Postmark Christmas

by Katie Bachand

  It’s also where Harris saw their company going in the near future. They’d begun in the dairy business, expanded to crops, and could see the benefit to potential customers and to them, if they built this relationship.

  “Yes, it makes sense. The collaboration and direction. I can start working with experts. Do we have a budget, a timeline?” Brandon asked, knowing the budget wouldn’t be a problem. The timeline? That could vary. But the man…the man might be a problem.

  Brandon had seen Harris push for overreaching progress only to have his father, Charles Porter, slow his initiatives. Though, to Brandon’s mind, they always seemed to find a place in the sweet spot where progress met delivery, and they hadn’t missed an opportunity yet.

  “I’m not worried about budget.” Harris grinned to Brandon, knowing he knew that. “The timeline will depend on the big guy. That’s where I’m headed now. If you like the idea though, don’t be afraid to start progress. It’s not if, it’s when.”

  Brandon nodded and retreated to his own office and left Harris alone for one final independent-pep-talk.

  “Okay, here it is. This is a big collaboration. Like billions of potential dollars. No pressure.” Harris spoke to himself as he straightened his tie in the whitewashed reflection his office window provided.

  He noticed the snow and the wind hadn’t stopped whipping. That, he thought about the snow, would probably play to his disadvantage. A blizzarding reminder to his dad that they were moving head-on into the holiday season. His dad wouldn’t like that he was pulling himself or their staff into the heavy workload the collaboration would bring.

  Charles was on the phone when Harris knocked on his door, but it didn’t matter; he smiled and waved Harris in enthusiastically. Harris sat in the simple wooden chairs his dad had insisted on keeping during the remodel. He rubbed a hand over the shiny brown he used to sit in as a child and grinned.

  The knock on the door pulled him away from his memories, and he couldn’t help but keep the grin when he saw Santa waving a chubby hand on the other side of the glass door. Harris and his dad waved him in simultaneously and Harris stood to offer a handshake.

  Santa moved a red, velvet letter bag from his right hand to his left and took Harris’ hand in the jolliest shake it’s ever had.

  “Harris!” Santa belted, “How are you doing young man? It’s been, well, a year I suppose!”

  Energy and happiness filled all of the empty spaces in the room as Santa laughed in his deep Ho-Ho’s.

  “I am doing great. It’s good to see you. You’re looking rather jolly. What have you got here?” Harris greeted and asked, motioning to the red bag.

  “Oh this!” Santa lifted the bag high, “This is the first of the letters from the Christmas postbox. Can you believe it? A whole bag already. I just picked it up but wanted to make sure I knew where to deliver them.”

  “Good question – that is a question for the big boss,” Harris said jokingly, “I’m the little boss. I don’t get to make big decisions like those of Christmas letters. But let’s see some of them.”

  Harris sat again in the wooden chair and Santa did the same, while pulling out some of the letters and setting them on the round table between them.

  Most of the writing was the same, Harris mused. Words made up of letters of different sizes and colors. Pictures of Christmas trees, stars, presents, and rocking horses drawn in crayon-covered envelops of every color. They were happy and hopeful letters and drawings, but he couldn’t help the trace of sadness some of the letters held.

  Some would ask for presents. But others? Others would ask for family members to heal, moms or dads to come home, a job for their parents, to stop being bullied at school, or something as innocent as a warm place to sleep at night.

  But they would help. Every single one of the letters would be answered in some way, and help offered in some form. They had volunteers, employees, companies, shelters – all ready and wanting to give and to help. Yes, he thought, something would be done.

  “Thanks, Dear. Yes, yes, I know. Harris is right here.”

  Harris looked up at the sound of his name and he realized his dad had been talking to his mom on the phone the whole time. “I’ll tell him. Okay, I’ll be ready. Yes. Don’t worry. Five o’clock. Yes. On the dot. I love you, too. Bye.”

  Charles Porter hung up the phone and beamed. He recapped his conversation while moving around his desk to get a look at the letters.

