Dear Santa

by Nancy Naigle

  “What kind of letter? Like a letter of credit? Sis, you know how I feel about you taking more money out to try to save—”

  “No! Not a letter of credit. An email. Not really a letter at all, but you know what I mean.”

  “What in blazes are you talking about? A love letter?”

  Angela shook her head. “No, but it would be funny if Santa was writing me love letters. Would that put me on the ‘nice’ list forever? Which, by the way, he did say I was on.”

  “Of course you are. You’re the nicest person I know.”

  “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, but somehow coming from Santa it’s way more cool.”

  “Santa wrote you back already?” Chrissy asked.

  “He did.”

  “My sister is dating Santa?”

  “No, but he did write me back.”

  Marie gave Angela an exaggerated wink, then whispered to her, “See, it didn’t kill you, did it?”

  “No.” She shrugged. “It was way more specific than I’d expected, though.”

  Chrissy pulled her feet into the chair. “I told you he could help.”

  “He was very nice,” Angela said. Careful to not spoil the magic of Santa for her niece, she added, “But he didn’t exactly say he’d help.”

  “What’d he say?” Marie prodded.

  Angela glared at her sister. “I really don’t think this is the right audience.”

  “What’s an ahh-de-aunts?” Chrissy asked.

  “We’ll talk later,” Marie said. “Fine. Let me just see that letter.”

  “Nope.” Angela shook her head, kind of enjoying leading her sister along on this chase for information. “I don’t think this was an autogenerated letter. It was personal. And thoughtful. Nice.”

  “Chrissy, go get my phone out of my purse. Okay, honey?”

  “Yes ma’am.” She sprung from her chair and tugged on the door to go inside.

  Marie turned on Angela. “What did Santa say?”

  “He said I should be brave, that a new approach may make a surprising difference. I’ve been mulling that over and I think he’s right. I need to do something different. Closing Heart of Christmas is the right thing to do.”

  Marie’s eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that exactly what someone else said? Who was that? Oh, I think it was me. Someone else says it, and just like that, you’re relaxed and ready to face the unknown?”

  “Yes. I guess I am.”

  “Let me see that letter.” Marie grabbed for the laptop.

  “No, but he does seem like a perfect gentleman.”

  “Write him back, then,” Marie teased.

  “I can’t do that. This is not online dating. Besides, everyone knows Santa is married.”

  “True. Maybe you better just let it drop. He could be an ax murderer.”

  “Santa can’t be a bad guy. They’d totally catch him. Who else would be out on Christmas Eve every year?”

  “Santa is nice!” Chrissy exclaimed. “He doesn’t like bad guys!”

  They hadn’t heard her slip back onto the porch.

  “You’re right. He’s super-nice, Chrissy. But he’d be easy to profile,” Marie agreed. “Are you going to email him back?”

  “No way.”

  “Why not? What other plan do you have?”

  “He really can help,” Chrissy insisted.

  “It was a nice letter,” Angela said. “If I met a guy that was thoughtful I’d be thrilled, but I can’t decide if it’s a very clever autorespond or a person, and I sure don’t want to be emailing a computer.”

  “Hand it over.” Marie extended her hand and snapped her fingers.

  “It’s Santa,” Chrissy said. “You have to listen to what he says. That’s the way it works.”

  Angela gave the laptop to Marie and sat quietly for a moment. “Well. What do you think?”

  Marie silently read the email again, her lips moving as she did. “Yeah. I think you’re right. This doesn’t seem like an autoresponder, but it has to be. There is no way people are responding to all those letters.” Marie nibbled on her petit four, then said, “I think you should write back. Be a little more specific this time, and challenge this R2D2 responder.”

  Angela laughed. “We’ll probably break the computer.”

  “No harm in that. It’ll be fun to challenge it and see what kind of funny response we get. Come on. Let’s do it. And at the very least we can just thank him.”

