Her Billionaire Santa Read online

  When she’d gotten the message Conchilla’s mayor had sent her before Christmas, asking if Katy could bring gifts for the children from the United States, she didn’t hesitate. She arranged to fly on the plane with the gifts, personally ensuring their delivery to Conchilla.

  At least, if they didn’t win the million dollars, they could have Christmas gifts.

  Her thoughts returned to Marcus James, the billionaire. The cold businessman who didn’t believe in Christmas. Katy didn’t regret confronting him, but she did regret that she most likely nixed their chances for the prize money. She was sure any chances Conchilla had in the contest had evaporated like a puddle on a hot day.

  Well, let him pick a different cause. Let him lord from his penthouse suite and pick and choose based on speed-dating with a cause, billionaire style. She knew now that his philanthropy, his supposed generosity, was simply a sham.

  She sighed inwardly. She was being petty. Other causes deserved support too. Conchilla wasn’t the only one hurting this Christmas. Whatever Marcus James’s intentions were for hosting a million-dollar contest, he was still doing the right thing. Even if he wasn’t going about it the right way.

  Thinking of the holiday, her mood lightened. That was why she had decided to. She wanted to deliver gifts to the children. Her mother had objected to her being gone for Christmas, so she assured her she’d be back in time for the holiday.

  She couldn’t wait to see the children’s faces when they opened the packages.

  Fifteen minutes after landing she cleared customs and made her way to the general lobby of the airport. La Aurora International Airport was smaller than most airports she had flown into and held a bit of a rundown feel though she could see improvements here and there. The people were trying to put their best foot forward. As she expected, they already had Christmas decorations out. Nothing fancy. The tinsel looked faded and frayed and the ornaments a bit kitschy, but the Christmas season was there.

  How she loved this country.

  She felt her spirits lift despite the disappointment she’d experienced in Marcus James’s office.

  As she waited for her luggage among other foreign travelers, she thought back to her mother’s reaction when Katy had told her she wanted to do charity work in this Guatemalan village.

  “Why Conchilla?” her mother had asked.

  Katy had a ready answer. “Well, they speak Spanish, so my high school Spanish should help, and they’re off the beaten path.”

  Her parents had tolerated her interest until she started planning regular trips, especially ones that straddled Christmas. By now, thankfully, her mother had accepted that she was going to be gone over the holidays most years.

  Katy lifted her quality, but well-traveled, purple suitcase from the luggage carousel, pulled out the telescoping handle, and made her way to the airport entrance. No one was meeting her. Not this time. She knew Papa Lando Paredes, her homestay dad, would have, but she didn’t want to bother him and his family. Plus, he never accepted gas money from her, so she decided a mini-shuttle would be just fine.

  A shuttle driver in jeans and a washed-out polo shirt beckoned to her.

  She nodded, and he hefted her luggage into the back of his shuttle van. Katy got in with three other people, Caucasian like her. Within minutes, the shuttle had filled with passengers, and they made their way down the roads to Antigua, about an hour away.

  The winter in Manhattan seemed a distant memory. The weather here felt like spring, her light sweater almost too warm. The windows were open, and her hair swirled around as she peeked out at the ring of volcanic mountains that characterized Guatemala’s landscape. Banana trees dotted the foreground, and taller trees formed a lush backdrop along the highway. They passed women in their traditional traje clothing, colorfully striped skirts reaching down to their shins.

  As they got closer to Antigua proper, little colorful vehicles came into view. They were tuk-tuks, Guatemala’s unique public transportation, made up of a motorcycle-like engine encased in a small pod open on both sides with a front row for the driver and a passenger riding shotgun, and the back bench for more passengers.

  She paid the equivalent of twelve US dollars in fare, and the driver dropped her off in front of a cheery lime-green house along a row of pastel houses on a street.

