Postmark Christmas

by Katie Bachand

  Harris stared out of the window with his mom for a bit and thought about it. His dad would think about it. He would consider. Harris was worried about what his dad would do to make him work for it – to earn it. It wouldn’t be the first time Charles Porter added a little something extra to his negotiations – and he usually got his way.

  “Yeah. Maybe I’ll talk to him Monday.”

  Barbara tipped the corner of her mouth up in a grin. “Why don’t I make you your first hot chocolate of the season? You can wonder what your dad will bribe you with while you sip.”

  Harris thought about it, swayed his head back and forth, then agreed. “Yeah, sounds good.” And a little of his mom’s homemade hot chocolate never killed anybody, he thought. “But we’re using the dishwasher for the new dishes.”

  “Deal.”

  It was his mom’s turn to place a kiss on his cheek before she started to work on the thick, sweet chocolate.

  CHAPTER 5

  Harlow flipped her collar up and held it tight around her neck as she looked up at the picturesque Victorian that now looked like a scene from a Currier and Ives painting. It’s as if the house knew that today the season had shifted. Autumn would be frozen beneath the frost of winter and it would transition from beautiful to magical.

  The Hill stood with five stories of intricate design in classical white. Two cupolas and a belvedere sat atop a massive wooden-mansard roof, in fish scale shingles. Twelve dormered windows sat nestled into the roof, circling the top floor of the mansion. The space between the fifth and fourth floors offered hand-carved eave brackets that held the swoop of the roof as it elegantly sloped toward the street.

  Harlow opened the iron gate that edged the front garden. The curved black iron was held in place by two stone posts, each with a luminous lantern welcoming her home and lighting her path forward. She looked up and noticed the light of the moon reflecting off of the endless windows stretching the length of the house and on each side – every window meant to be identical to the one a floor above it. But she knew the individual craftsmanship of each window would have all of them slightly different.

  Her eyes followed the stone steps that would lead her up to the second-floor porch that circled the home, and the round pillars that added a touch of regal to the elegance.

  Harlow moved forward, bypassing the steps, and pulled open the doors of the first floor instead.

  Stacked sandy brown bricks acted as the support for the base of the home and held the historical plaque that gave the details of the home and its established year: 1898. The stone bricks were a sturdy contrast to the rest of the house’s creamy white.

  Harlow pulled the white wooden door open, stealing one final look out to the winter night, and walked in knowing exactly what she wanted to do tonight.

  __

  Wintery pine-scented candles were lit, hot chocolate was made, the fire was warming the den, and five boxes filled with at least ten photo albums, stray pictures, and drawings her parents had saved, had been hauled down from the attic. And, Harlow brought a bottle of red wine up from the cellar for good measure.

  The first box opened, and she smiled at the musty paper smell that billowed to freedom. She brushed her hand along the edges of the first album and pulled it out. These were the boxes that held her Christmas memories. Nostalgia captured in glossy, aging color.

  Harlow lifted the gold-trimmed album and rested it on the square coffee table that sat between three chesterfield leather couches and the wild flames of the carved fireplace.

  As she opened the first pages she saw a Christmas tree three stories tall illuminate their foyer. She, her brother, and sister all dressed head to toe in red-printed and lace-trimmed dresses, and handsome sweater vests, smiling brightly while posing for pictures.

  She laughed at the number of images that captured moments of distraction, goofy faces, and one of her sister who was barely holding in tears of exhaustion.

  Leaning back, Harlow pulled the album to her lap and tucked her feet beneath her. As she turned the pages they bent in thirds, each third lined with the pictures in rows.

  Her parents had captured images of Harlow and her siblings racing down the endless curved staircase to see what Santa had brought them. They had always received two small gifts and one that was a little less sensible and a little more extravagant.

  Harlow smiled and admired her parents’ excuse for not letting their children have whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. They’d had the means, but they also realized having things wouldn’t make them happy. Experiences would.