  “Okay. Fine. You type this one,” Angela said. “I’ll make the hot chocolate while you play with Santa.”

  “Can I help?” Chrissy asked.

  Marie said, “You go help Angela in the kitchen.”

  Angela and Chrissy went into the kitchen. They made hot chocolate and poured it into three big red polka-dotted mugs. “Your turn to decorate with the marshmallows,” Angela said to Chrissy.

  When Angela carried the tray of mugs back outside, Marie had the laptop closed in her lap.

  “Did you write it?”

  “Of course,” Marie said. “I charge people by the hour. I have to work fast or they get mad.”

  “Are you going to let me see what you wrote?”

  “Nope. You’ll just have to wait until you get his response.”

  “Give me that laptop.”

  Marie handed her the computer.

  Angela pulled up the sent folder of her email. “There’s nothing here. You didn’t send anything.” She relaxed into her chair. “You had me there for a minute.”

  “Actually, a good lawyer knows all about how people cover their tracks. I deleted the copy in your sent mail.”

  Marie had that sly grin on her face.

  Angela rolled her eyes. “I think it’s marshmallow-toasting time,” she said to Chrissy. “Your mom is up to no good. I can tell by the look in her eyes. Like the time she sprinkled baby powder on my French toast.”

  “Mom? You wouldn’t do that.” Chrissy’s face screwed up in disgust. “Ewww.”

  “I might have done that,” Marie said, not looking one bit sorry, which only gave Angela more reason to worry.

  If things were fair and just in the world, Chrissy would take that bit of knowledge and run with it. Angela hoped French toast was on the menu this week, and Marie would get her just desserts.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dear Santa,

  I live at the beach. We never get snow. You should live here in the winter. I have been nice to everyone, even my sister when she told on me for taking quarters out of the jar on Dad’s dresser. I really want a remote control car and a kite.

  Thanks,

  Marcus

  Geoff took a sip from the cup of coffee sitting to his right on his desk. He forced himself to swallow the cooled coffee. That was the trouble with answering these letters: he kept getting so drawn in that he lost track of time. This was the second cup of coffee he’d had to warm up.

  He got up and let out a loud groan as he stretched, then walked down the hall to the break room. The comfortable space looked more like a home kitchen, thanks to his mom’s touch. He warmed up his coffee and walked back down to his office. It was still early morning, his favorite time in the office. Virgil hadn’t even made it in yet and he’d always been an early bird.

  He couldn’t control Mom getting well, but he would make sure this business was humming on all cylinders the whole time she was laid up. That, he could do for her.

  Geoff sat back down at his desk and leaned forward on his elbows. He was feeling a little melancholy today. Probably because Mom was in the hospital. Maybe from the Dear Santa letters.

  Reading the letters made him want to solve these kids’ problems. And they made him feel needed.

  Or maybe he was suddenly wanting to be more involved because Virgil and Mom had kept information from him. He didn’t like the feeling of being out of the loop. He needed to feel connected to something.

  Knowing he had some connection to this place made him want to know more about it. Last night he�
��d even dreamed about what it might be like to put down long-term roots here. A first. And the thought scared him.

  “What’s going on with me?” He physically shook as if letting that feeling go. “Back to it.”

  He worked on the letters until he heard Virgil’s voice from the doorway.

  “You’re here early.”

  Geoff looked up. “Hey. Good morning.” He glanced at the time on his computer. “Actually, you’re here a little later than normal, aren’t you?”

  “How would you know? I’m always here before you.” Virgil lifted a bushy eyebrow, and laughed that hearty laugh he was known for.

  “That’s a fact. I just finished working the Dear Santa queue for Mom.”

  Virgil invited himself in and sat down in one of the chairs on the other side of Geoff’s desk. “Just left your mother. She’s feeling good this morning.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Well, probably not so much for the nurses or that doctor. She was raising a fuss about going home when I left.”

  “I’m sure she was.”

  “Don’t be surprised if she Ubers here from the hospital in her nightgown.”

