Dreams of beautiful models and carefree afternoons at the beach mocked him as he flipped through the last few pages of another manuscript. "Certainly not ordering that cabin cruiser yet," he groused.

His frown deepened with each page he turned. "Where'd this writer say he worked?"

Jewelry jangling, his personal secretary Tina Lollabridget flounced into the room, plopped in the slipcovered chair, and shuffled through her own pile of manuscripts. "Uh, North Pole."

Gerald grunted and picked up the author's bio again. "This is a typo, right? Three-feet-tall?"

"No. That's what he is. He came up to my knee."

He cleared his throat. "Hmmm, make a good publicity still. How's it read?"

She shrugged.

"Okay, it ain't Hemingwright or whatever his name is. Let's spice it up. How about something like, "The Secret Life of Elves?" Put one of those Rated R stickers on it. That'll work. Give him the usual percentage."

He tossed the papers aside. "What else you got?" he asked.

"Some guy with a big nose came in. Skinny, white beard. He looked familiar...Now, let me see. Who was he?"

In irritation, Gerald watched her smack her gum then tap her foot repetitively against the front of his desk while she checked her paperwork. "Well?"

"Sorry." She squirmed in her seat, reached over, and grabbed a paper that had fallen on the floor. "Oh, here it is. His name's Sam. He was kinda strange if ya ask me."

Gerald's patience was wearing thin. "Strange." He groaned. Sometimes he thought her looks and her relation to a legendary actress weren't worth his hiring her. "How?"

She leaned closer and whispered. "He said his memoirs had to come out on his birthday, July 4th. He asked me to call him uncle. Fresh guy. I wanted to slap him, but he was too tall for me to reach. I gave him the disposable application to fill out."

"Is he gone?"

Sliding out of the chair, she went to the door, her tight dress stretching ever tighter as she bent forward and peeked around the doorframe. "Yup."

"Good," Gerald said, appreciating the view. He sighed. "You can sit down now. Who else?"

"Some big guy. Red suit." Her fingers searched again through the stack and rested on a green folder. She opened it. "Um, S. Claus. Santa."

"Santa? Must be short for something. Santana? He Hispanic?"

"No, he's from--." She re-read the page. "He's Swedish, Norwegian? I don't know. He gives the North Pole as his address."

"Another one?" he asked. "What's with the frozen refugees all of a sudden? Ice caps melting or something? Let's see what he dropped off."

The manuscript she set in front of him emitted a slight scent of gingerbread. "Hmmpf," he snorted. He began reading and laughed.

"Listen to this - 'There was a yell below as the wrapped gift box he'd tossed missed the chimney and smashed into the front door. A man lumbered out, beer can in one hand, his other hand waved in greeting. He preferred to think it was a greeting, though he'd never quite seen that particular finger used in such a way before.'"

He skimmed the next few paragraphs. "Not bad," he said. "Here's a good one - 'If there was any day he hated that old red bearsuit he wore, it was today. The first sight of the curvaceous, skimpily clad she-elf heading his way made the suit feel like a furnace.'"

Gerald mumbled, "guy's an old letch," then laughed again. "He leave a number?"

"Pager. Florida."

"Figures," Gerald muttered. "Okay. We'll change it to first person. Call it 'Behind the Beard: The Confessions of S.' It'll be a big seller. Market it with the elf book and our Christmas line's all set. Ho, ho, ho."

A checkmark went on the page before Gerald turned to the next month in the calendar. "January. You said that Frosty guy had an accident? Melted? Too bad. What you got for February?"

He waited for her to bring him the red folder.

"Don't tell me that Valentine fellow came back," he warned. "Unless he's got something better, I still say nobody's gonna buy that sappy hearts and flowers stuff of his."