  Harlow sat back.

  Experiences, she thought. That’s what her parents and brother and sister were doing right now. Living, experiencing.

  She understood that, in a way. Not everybody could experience the world and life the way her family could. So they did, and they appreciated it.

  But, Harlow thought, she wanted a different kind of experience. She wanted to experience sharing a life with somebody. She wanted to experience late nights with the love of her life as they rushed sleeplessly to a crying baby. Or babies, she thought with a wistful smile.

  Staring at the images before her, Harlow sat up a little straighter and tried to fight off the thought that fluttered in and landed on her mind, like a snowflake would flutter and land on her lash.

  “That’s just ridiculous.” She said the words to herself as she slid the album off of her lap to rest on the couch beside her.

  Harlow lifted herself, listening to the creaks the old wooden floor as her wool-socked feet moved her across the room to an oval, grand executive desk.

  She pulled open one of the drawers in search of letter paper and a pen. Harlow stared at it for just a moment and looked around as if she’d be judged if she were caught embarking on this childish Christmas pastime.

  Deciding she couldn’t be judged if nobody was around to see it – and she was very much alone – she quickly grabbed the sheets of stationery and the pen, then scurried back to her warm cushion on the couch.

  On a mission, Harlow pulled out her favorite Christmas and winter pictures, and scattered them on the table in front of her. She moved from album to album, laughing and smiling at the joy on the faces she’d seen too seldomly.

  Tipping the final box, she realized she’d reached the end. Harlow fell back and brought her second glass of wine to her lips.

  The table was filled with unhindered happiness.

  Harlow scanned and pulled out a picture of her and Lisa sledding. Their bodies surrounded in puffy pink and purple jackets and matching snow pants. Their stocking caps sitting crooked on their heads. And their mittens covered in snow and hanging from strings that dangled from their sleeves.

  She set it aside, wanting to frame it and give it to Lisa as a gift this year. A gift of childhood excitement and a foreshadow of all of the wonderful things to come with her daughter, Layla.

  Then she looked down at the array of photographs in front of her. Each picture held a special place in her heart, but she searched for only the happiest memories. Ones she held in her mind and could see in bright, glittering colors. Ones that if given the chance to live again, she would in the swift jingle of a Christmas bell.

  Harlow looked, raised, inspected, and shuffled. The pictures made their way to the left or right, until there were ten. Ten unforgettable Christmas memories. She held her body tightly and leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand as she looked. Yes, these were it.

  Then she set her glass of wine on the table, picked up the paper and pen, rolled her eyes at what she knew was a wishful and ridiculous childish venture, and started writing.

  Dear Santa,

  Merry Christmas and a happy, peaceful holiday season to you.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Harlow said, and leaned her head back, unable to fathom that she was writing a letter to Santa at thirty-two years of age. She sat up to take another swig of wine hoping for some liquid courage. She let the truth and sentimentality take her over,
and lifted her pen once more.

  I am not a person who is in need of anything in this life. I am blessed beyond measure. So please, if you must choose between this letter and ones of others, choose theirs. Their Christmas wish is much more important than mine.

  However, if you happen to find some extra time, and feel like adding a little Christmas magic to my life, I would love for you to read this.

  I would like experiences. Magical winter experiences. Inside are pictures of the best Christmas moments of my life, and I’d like to get to experience them once more. Here they are.

  1. Find the perfect Christmas tree and decorate it

  2. Decorate my entire house from top to bottom (this might not seem like an experience, but in the off-chance you haven’t seen my house, just take my word for it)

  3. Go ice skating

  4. Take a walk in a winter park

  5. Make Christmas cookies

  6. Buy the perfect Christmas presents

  7. Make homemade hot chocolate and watch an old Christmas movie

  8. Throw a Christmas party

  9. Be with the people I love on Christmas morning

  10. Fall in love

  Harlow looked at the last picture she’d saved. Her parents wrapped in each other’s arms, twirling around the tree, embraced in a dance that was filled with love.

