by Laura Briggs
“It’s a real place,” he cut in, shoving his plate aside. “Come and see, if you don’t believe me.” Pushing back his chair, he sprinted to the living room. Piper’s napkin fluttered to the floor as she followed him to the desk space, where he crouched over her laptop, clicking open the internet icon.
“Micah,” she began, “you should never leave the table without ask—”
Her speech halted as she stared at the image filling the computer screen. A shopping district that bustled with hordes of visitors; a bearded Santa, who waved cheerfully from his sleigh parked outside The Littlest Toy Shop. Animated Christmas lights formed a blinking banner around the words “Welcome to the North Pole—Where Holiday Dreams Come True!”
“What is this?” she asked. “A theme park or something?” She sank into the swivel chair, gaze scanning the description for a town in central Florida that boasted Christmas-themed shops and specialty merchandise. Where a blanket of white sand substituted for snow and the local restaurants featured specially-made ice creams and frosted shakes.
“See?” Micah’s face turned upwards, a hopeful look in its features.
“Oh, sweetie.” She searched for an explanation, one that wouldn’t lead to questions on Santa’s existence or wishes coming true. “I’m not sure this is really the North Pole. I mean, look at this. It says it hasn’t snowed there in twenty years,” she said, hovering the mouse over a news article linked to the side. “And these businesses seem a little cheesy. The Snow Cone Castle? The Reindeer Resort?”
“But it’s where I want to go, more than anything. Please, Mom, please can we go?”
She hesitated, knowing he hadn’t shown this much enthusiasm for anything in a long time. A reserved boy who spent more time drawing imaginary figures than making friends, whose only memories of his father were a few faded Polaroids pinned to the corkboard above his desk.
“I’ll think about it.” Her words made his face fall, since they almost always preceded a disappointment. “Now,” she told him, “there’s a perfectly good dinner growing cold in the kitchen. Why don’t we finish it?”
He went to bed early, claiming he was too tired for the Christmas movie on TV. But Piper knew the real reason, guilt building inside her as she washed the dinner dishes. Wiping down the counters, her fingers touched the edge of the envelope containing Micah’s gift money.
Five hundred dollars, combined with her workplace bonus and vacation fund, would go a long ways in covering a trip to this supposed North Pole. She thought of the glitzy-looking shops and semi-tacky banner with its silly slogan. It wasn’t the snowy haven she had pictured for Christmas, but then Micah had his heart set on this trip.
Would it really hurt anything? Maybe the change in atmosphere would even do them some good. The balmy breezes and glittering, white sands of the tourist region popped back into her thoughts like a glossy image from a travel brochure.
It seemed warm and relaxing all at once. An atmosphere neither of them was used to, but both could benefit from in more ways than one.
She leaned inside his doorway, a dish towel still clutched in her hands. “We can go,” she said. “If that’s what you really want, then we’ll go.” In the glow of the purple glowworm night light, his mouth formed a grin, his head bobbing in agreement.
Piper pulled the door shut with a soft click, then leaned her head against it. Had she done the right thing? After all, their trip budget was so tight, their chances of experiencing an unforgettable Christmas so incredibly slim.
Don’t think practical, Piper. Think about his smile. Turning slowly towards the living room, she saw the computer screen blink at her from the darkness. The words “Welcome to the North Pole!” flashing over and over in shades of red and white.
*****
The hostess at The Reindeer Resort wore a sweater with a Rudolph motif and an ID tag with the name “Bitty” printed across it. Blonde ringlets were piled into a bun, a touch of frosted blue eye shadow and a beaming smile on her face as she guided her two newest guests down the carpeted hall.
“Lucky thing you called when you did,” she confided, a flash of blue showing in a wink. “The Nutcracker Suite isn’t usually available this time of year—in fact, we’re usually booked solid at Christmas time. But cancelled reservations do happen. Especially when our guests hail from snowier regions.”
