Free The Secret Life of Mrs. Claus by Carly Alexander

Kate’s suggestion slammed me with a frightening epiphany, making me realize the extent of the damage Bobby could do with this show. “Would Bobby really show something like that on television?”
    “He could,” Bonnie said. “There’s no copyright on your personal life events.”
    “Oh, God.” The horrid possibilities hit me with a dull thud. Or maybe that was the sound of a black shell dropping into the reject bowl. “What if he does use my life? What if he uses my most embarrassing moments? My secrets? Our sex life…”
    “You have secrets?” Lanessa licked her lips. “Do tell all.”
    “Nessa…” Bonnie shot her a warning look. “It’s all fun and games for you, I know, but Olivia is in a real dilemma here.”
    I was. And since, for once, it was a dilemma I did not create for myself, I was clueless as to how to get myself out of it. “Oh, God.” I tore open a moist towelette. “This is bad. I may have to change my name. Dye my hair. Move somewhere else.” Perhaps I’d be heading back to New York sooner than I’d planned.
    “Where can you escape to?” Bonnie asked. “It’s a national show. It’ll play in Peoria.”
    “For those Peorians who have cable,” Lanessa added.
    Kate pressed a napkin to her mouth, her eyes huge with worry. “Don’t panic. You don’t know what the show is going to include. Most likely it has nothing to do with you.”
    “But what if it does? What if he mocks me on national TV?”
    No one had an answer. I looked from one face to another, Bonnie’s nervous blink of sympathy, Kate’s fawning look of compassion, Lanessa’s cool, what-the-hell flip of a mussel shell.
    “Listen up, Olivia…” Lanessa dipped a mussel in spicy red sauce and popped it into her mouth. “I know it seems like this man has got you by the short and curlies right now, but there’s something you need to remember. He might be a backstabbing, low-life bottom feeder, but you, girl, have your dignity. You got your pride, and nobody can take that away from you.”
    Kate was nodding, her eyes burning with staunch support.
    “And you have us,” Bonnie said. “We’ll do whatever we can to help.”
    “Starting with watching that show next week.” Lanessa wiped her hands on a napkin, then pointed one manicured finger in the air, instructing all of us. “Ladies, clear your calendars for Tuesday night. We are going to watch the premiere episode of the Nutcrapper together.”

5
    “Y our turn, Rocky,” ZZ said in a gravelly voice that resembled rocks churning in a mixer.
    Just my luck. He’d been hired not only as a Santa, but head Santa, the big cheese of all five male Clauses and Mrs. Claus, too. My immediate boss. I didn’t catch his name, so I still thought of him as ZZ Top, although this morning he’d revealed a softer side, leading the group gently through introductions. At the moment, the odd assortment of Santas and elves was waiting for me to cough up my name and a few touchy-feely details to be lapped up by our “caring, sharing circle,” as ZZ called it.
    I thought of Mrs. Atwater, the manager of the Rockettes, who resembled a Barbie doll and seemed to have been with the dance troupe since its 1932 debut. Mrs. Atwater would not approve of head Santa, nor would she spare the time for flowery employee orientations. In fact, I think she would enjoy frosting over some of these lost elves with her ice queen glare, especially when they crooned of their “Luv fer the little woons,” and their desire to make Christmas special in every heart.
    “God bless us, every one,” I said caustically, checking for signs of intelligent life in the eyes of this motley crew. The gawky former exchange student from Australia seemed to catch my drift, as did a well-dressed African American woman who kept her enviable purple leather Coach bag close to her body.
    “Care to introduce yourself, Rocky?” ZZ prodded.
    I gave him a sour look. Not to be the problem child of the group, but when they said