  “My wife doesn’t seem to think I can be on time, for anything, much less the play tonight. We are going to see Holiday Inn. She’s got a thing for Bing!” Charles laughed at his rhyme and it was contagious.

  “We have all of these already? Amazing. I can’t wait to read them. Think of the things we’ll be able to do for these kids,” Charles said as he eyed the pile and reached in pulling out an envelope that had “Santa” written in cursive. He walked it back around his desk and sat once more.

  “These you can leave here. We’ll get them down to Nancy, but I’d like to read a few from this pile first. These letters make me long for a simpler day. I think,” Charles addressed Santa, “the rest can go right to Nancy, as she’s coordinating with the readers who will get the letters to the right people. But whenever you come in for a drop-off, head on up and we’ll have a nice coffee or winter drink of your choice.”

  “I love the sound of all of that.” Santa stood and took off his hat, revealing a head full of thick white hair. “A Merry Christmas to you both. We’ll see each other again before Christmas, but I love the way it sounds. And Christmas isn’t so much a day as it is a season anymore, is it?”

  With that, Santa walked out, sent a final wave, and was gone.

  Harris stared after him and spoke to the door, but for his dad to hear. “I think he’s the real Santa. Yes,” Harris nodded, “definitely the real one.”

  Charles laughed again and agreed, taking the credit, “I wouldn’t dare to bring in anything but the real thing. So, son, what’s on your mind? You have that look in your eye and you just got back from the Agriculture and Feed Conference. Let’s hear it.”

  It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing having a dad that knew you better than you knew yourself, but it definitely took away the element of surprise when he’d had that intention.

  “We’ve talked about it before – the feed business I mean – and I think now is the time. We have an opportunity to collaborate with the leading Minnesota business – Pro Feed – and if this goes well, I think we could add a four-billion-dollar business to our name. What do you think?”

  Harris tried not to sound too hopeful, to remain steady and firm, but this excited him. He heard it slip into his voice as he asked for his dad’s opinion.

  Charles nodded slowly. He didn’t disagree with his son. In fact, he wholeheartedly agreed. It wouldn’t only be a great move, it would improve economics in the farming world by leaps and bounds. His own grandfather was a dairy farmer so the idea tugged at his heart a little more than it should have.

  “What’s the timing you had in mind?” Charles was ready for anything that implied ‘as soon as possible’ but he asked anyway.

  “As soon as possible.”

  Harris watched his dad try and mask a grin.

  “I’m going to need a little bit more,” Charles admitted. “I want two things – and it shouldn’t be trouble because I am sure you already have Mr. Carlson working on it.”

  Harris tried not to give away that he’d done just that and had Brandon begin work on it before walking in.

  “One, I want all of the details of the collaboration. What you’re thinking in terms of partnership. Bring in our lawyers, I want to make sure anything we put in a contract won’t hurt our ability to buy, whether it’s them or a different company, should we pursue this. That is, where I assume, you were going with this?”

  “It is.” Harris confirmed.

  “Okay, then let’s get a meeting on the calendar to discuss long term strategy. You know who to invite.”


  As he was speaking, Charles had begun opening the Christmas postbox letter. He knew from the swirly script on the front of the envelope that it couldn’t have been from a child, and his curiosity had gotten the best of him. He let Harris wait as he continued to read the letter.

  It was simple, and seemed like it came from a nice woman. He wouldn’t have been able to know how old she was and he didn’t seem to mind. He noted, and appreciated, everything she listed in the letter that she wanted didn’t come in a box. As he opened the bottom of the letter pictures fell to the desk.

  Harris walked up to look at the pictures and smiled at the old photos. They didn’t look much different than the ones their family had taken when he was a child.

  Both of the men allowed the hint of laughter to bubble out. Then Charles saw the sparkle in his son’s eyes and decided he didn’t give him nearly a hard-enough time since he was getting his way with the feed collaboration.