Piper nodded in reply. She and her son carried their luggage, their winter coats from home swapped for short sleeves and sandals. “I guess snow isn’t a problem here,” she said, pushing a pair of sunglasses up against her forehead. “We read something about it being twenty years since it snowed?”
“Oh, yes.” Bitty chuckled, pausing by the first door on the third floor. “Everyone here at the Pole is always hopeful we’ll get a few flakes, but it’s never anything more than sleet.”
“Cool,” said Micah, apparently unfazed by the coastal town’s failure to evoke Santa’s home place in any way. Except, of course, for the strands of Christmas lights swathed around every available post; the endless signs for holiday-themed restaurants and shops, and the resort’s reindeer-shaped sign, complete with a blinking red nose.
Bitty ushered them inside a room with candy-striped wallpaper and bedspreads, soft beige carpet and thin, gauzy curtains. A tall, wooden nutcracker served as the base for the bedside lamp and a potted palm tree decorated with mini Christmas balls stood in the corner. Fake cedar swags were stretched above the window that framed a view of the resort’s terraced dining area below.
“Dinner’s served at six every night,” Bitty, told them. “And breakfast starts at seven o’clock sharp in the mornings. The sugar plum pancakes go fast, so be in line early.” With another wink in Micah’s direction, she moved to the hall again.
“Thanks,” said Piper, her luggage sliding to the floor. The hostess shut the door behind her, leaving them alone in the room that seemed to be trying too hard for holiday cheer.
So this was her son’s dream vacation. A silly tourist trap obsessed with Santa Claus and breaking a weather-based record. She glanced in Micah’s direction, seeing him peeking through the curtains at the summer scenery. “Like it so far?” she asked.
He nodded, watching as resort guests sipped lemonades and paged through paperback books and electronic devices. “So what should we do first?” Piper asked him. “Visit the beach? Or do you feel like a trip to the famous Snow Cone Castle?”
“Can we visit Santa?” He turned to face her, excitement in his glance.
“Santa? Ummmm…well, I don’t know.” Piper wondered how to deal with this new dilemma. Somehow, a Christmas vacation to the so-called North Pole seemed an inappropriate time to relate the truth about Saint Nicholas. But Micah clearly expected to find the legendary figure strolling the sidewalks of the town, or perhaps, running his workshop in back of the local toy store.
“He’s really nice,” Micah insisted, crawling next to her on the bed. “I wrote him a letter and he wrote me back. See?” He pulled a crumpled envelope from his pocket as Piper watched, skeptical. “I didn’t tell you ‘cause I thought you’d say we couldn’t come. Even though I need to talk to him.”
Piper took the envelope, expecting to find a joke from a classmate or maybe a gimmick from some toy company. Instead, there was a Florida postmark and masculine handwriting that filled the sheet of stationary. Her gaze barely took in the meaning of the message so great was her surprise and her sense of panic at the thought of a total stranger making contact with her child behind her back.
“When did you get this?” she asked. That he could hide anything so important from her seemed as impossible as the fact someone had actually responded to a letter to Santa.
Micah thought for a moment. “Day before Christmas break.”
“And this is why you wanted to come here? Because you thought Santa could—” She blushed as she reread the answer to his wish for a perfect stepfather to materialize. “You thought he could fix me up with a dream guy or something?”
“
Sort of. At least, I thought he could help. I heard what Connie said —”
She groaned, lamenting the many conversations with her friend on the subject of singlehood. Obviously, they hadn’t been as discreet as she thought. Or else Micah was paying more attention to whispered conversations than the ones she tried to have with him about school and friendships.
“So can we go see him?” Micah begged, fierce expectation in his look. “Please?”
Piper sighed. This Christmas getaway was growing far, far more complicated than she intended.
******
“Saint Nick?” Bitty’s brow crinkled as she studied the envelope’s postmark. The actual letter, with its somewhat embarrassing content, was tucked inside Piper’s purse as she leaned against the reception desk.