  As she got out, she had to watch her step. The ground was uneven from all the earthquakes they’d experienced over the decades. Even as she stood there, a little ribbon of smoke curling from one of the volcanoes in the distance—fittingly named Volcán de Fuego or Volcano of Fire——was visible, reminding her of the constant threat of volcanic activity. Not to mention earthquakes, as Guatemala straddled an actively shifting fault line.

  Guatemalans were crazy to live here under those conditions, but Katy could totally understand why. This was their land.

  Mama Muni, Papa Lando’s wife, came out of the lime-green house, her brown face splitting into a warm grin. “Katy Stevens,” she said in a melodious voice. Then she wrapped her arms around Katy.

  Katy hugged her tightly. “Hello, Mama Muni,” she said. Her homestay mother smelled of onions and charcoal. Katy lifted her nose into the air and caught an aromatic smell of meat cooking. “Are you making tamales?”

  “But of course.”

  “This early?”

  “Just for you.”

  They went arm in arm into the house, where the children, Filipo and Kotil, ran to hug her. Mama Muni’s husband, Papa Lando, came out too, enveloping her in his burly embrace.

  They brought her out to the sunroom in the back, where their yard faced a modest but private clearing surrounded by banana trees and animal pens. The yard was dirt but clean and graded. In some spots, puddles had formed from rains.

  Mama Muni insisted that Katy sit down and relax, and as she did, the children swarmed around her. They spoke a little bit of English, but they mainly communicated in Spanish with Katy, who did her best. She didn’t need any translation when she took out a foam ball for Filipo and a pocket doll for Kotil. The children beamed, hugged her, and then ran off to play with their new toys.

  Once they were gone, Papa Lando launched into a desultory conversation about his new plantings that year, his new tuk-tuk, and news from the neighbors.

  Katy felt her cares melt away. She could barely hear traffic outside, just the occasional putt-putt of tuk-tuks and Christmas music piping in from a scratchy radio somewhere nearby.

  No malls, no glitzy parties, no gaudy decorations for the holiday. Here, they emphasized the birth of Christ. The true meaning of Christmas.

  Mama Muni whipped out a plate and, with flourish, set a tamale wrapped in banana leaves on a small table by Katy. “Eat, mi hija,” she said.

  Katy unwrapped the tamale, steam still coming from the cornmeal delicacy. She cut into it with a fork, blew on it a little to cool it off, and took a bite.

  Just the right texture, and not too spicy. “Mmm,” she said.

  Mama Muni beamed.

  Later, the children ushered her to the bedroom they’d prepared for her. During her homestay years ago, she had lived with the Paredes family. They had taken her in like their own daughter. Despite the language barrier, Mama Muni managed to communicate, especially with offerings of food. Her intent was always clear when she motioned for Katy to join them around the table.

  Worn out from jetlag, Katy shut the door to get some privacy. There would be plenty of reunions later with some of the people she’d known in Antigua. For now, she smiled at the simple comforts conjured up by the sweet Paredes family. A small bed in a metal frame with yellow sheets, a pillow, and an embroidered cushion. A towel and bar of soap on a shelf. A chair and a table by the window that overlooked their yard.

  She thought of her younger siblings. She hoped they would want to come with her to Guatemala someday, or at least follow in Katy’s footsteps, traveling to another part of the world. They could see for themselves that simple living like this could give your heart a jolt of joy.
/>   Unpacking her sneakers, she changed into them from her ballet flats so she could comfortably walk on the cobblestone streets of Antigua. Fortified with a fresh tamale in her belly, she was ready to set out.

  Her phone beeped. At the airport, she had changed SIM cards so she could access local wi-fi. She’d received a text.

  It read, “I just landed at La Aurora. Where can I meet you? ~ Marcus James”

  Katy couldn’t believe her eyes. Marcus James, the billionaire, was coming. For one moment, she was paralyzed, thinking of what that implied.

  He would consider Conchilla. He was coming to see it in person. He would join Katy. She’d have the job of showing him around.

  Her heart pounded. She had one chance to get this right.

  “Meet me at Plaza Mayor,” she wrote back.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MARCUS

  Maybe the helicopter ride was a bit of overkill, but he had access to one, so why not?