  And, he assumed Harris would work straight through the holidays without taking time to enjoy it, which worried Charles that his son wouldn’t experience the season’s true magic.

  Yes, Charles thought, a little decorating and ice skating might just do his son some good.

  “No. Oh no.” Harris said, seeing the same glint in his father’s eyes. “I know what you’re thinking. No, no. No.” His hand flatlined as if to say that’s the end of it - no.

  “I’d like to amend my original instruction,” Charles said, loving his new idea while picking up the pictures and stacking them so he could neatly place them back in the folded letter and hand it to his son.

  “Dad, come on.” Harris pleaded.

  “If you fulfill this lovely woman’s Christmas wish, then you can schedule the strategy meeting.”

  “Dad.” Harris knew he sounded like a teenager who didn’t get his way but he didn’t care. He didn’t have time for this.

  “That’s it, take it or leave it. I think I was rather generous letting you continue progress on the collaboration.” Charles answered cheerfully.

  Harris knew when his dad thought he was being clever and funny. If he argued, his dad would clever and funny his way into making him wait on the collaboration too. That wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.

  “Fine.” Harris sighed as his head fell back and his eyes closed. When he lifted his head, he saw his dad proudly smiling at him.

  “The feed collaboration is a great idea. I’m proud of you, Harris.”

  He knew his dad meant it.

  “Thanks, Dad. Have fun at the play tonight. I’ll be back later to remind you to leave so you can be on time – for once.”

  It was Harris’ turn to carry a smug grin. When he heard his dad laugh and nod knowingly, he turned toward the door to give Brandon the news. And, to do a little research on his newest assignment.

  The sooner he finished with the Christmas wish lady, the sooner he could get started on more important things.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Just reach in, get the letter out, go home, and make your own Christmas magic. Make your own magic. Your. Own. Magic,” Harlow mumbled to herself while rummaging through a bin full of winter boots in her basement, scrounging to find a matching pair.

  She saw the familiar top of a boot matching one she’d already pulled out and set aside, latched onto it, and pulled. When she yanked the boot to freedom, Harlow let out a squeal as she fell backwards with the momentum.

  She slid on the boots from where she’d landed on the floor and tugged on her red knit hat and matching gloves. By the time she reached the first floor, she was sweating from head to toe.

  As she opened the door, the burst of cold air rushed in and relieved her of the unwanted warmth. Harlow paused and looked at a scarf hanging on a nearby hook and grabbed it, knowing it would only take seconds for her sweat to turn to ice and she’d be back to freezing as she had been earlier that day.

  Then she made her way through the foot of snow that had fallen, to the Christmas postbox she’d dropped her letter in earlier that morning.

  __

  Harris sat in his SUV. He’d parked it next to the postbox and left it running while he sat inside. He had an address, but he wasn’t quite sure how to start fulfilling the needs of a woman he didn’t actually know.

  He flipped through her pictures again. He’d shuffled through them most of the day. He assumed Harlow – the woman who had sent the letter – was the redhead. She was the only one who was consistent in all of the pictures. Except for the last one. They, he could only assume, were her parents, and the ones responsible for the laughter on the kid’s faces in all of the pictures.

  Harris looked at them dancing and it tugged at his heart. Mostly, he decided, because it reminded him of his own parents. They shared a love like that.

  Harris flipped through the pile of pictures once more and held one of three kids standing on chairs next to their parents close to his face. They were in a line along the kitchen island making something that required flour, he noted, as the white powder was dusted over everything – hands, cheeks, and hair.

  “Vincent, Harlow, Harriet, Vivienne, and Walter.” He squinted and read the names stitched onto the sweaters that would take first place in the ugly contest every time. Brother, two sisters, mom, and dad, he assumed. And confirmed Harlow as the red-head.

  Harris laughed at the picture and looked up. When he did, he saw a woman high-stepping through the snow like she was walking over track hurdles, and his amused snicker lingered. Her head and face were covered in red wool. He wondered if she could even see through the tiny slit she’d left for her eyes.