“Weird, I know,” said Piper, “but I hoped you could shed some light on it. I’m sure a town called the North Pole gets a lot of Santa letters, but I didn’t realize anyone answered them. I mean, isn’t it illegal to open someone else’s mail, even if they’re not real?”
Their hostess gave a puzzled laugh. “Well now, I wouldn’t go that far. But I guess it’s possible …well, I suppose it could be Bob Fulton. He’s the volunteer Santa at the local toy store.” She whispered this last part, glance darting in Micah’s direction as he studied the lobby’s brochure display.
“And you think the letter could have been delivered to him by accident?” Piper frowned, trying to picture the possibility. Even if that was true, why would he bother to open it, much less write back?
“It’s the only explanation I can think of, dear,” Bitty said, sliding the envelope back across the desk.
The Littlest Toy Shop was part of the town’s Main Street, its cozy atmosphere packed with customers interested in the vintage reproduction dolls and tinker toy sets on display. In a section called ‘Local Goods’ were novelty items such as hand-carved nutcrackers in red and blue uniforms, and elaborate sleds that were carved to resemble seals and polar bears.
Piper had ample time to examine this merchandise as she and Micah stood in line to visit Santa, or rather, Mr. Fulton. For it seemed her son was already aware that the gray-haired gentleman in the costume beard was not a magical being capable of sweeping romance into existence with a wave of his gloved hand.
“He didn’t write it,” Micah whispered, tugging on her shirt when they were only a customer away from the hired Santa. A little girl with a crown of French braids was listing her Christmas wishes from a crumpled sheet of paper.
“How do you know?” Piper whispered back. She pulled the envelope from her purse anyway as the little girl with braids gave Santa a parting hug. “He seems like our best option, so I think we should at least ask,” she said.
But it was evident from the look on Mr. Fulton’s face that he was not responsible for the unwelcome love advice. After turning the envelope over in his hands, he offered them an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. It’s really quite extraordinary. Perhaps…that is, I think you might learn something more with a visit to our post office. They get all kinds of Santa mail, from what I hear.”
If possible, the post office was more packed than the toy shop, with customers twirling racks of post cards and waiting to have their mail stamped with the official North Pole address. Piper and Micah squeezed behind a woman with an armload of Priority Mail boxes.
“Don’t you love this season?” the stranger asked, turning in their direction. “My grandkids get such a kick out of Christmas packages from the North Pole. I think they like the stamp more than the presents.”
Piper smiled, her gaze wandering over the holiday greenery and flocked wreath above the desk. A fluttering motion caught her eye; the giant corkboard on the wall to her left, its display a series of papers waving in the motion of the ceiling fan.
“That’s the 'Dear Santa' Wall,” the customer in front of them explained, as if reading her mind. “They put letters for the jolly gentleman himself up there—after he’s read them, of course,” she added, giving Micah a wink.
As they drew closer to the board, Piper studied the various postmarks from across the states and a few from Canada and the UK. With so many letters to Santa—and no doubt many more stored in the back room—it seemed doubtful to her that anyone could provide an answer for her question.
Just then, Micah tugged excitedly at her sleeve. “My reindeer,” he said, pointing to one of the envelopes on display. Piper stared at the ink sketch, recognizing her son’s penmanship where it spelled out their address in big, sprawling letters.
She plucked it from the board, investigating the seams. It had been taped back together along the bottom, something she noted with a frown.
“Can I help you ma’am?” The redhead at the counter wore a name tag that read “Tessa,” her lipstick a garish shade that matched the obvious dye job in her tresses. Her smile faded as Piper explained the situation, a slightly frazzled look taking its place.
“I can’t imagine how this would happen,” she said, her voice lowered to keep other customers from hearing. “No one ever reads the letters. We just send a postcard in response, with a pre-printed message from Santa. And that's just for people who send a pre-addressed, stamped envelope for the reply.”
"Micah didn't send anything like that," said Piper. "Did you?" She looked at her son, who shook his head.
“Is there someone else who might know?” Piper asked. “A supervisor, maybe?”