  He surveyed the Guatemalan countryside below. Lush green jungle swallowed parts of the city. Mist shrouded mountains that circled bodies of water. He’d been to Mexico before, but never to Guatemala. He wondered why Katy Stevens found this place special. He would soon find out, he supposed.

  The helicopter moved to descend. He had told the pilot to aim for Plaza Mayor, but he’d only looked at Marcus like he was nuts. “I find a farm to take you to, Señor,” he said.

  They landed on a farm, where a cow paused from chewing its cud and regarded the helicopter with curious eyes.

  “The cab is there,” the pilot informed him, pointing outside the fence.

  “I’ll take it from here.” Marcus nodded, hefting his suitcase and backpack.

  He had worn a long-sleeved polo shirt, and now he folded back the sleeves. His slacks clung to his legs slightly. A film of sweat formed on his skin, even though the air felt relatively cool. He guessed the temperatures were hovering in the 60s, but it was more humid than what he was used to.

  He exited the field by opening a rustic man-gate. A cab waited for him, indeed, a little sedan with a driver who ran up to him to help with his bags.

  After Marcus was settled, they took off with the driver making small talk.

  “First time in Antigua, Señor?” the man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You will find it beautiful. Especially at Christmas time.”

  He doubted it, but he only said, “I hope so.”

  The man nodded vigorously. “The rain no scare you. It stop right away. You sleep for siesta.”

  “I’m not worried about getting wet,” Marcus assured him.

  “Here is hotel.”

  Latrell had booked Hotel Gayano for him. It was a small outfit in the middle of town, close to the Plaza Mayor, according to the online map. It stood out among somber façade with its peachy tint.

  The hotel employee welcomed him with a reserved smile. She handed him the key and motioned for him to follow her. They climbed rickety stairs that probably wouldn’t pass code in the States. She led him down a shabby hall and opened a door at the end of the hallway. He had to duck to fit his six-foot-tall frame through.

  She left him with a little grunt of words he didn’t understand. He set his luggage on the floor and looked around. A small room, certainly nothing lavish like some of the hotels he was used to. He had traveled to third-world countries before, but usually, he had some lead time to research lodging options. Maybe Latrell could transfer him to the best hotel in town in a day or two. He’d endure this until then.

  He checked the bathroom. Cramped and stained everywhere. At least the tap water worked. He splashed some water on his face to freshen up. Thankfully, the soap looked unused. He tapped it out of its wrapping, washed and rinsed. Then he looked around for a towel. There was a green one mismatched with a pink one.

  Downstairs, he returned to the hotel employee, who eyed him with surprise.

  “Can I get some directions please?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No speak English.”

  “Plaza Mayor?” he asked.

  “Ah, si,” she said. She waddled out to the front door of the hotel and pointed down the street. She said some words in Spanish and then smiled.

  He nodded the direction she pointed, saying one of the few words of Spanish he knew. “Gracias.”

  Marcus walked the streets, which were narrow and often had no sidewalks. A strange looking conveyance, like a super small hybrid car without side walls and powered by a motorcycle, zipped past him and then stopped. A man poked his head out. He said, “Tuk-tuk,”” to Marcus, pointing to the vehicle he was in, which Marcus interpreted as an offer for a ride.

  “No, gracias,” Marcus said.

  People selling fruit along the way nodded at him. The women still wore traditional clothing, a colorful blouse and a long skirt. That surprised Marcus. He thought perhaps most countries had caught up to modern fashion. Time seemed to have stopped in Antigua.

  Marcus kept walking, a slight worry nagging at him that Katy might no longer be waiting for him. At least he could communicate with her via email. He wondered if she knew Spanish or whatever native language they spoke here.

  He was caught flat-footed, not knowing his way around or even being able to communicate. It was a foreign feeling, one that he didn’t relish. It was as though words were stuck in his throat and couldn’t come out. He knew Chinese from some dealings with his business contacts, but that would hardly serve him any useful purpose here.