  She remembered the scene like it happened only yesterday.

  Vincent and Harriett had sat on either side of her as they stared through the spindled railing from two stories above. They whispered and giggled as they fought for position and who would get to use the new Nikon camera to snap a picture. Harlow had won the argument, and when they settled, they looked on as White Christmas quietly sang from the record player. She watched, then snapped a picture of the two people she loved the most in the world, hold each other closely.

  Their movements had been like a ballerina gracefully circling in a snow globe, completely enchanting, with all the feelings of love.

  She read through the list once more then shook her head. Love like that doesn’t come from Santa Claus.

  Harlow crossed out her last wish until it was unreadable, then signed the letter.

  From a hopeful believer in the Magic of Christmas,

  Harlow Hill

  CHAPTER 6

  The weather outside was more than frightful; it was a wind-whipping, snow-pelting, face-burning blizzard of terror.

  Harlow couldn’t quite believe this was the day she decided to drop her letter off at the Christmas Postbox. Seriously, she thought to herself as she trudged up Grand Avenue, you’re crazy.

  When she reached the office almost an hour later, she decided the twenty-minute drive was worth it. Harlow could have stayed home, worked from her library, but she needed Lisa. When she ran by Lisa’s desk, Harlow motioned for Lisa to follow her and yelled, “Christmas emergency!”

  Lisa grinned and looked at Jacquelyn and Ryan who had taken in the sight of their boss – who had barreled into the office like the winter storm she’d just walked in from – and chuckled in return. Lisa grabbed her caffeinated lifeline and followed Harlow into her office and closed the door.

  “You look,” Lisa leaned her head to the right and took inventory, “like you’ve been through a Christmas blizzard.”

  Harlow paused her fuss over her desk where she’d thrown her bag and followed Lisa’s eyes to the coat rack where her jacket wasn’t neatly hung as it usually was, but tossed messily over the top so it looked like a snow-soaked tent.

  “It’s because there is a blizzard. Outside and in my brain.” Harlow said in a whisper, not caring that nobody would have been able to hear her through the closed door anyway. Perhaps if she whispered, she wouldn’t be admitting to herself, or her dearest friend, she’d written a letter to Santa Claus.

  “I take it you didn’t reach out to your family?” Lisa asked, already knowing the answer. If she had, Harlow wouldn’t be frazzled, she’d either be delighted, or feeling dejected. Not...this. Which Lisa would describe as a Christmas lunatic packaged in pretty red-headed wrapping.

  “I…reached out,” Harlow said, and sat stiffly in her chair holding her head high, trying to force dignity. She pulled out her lipstick and reapplied the red while Lisa stared at her confused.

  “You did?” Lisa let the words drag out. “To, your family?”

  “Maybe not to my family,” Harlow admitted.

  “Oh God. You didn’t reach back out to Andrew?” Lisa asked as she leaned forward, the fear evident in her voice.

  “What? No!” The shock from the suggestion she’d reached out to her ex allowed Harlow to come down enough to take a breath. “Gross.”

  “Then I’ve run out of people that you could have reached out to.” Lisa leaned back, resigned, and sat, waiting for Harlow to get a hold of herself and explain.

  Harlow mirrored Lisa’s actions and leaned herself back. She took a cleansing breath, went for it, then braced for impact.

  “I wrote a letter to Santa.” The delivery was flat and matter-of-fact.

  “You,” Lisa sat, wondering if she’d heard her friend right, “you wrote a letter to Santa? Like, jolly old Saint Nick? The man in the big read coat?”

  “Yes,” Harlow responded and added a slow nod after she spoke, as much to herself as to Lisa.

  Lisa sipped her coffee and barely noticed the mint flavoring she’d added for a bit of Christmas spirit that morning.

  “I don’t mean to be the one to tell you this, honey, but I think you can stop worrying. I don’t think Santa is real.”