  Geoff could picture that. “At least she has her own pajamas and not one of those hospital gowns. That would be a problem.”

  “Touché.” Virgil rubbed a hand across his bushy mustache. “She’s headstrong.”

  Geoff couldn’t hold back the need to ask a couple of questions. “Virgil, you’ve been like a father to me all of these years. You know that. I have to know: Why didn’t you ever tell me about my dad? I’d have thought it might at least come up that you’d lived here before, when we were opening the store.”

  “Your father would’ve been proud of you. You’re so much like him. He didn’t live long enough to have a career, but I see a lot of you in him. He was smart, and played hard too. We were best friends. We had some really good times, but we were young when he died.” Virgil shifted in his chair. “Younger than you are now. It was hard on everyone. Especially your mom.”

  Geoff nodded.

  “I don’t know why things happen. Who does? I didn’t tell you out of respect for your mother’s decision. What I can tell you is you’d have liked him. Respected him.” Virgil leaned back in the chair. “We take the hand we’re dealt and we do the best we can with it. Impossible situations aren’t impossible; they sure do feel that way at the time, though. I’m sure you’re upset, but I’d say this situation has shaped up pretty darn nicely.”

  “You’re right. I’m thankful for the life I’ve had. Thankful for you being a part of it.”

  “Thank you, Geoff. I feel the same way.”

  “I wouldn’t change anything.”

  Virgil’s eyes narrowed. “Now, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “No?”

  Virgil shook his head. “No. I wish he’d never died and I’d had both of my friends, and I wish I’d been able to break through that wall your mother built after your dad died. She was so determined to never feel that loss again.”

  Geoff tented his fingers. “Understandable.”

  “You’ve picked up those behaviors. Geoff, business is an important part of life. No doubt about it, but I’m here to tell you that finding a woman to share your life with is even bigger. You’re missing out on that.”

  Geoff didn’t see that as a problem. He was perfectly happy dedicating his life to this company. He loved the chase of finding the best next location. Loved the competition between the stores to be the best. Loved the challenge of the changing trends.

  “Look. You don’t have to say a thing. Just keep that tucked away in that noggin of yours. Food for thought.”

  Geoff nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  “Great.” Virgil pushed up from the chair. “Enough of that stuff. Your mother asked me to ask you to water her plants. They are going to keep her in the hospital at least one more day, unless she talks them out of it.” He turned to walk out. “You might take earplugs when you go to visit her. I’m sure you’ll get an earful, like I did, about what she thinks about that doctor’s decision.”

  “That’s good advice,” Geoff said. “I’ll take care of the plants on my way to see her this afternoon. With earplugs.”

  “Aisle seven, bin twelve,” Virgil said with a laugh.

  Geoff printed off the month-to-date report for all of the stores. It was all good news; maybe a few numbers would brighten Mom’s day. When he pulled up the Dear Santa dashboard he noticed a letter in a separate inbox labeled RESPONSES REQUIRING FOLLOW-UP. He wondered what letters got rerouted there.

  While his report printed, he clicked on that folder.

  He smiled as he read the response from Anita C. Miracle.

  Dear Santa,

  Thank you for the response and advice.

  I’m so glad to know that I’m on your nice list. I try to live my life as a good example.

  Too bad about the pony. I’m a little too old for a banana bike. The bully that I mentioned isn’t a kid. This is a grown-up problem. My business is at risk. A family business that I inherited from my grandmother. Losing her was hard, this is even harder. A scar that won’t heal with a bandage, or a shiny new bike. I can’t picture my life without my store in it.

  What I want is as unlikely as snow in Pleasant Sands, NC. I wish there was someone as thoughtful and kind as you in real life to take my mind off of losing my business and finding a new normal. Someone to jog with on cool winter mornings. Who would, instead of bringing flowers, give me a bucket of shells, or roast marshmallows over the fire pit on the deck overlooking the ocean.