  The woman lifted and stomped her way past his parking space on the side of the road and stopped at the shiny red mailbox.

  “Well isn’t this something.” Harris chuckled out the words as he watched the woman look around, pull down the red hatch, and reach her arm inside.

  For a moment he felt bad for the woman. Clearly her depth perception was a little off, seeing as there was no way her arm would reach to the bottom of the box. But, he thought giving her the benefit of the doubt, he supposed he would have tried the same method if he wanted to get something out of there.

  Now that was an interesting thought: don’t people usually want to put letters in?

  Harris set the letter and pictures aside, then opened his door as the woman rounded the box and crouched down behind it. He looked up and down the sidewalk, crossed it, and poked his head around the mailbox where the woman was hovering.

  “Can I help you with something?” Harris asked, delighted at the comedic scene he was witnessing.

  The woman screamed and jumped. She lost her balance and landed her bottom in a big pile of snow that had been plowed off the sidewalk.

  “No!” Harlow yelled at the shock of getting caught then regained a little of her composure and tried again, “Sorry, no thank you.”

  Harlow lifted her head to get a better look at him but she couldn’t see him – or anything – since the fall had scrunched her hat and scarf together covering her eyes completely. Her gloved hands lifted her hat and pulled down on the scarf.

  When she got a clear picture of the man standing before her she realized had it been any other person she wouldn’t have been embarrassed. But, she had fallen over in front of a cute blonde-haired man in a tailored, black wool jacket and nice leather gloves. So, she felt the embarrassment take her over.

  “Here, let me help you up,” Harris offered, holding out a hand for her to grab.

  She agreed and popped up so they were standing face-to-face – then he saw it.

  The same bright blue eyes he’d seen in the pictures, only instead of the young girl, he was staring at the woman she’d grown up to be. And, now that he was getting a better look, he saw the same strands of red curls spilling out from beneath her hat and scarf.

  So, this was Harlow Hill, he thought, and she was – it seemed – trying to get her letter back.

  “Harris Porter.” He offered his hand for a shake and noted al
oud, “And, people usually put things in the Christmas Postbox, yet it seems to me you are trying to get something out.”

  Her eyes widened, snapped to his and locked. She’d been caught, but there’s no way she would admit to it.

  “What? No, I was just – ah – making sure there wasn’t any way the letters could fall out.”

  Really? she thought, wanting to roll her eyes as she searched for more words to say. “It’s a big deal. This time of year, I mean.” She stood tall and aimed for defending Christmas’s honor. “So, this,” she thumbed her gloved hand in the direction of the red box, “is totally important. Needs to be secure.”

  Harlow affirmed her words by slapping her hand on the side as if she’d inspected its solidness and approved.

  “Is that right?” He only gave time for her nod. “Well, yes, it’s good you’re here to check on it. I wouldn’t want any of the letters in there getting into the wrong hands. Christmas wishes are a serious matter.”

  Harris rubbed his hands together and smiled. He wished he could see her whole face, to see what had become of the girl whose laughter and smile illuminated the pictures on the passenger seat of his vehicle.

  Harlow couldn’t do more than stare. When – what was his name? Harris? – smiled, she’d lost her train of thought.

  He was broad, she noted as her eyes fixated on him. He wasn’t slim, but he wasn’t big either. A hockey player maybe, she thought. Not now, but once. Or, that’s how she imagined him. He probably had longer hair then. Somewhere between then and the fancy black clothes, he’d probably trimmed the unruly blonde ends to become the professional he was today. Harlow smiled at the made-up image she’d painted of him.

  “Do you want to put a letter in for Santa?” Harris asked, he figured it was only kind of cruel to make her talk about it.

  “I already – what?” Her attention flew back to face. “No, no. This is for kids. You know, they make wishes, lists, write them down, throw them in here.” Harlow mimicked the act of writing as she explained and felt only a little ridiculous and over the top. “It’s really not for adults.”