go because my tingle is rapidly decreasing.’
It makes me laugh again, so much that it takes my mind off the climb as we start walking up, and he doesn’t rush this time, but stays beside me on the path that’s barely wide enough for one person.
‘This isn’t really the North Pole,’ I say, annoyed because a lady should be allowed to swear if necessary. ‘The North Pole is much further north.’ I point in a random direction.
‘That’s west. North is that way.’ He points behind him, and then stops long enough to pull a compass from his pocket, looks at it for a few seconds, and holds it up to show me. ‘See?’
Who walks around with a compass in their pocket? I give the contraption in his hand a cursory glance. ‘I didn’t mean it literally. No one has any clue which direction is which, nor do they care.’
‘You should care. It’s easy to get turned around and lose your way in these woods, but if you know which direction you came from, it’s easy to find your way back. Besides, you’ll need to know if you see a bear. Polar bears are more likely to come from the north.’
‘If I se
e a bear, anywhere, believe me, my first thought will not be to determine which direction it’s coming from.’
He laughs, which is all well and good until I realise what he’s said.
‘Wait … you have bears here?’
‘Give me a shout if you see one; I’ll shoot at it for you.’
‘Shoot at it?’
‘Well, I’m not going to shoot it, am I? That would be murder, and I’m in the business of saving animals, not hurting them.’ He glances down at me and rolls his eyes. ‘Generally if you fire a shot into the air, any bear will run away. No animal is going to stick around to find out if you’re going to fire another one. Bears are more scared of—’
‘Don’t tell me bears are more scared of us than we are of them. They say that about spiders and, believe me, it’s not true.’
He laughs again, and I’m so glad he finds my terror amusing. ‘Generally it’s very safe. Polar bears rarely venture this far south, brown bears hibernate through winter so they won’t bother you at this time of year, and lynx almost never attack humans.’
‘Comforting,’ I mutter.
All this talk of bears has distracted me so much that I’ve barely noticed the incline changing as we climb higher. As I stop to look back at our progress, my foot slips in the snow and I squeal and squeeze my eyes shut as I envision plummeting back down to the bottom again, and I brace myself for the fall, but something as solid as concrete grips my upper arm and I open my eyes and realise Tav is holding me up. With one hand.
I feel like a kitten when the mother cat moves them by the scruff of the neck, just sort of dangling in mid-air, and I shuffle to get my feet back under me.
‘What size are you?’
‘Excuse me?’ I go to give him an earful about being polite enough not to swear but not polite enough to not ask a woman her dress size and that I know I need to eat a few less mince pies, and so far this evening I’ve consumed three calorific hot chocolates and God knows how many Christmas cookies but I lost count at seven, when he nods towards my feet.