  Soon, he reached a street with more people, more shops, more traffic. He stepped onto the sidewalk and walked to the end of the street, trying to find some indication of where he was.

  He was lost.

  Surveying the faces of the locals around him, he tried to find a helpful-looking one. A woman selling fruits smiled at him.

  He approached her. She was selling strawberries and mangoes. The strawberries looked great. He pointed at one and arched an eyebrow.

  “Ocho quetzales,” she said, holding up eight fingers.

  He gave her the money, and she bagged a handful for him in a paper sack.

  “Plaza Mayor?” he asked.

  She pointed left.

  He thanked her and ate a strawberry as he made his way to what he hoped was the right direction.

  The strawberries were fantastic. Already, he felt better about this trip, if this was any indication of how food would be here.

  The street fed into a busier thoroughfare, the Plaza Mayor, he was sure of it. There were a church and fountain and vendor stalls selling Christmas stuff.

  Christmas.

  A memory weighed his heart down, pressed against his chest so he couldn’t breathe. The tragedy had taken place four Christmases ago, and the holiday still stirred disquieting emotions within.

  He pictured his wife’s face as she left the house to help her parents fix the Christmas meal. The officers standing on his porch two hours later to tell him she had been in a fatal accident.

  The nightmare of burying his wife and unborn child while the drunk driver that hit them lived.

  Bitterness ate at Marcus, like acid corroding metal. He took a step, unseeing, and was startled by the honking of a horn. A tuk-tuk drove around him.

  Marcus wiped the perspiration beading on his face and searched the plaza for a sign of Katy Stevens.

  There she was, walking toward him from the church.

  It was funny, seeing her here. Out of context. She was an American abroad, as he was, and yet she looked as though she belonged. She wore a skirt and blouse, with her hair pulled into a loose ponytail over one shoulder. She was smiling.

  Relief washed over him. He was no longer alone in this city of strangers. She could help him understand the lay of the land. Best of all, he could speak in English with another American.

  “Hello, Mr. James,” she said, walking up to him. Her eyes were a clear blue, guileless and happy.

  “Marcus,” he reminded her. “Thanks for meeting me here, Katy.”

/>   “Of course.” She shook his hand. “It’s nice to see you. You must be busy, and I appreciate you making time to come.”

  “No problem. I’m happy to see for myself the situation in Conchilla.”

  “Great.” She beamed. “I already anticipated that you’d want to, so I arranged for us to travel there by bus. The next one goes out in five days.”

  “How long does this bus ride take?”

  “Fifteen hours.”

  He raised his eyebrow. “Are you kidding me?”

  She frowned. “No. I am serious.”

  He gave her a frosty smile. “I can easily rent a helicopter.”

  Her smile evaporated. “And how much is this helicopter ride?”

  “Oh, only fifteen hundred dollars from Antigua to Tikal.”

  Her expression cooled even more. She put her arms across her chest. “And that is if we get there safely. For how much you could spend on a helicopter ride, do you realize how many children you could feed and clothe here?”

  Marcus scowled. “I could feed a lot more with a million dollars.”

  Katy opened her mouth and then shut it again. She took a step back. “Thank you for coming all the way here. I am sorry for inconveniencing you. This might not be the efficient charity-work-slash-photo-opportunity that you were counting on. Good day.”

  She turned on her heel, leaving him gaping at her.

  “Now, wait.” He grabbed her arm, and she stared at his hand like he carried a disease. He let her go. “Photo opportunity?” He looked around him, exaggerating his movements. “Do you see any media trailing me?”

  “Granted, I don’t, but I doubt very much that your handlers would let this happen without some sort of a post that could go viral. They’re certainly doing a good job with your million-dollar Christmas prize.”

  She held up a social media feed that showed his marketing group having people enter a contest by sharing about the prize money.

  “Of course, we need to spread the word,” he hedged.

  “To make yourselves look good,” she scoffed.