The woman named Tessa frowned. “Well, there’s Mr. Wincott. He usually handles this kind of mail. I’ll see if he can speak with you.”
Leaving another clerk in charge, she disappeared down a hallway. Piper fidgeted, wondering if she should have pursued the matter this far. Even if someone here had written the letter, what could she do about it? Chew them out? Say they committed a crime by opening the letter — that they were invading her privacy, and weren’t qualified to give advice on dating or single parenting?
Then again, was any of that something Micah should have to witness? She glanced at her son, who seemed unconcerned that his letter had shown up on a corkboard in the Florida post office.
It was supposed to be their vacation. She should try to keep it that way, without any unpleasantness to ruin their memories.
The redhead reappeared, beckoning for them to follow. “Mr. Wincott is right down the hall.”
*****
Gavin had started this morning like any other, sorting piles of so-called dead mail, mostly letters to Saint Nick, with the occasional plea for Elvis or JFK thrown in for variety. A Christmas Card from Jo was propped on his desk, the image of her smiling family the design for the front. It made him think of another, much older picture. A 1980s Polaroid of himself in school clothes, with Jo still a toddler balanced on their father’s knee.
But Jo’s family pose looked happier than the long-ago picture from his youth. Something Gavin couldn’t help thinking as he poured a cup of coffee in the break room.
The radio was tuned to a station playing ‘Winter Wonderland’. Gavin switched it to classic rock, the last notes of Jefferson Airplane’s ‘Somebody to Love’ fading as a weather report came on. “Enjoy this beach weather folks,” advised the forecaster’s booming tones. “By midweek, a cold front moves in from the Gulf of Mexico, prompting some of you to ask once again, ‘Will we finally see a Christmas snow?’”
Yeah. That was gonna happen.
Gavin snapped off the radio as Tessa came in, an unfamiliar woman trailing behind. Beside the woman, his fingers intertwined with hers, was a little boy of roughly six or seven years old.
“Hi Gavin,” said Tessa, her tone somewhat nervous. “This customer had a question about one of our Santa letters. A mix-up of some kind …” She trailed off uncomfortably, then turned and slipped out the door, leaving him alone with the strangers.
“How can I help?” Gavin asked, glad for any distraction from the usual routine. It didn’t hurt that the woman before him possessed a willowy figure and gorgeous bro
wn eyes beneath her side swept bangs. Eyes that held suspicion when they locked with his a second later.
“You’re in charge of the Santa letters?” she asked. “You’re the one who handles that kind of mail around here?”
“That’s right.”
She looked at the boy. "Wait here by the doorway, Micah," she said. She let go of her son and stepped forward, closing the distance between herself and Gavin. His gaze fell on something in her hand, the one that hadn't been holding onto the boy. It clutched an envelope with a familiar reindeer drawing on the back.
“How did you get that?” Gavin asked, too surprised to sound polite. “I mean, how could you—”
“My son sent this to your post office,” she broke in, waving the envelope’s address in his face. “And someone read its contents and answered back with some rather personal advice. As Santa Claus.” Her glare made it clear that she had already guessed the culprit’s identity.
“Listen, Ma’am —” he glanced at the address again, “—Ms. Flynn,” he said, putting on his friendliest smile. “You’re right about me answering the letter. But believe me, I didn’t mean any harm by it.”
A dumb-sounding explanation; it was obvious from her stance that she agreed. Arms crossed, she asked, “Are you kidding? You really thought it was okay to butt into someone else’s family problems like that?”
“No,” he admitted, “I didn’t think about it. The envelope was torn and the boy’s letter fell out. I read it without thinking. I only meant to help.”
“Well, you didn’t,” she snapped, unmoved by his story. She glanced behind her, checking on the boy, who still lingered in the doorway. “Micah wasted his Christmas vacation on some wild goose chase to find you," she added, her voice hushed. "All because he thought Santa was in Florida. Don't you realize how thoughtless you were, making him think Santa actually wrote him a letter?”