  “He is, though.”

  The fictitious seriousness that had spread across Lisa’s face only moments earlier shifted to a look of concern that said, I’m going to need you to explain what you mean.

  Lisa wasn’t quite sure if she was watching her friend take one step toward the loony bin, but she’d give it a little more time.

  “Or, this one is,” Harlow explained. “I took a walk Thanksgiving night because it was beautiful outside and I needed the fresh air. And the exercise.” She thought back to the amount of food she’d eaten that day but decided she was allowed the day of indulgence.

  “Anyway, I ran into Santa. He was setting up a cute Christmas postbox and said it’s where people send their Christmas wishes.”

  Harlow pointed to her head to indicate she understood she was acting a bit bizarre, and went on, “Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have bothered because yes, I know, Santa is not real. But I know for a fact that these letters are read. And that they try to fulfill them. But you know, I shouldn’t even worry about it. There have to be hundreds of letters that will have much more important wishes than mine. So, I bet they won’t take the time.”

  “Ohh, interesting.” Lisa nodded, letting the story settle. Then she nodded more fervently. “Yes. Interesting. Interesting, and I love it! I think it’s a great idea.”

  “You what?” Harlow halted her own paper cup of coffee as it moved toward her mouth, it was her turn to be confused.

  “Yes! I totally love it. You wrote down what you want most and put it out there. The universe will respond! Maybe, ‘Santa,’” Lisa rabbit-eared quotes around the happy-man’s name and continued, “will read it, and maybe not. But you took the time to put down what would make you happy at Christmas. It’s brilliant. Everybody should do that – I should do that,” Lisa added, nodding again, then continued. “I bet not a single thing on there was a gift, or some physical thing?” Lisa asked.

  “You mean aside from a man?” Harlow added.

  “You asked for a man from Santa?” Lisa assumed Harlow would pick up on the sarcastic disbelief dripping from her words.

  “Pathetic, I know. I thought so, too. I crossed that line out. Nothing big, just things like a chance to decorate the tree and the house, and to be with the people I love on Christmas morning.”

  Lisa laughed and stood. “Sweetie, you are amazing. I love that you wrote Santa a Christmas wish. I’m sorry, I have a meeting coming
up in a couple minutes so I have to get going, but I was just thinking: Why not do all of those things on your list? Nothing is stopping you from having a wonderful Christmas. If you don’t want to reach out to family, you have friends all around you that would love to create and believe in the magic of Christmas with you. Decorate your house. Make plans with friends. Make your own wishes come true.” Lisa smiled and saw that Harlow didn’t know what to say, so she quietly turned and walked out of the office, closing the door behind her.

  Left alone, Harlow thought about Lisa’s advice. There really wasn’t anything stopping her from doing all of those things.

  She could call friends or neighbors over to laugh and sing along to Christmas songs playing on the radio while decorating and making Christmas cookies. It wouldn’t be hard for her to stroll through a winter park with a steaming cup of sweet chocolate or rich espresso. She could skate along with strangers who were out enjoying the season just as she would be.

  She could do all of those things. She would do all of those things. Sure, when writing her Christmas wish she had envisioned doing all of those things with a man, but how unrealistic was that? You actually needed a man to do those things with a man.

  So, she thought, resigned but determined, she would do all of those things by herself. She’d invite people when she could, and enjoy every single moment of it.

  CHAPTER 7

  Harris rose from his desk, looked at Brandon, and waited for his response.

  He’d just reviewed the ability to join forces with Pro Feed – Minnesota’s largest feed company – for a national effort to introduce technology that would make processes more efficient and profits increase for the farmers and the companies in the agriculture business.

  To Harris’ mind it just made sense and it fit nicely with their company profile. The technology they were talking about would blend high quality ingredients for the nutrition animals needed to sustain a healthy life. In turn, it improved the quality of the products those animals produced like meat, milk, and eggs.