  I’m trying to be brave, to believe that this change is meant to be.

  My sister and I have a bet that these are autoresponder letters and we’re wondering what the keywords in this note will come back with this time.

  I hope this doesn’t put me on the naughty list for toying with you.

  Merry Christmas,

  Anita C. Miracle

  He reread the original Dear Santa letter that was attached in the email chain. The author had never said she was a kid; he’d just assumed that the bully was a schoolmate. At least his response still applied in this real situation.

  It was hard to imagine what she was going through. His business was everything to him too. Should he respond? He hated for her to believe the letter was generated by some kind of fancy autoresponder. Although that was exactly what happened with 99 percent of the letters.

  Playing pen pal with someone under the guise of Santa seemed a little weird.

  It was pretty weird too that she’d mentioned Pleasant Sands.

  Then again, it was no secret that this was where they’d opened their last store, and Christmas Galore did show up as one of the key sponsors of the app, a smart marketing ploy that his mother had come up with. Looking like a sponsor, rather than the owner of the website, the store had made the Dear Santa letters a palatable free service for all children regardless of their location, social status or any other silly little thing that could rub people wrong. His mother had started the project out of love for the holiday, and her love of children. It wasn’t important to her if anyone knew that it was she behind that contribution.

  He shut down his laptop and put it in his briefcase, then grabbed his coat to leave.

  Since he’d spent all morning on Dear Santa letters, he’d better head over and water Mom’s plants, then if he had time maybe he’d pick up a fresh-catch lunch from Garvy’s restaurant for her. She’d like that a lot better than hospital food.

  Driving over to his mom’s house, he couldn’t keep that letter off of his mind.

  What would his life be like had Christmas Galore not worked out for Mom? This business was their whole life. Even the outside activities they were involved in always had some tie to the business. With a vendor. Business acquaintances. Conventions. Scouting new locations.

  Growing up and all through college he’d always known that he’d work by her side. A family business, just like that of the c
lever-pen-named writer of the letter, Anita C. Miracle.

  If all of that had turned topsy-turvy, what would he have done for a living?

  It was hard to imagine.

  Inside Mom’s house, he got the watering can from under the sink and filled it. Making his way from room to room, he watered and spritzed each plant. There weren’t very many personal earmarks in the décor here with the exception of a dorky high school graduation picture of him, a magazine article about him that she’d had framed, a couple pictures of his mom and Virgil and two store-opening pictures with all three of them at the ribbon-cutting ceremony.

  He ran his hand across the old dining-room table. She’d had this table since he was a boy. They’d eaten dinners and done homework here.

  It struck him as funny that she’d never bought a new one. The scratches and dings showed its years of service. If he looked closely he could probably see where he’d traced the Christmas Galore logo from the newspaper when he was nine, marking through the paper into the wood grain. She’d been so angry.

  Then there was the dent on the edge from the time they lived in the tiny beach cottage on the Chesapeake Bay in Delaware and he’d run right into the corner of it, breaking his front tooth. Thank goodness it had been a baby tooth. Maybe it was the reason he’d ended up in braces, though.

  He walked out on the balcony where a novel and a wineglass sat next to one of the weathered chairs. He picked up the book. The pages were wavy from the humid air and salty spray. He’d take it to her today. She was probably already done with the other one he’d taken earlier.

  Was it again a matter of reconnecting dots to the past? They’d vacationed as a family on nearly every beach along the coast from the Florida Keys to Cape Elizabeth, Maine. Had she been trying to recapture something on those trips? Geoff shrugged out of his sport coat and slung it over his shoulder. He hadn’t taken the time to really enjoy the beach in years.

  He hadn’t taken a real vacation since his mom quit planning them when the business had gotten so big.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dear Santa,

  I like your app. It’s so much better than going to the stinky helper Santa at the mall, but how do we tell you our new address? The app only lets me put in my email address, name and age. I live with my mom in Chapman, Kentucky, now. It’s really hard to find.