Chapter 7

7

In addition to polishing up her interview with a local writer who had her first book coming out that week, Stef had more letters for Santa waiting to be sifted through when she went in to work Monday morning. She smiled as she looked at the ones already up on the paper's website. She was happy to see that the page was getting plenty of positive comments from readers. Good for the paper. And for her.

Thanks for the heads-up, Santa...

I hope Jordy gets his drums...

Maybe Santa will bring earplugs for Jordy's parents...

Tell Corcoran I could fit in Santa's sleigh.

Stef read the last comment and frowned. Some women were such predators. The comment was horribly inappropriate and was going to get deleted that very minute. Whatever was happening with the boy's family was serious. Hopefully, both Corcoran and his father would find better things waiting for them in the new year.

She sighed. Life could be so hard when things didn't work out for people. She'd sure found that out. Everyone needed love, and it sucked when those who should have loved you the most treated you the worst.

Griffin Marks had just finished putting in an order for twenty-five more shares of stock that one of his Edward Jones clients wanted to buy when his phone dinged with a text. You are gonna be busy now.

What the heck?

He called his pal Joel, who'd sent the text. "What's this about?"

"You haven't seen the Letters to Santa page on the Carol Clarion website?"

"I haven't had a chance to see if yours got printed yet," Griff said.

"Funny. You probably won't be laughing when you read one of them. Mandy just called me and wondered if you'd helped Corky write a letter to Santa."

Corky. Letter to Santa. A premonition that he was about to hear something he didn't want to hear settled in Griff's gut like a giant lump of coal.

"You'd better read it," suggested Joel.

Griff left business behind and went to the paper's website. He pulled up the Letters to Santa page and scanned them, skimming down the page until he saw his son's name. The words jumped out at him.

Can you bring me a mommy for Christmas?

Shit. How had this happened?

He didn't have to read far to figure it out. "Jenn," he muttered in disgust. His meddling, misguided sister was at it again.

"Every single woman within a twenty-five-mile radius of Carol is going to be contacting the paper, wanting to apply for the job of mommy," Joel predicted.

"Don't be a turkey," snapped Griff.

"You think I'm kidding? Do you know how many generations of women have watched Sleepless in Seattle ? You've just become the new Tom Hanks."

Griff scrubbed his face. The last thing he needed was word of this getting out and women showing up on his doorstep with plates of Christmas cookies. That had happened the first Christmas after Kaitlyn died, and he'd felt like a hunted animal. He had no desire to start that circus again.

And he couldn't have Corky see the page. If his son saw his request there on the paper's website followed by Santa's reply, his hopes would rise quicker than a helium balloon.

"Nobody's gonna replace Kaitlyn, dude. I get that. But maybe Jenn's right."

Griff cut him off. "Don't even say it."

"Okay, okay. Don't shoot the messenger."

He wasn't going to shoot the messenger, but he was going to take aim at the paper. Why don't you ask Daddy to find you a mommy? I'm sure he'd like to help Santa out. Of all the idiotic, ill-considered, thoughtless, stupid replies. There was nothing Griff would have liked better than to hang this Santa from a chimney in nothing but his long underwear and let him freeze.

He said a grumpy goodbye to Joel, then searched the page to find the name of the culprit. There it was: Santa's letters delivered by Stefanie Ludlow. If Corky's letter didn't come down as of yesterday, Stefanie Ludlow would be delivering the paper instead of writing for it.

He found the newspaper's number and punched it into his phone. "Put me through to your editor," he snapped at the operator taking calls. "And don't send me to voicemail. This is urgent."

"Of course," she said, and left him to listen to some tinny Christmas music.

Urgent or not, he wound up getting sent to Camille Carlisle's voicemail. He ground his teeth as he waited for the beep. Then he left his message. "My son's letter to Santa got put on your paper's page without my permission, and the answer to it is completely inappropriate and unappreciated. If you don't take down the letter from Corcoran immediately, you will be hearing from my lawyer today."

He stabbed End on his phone and banged it down on his desk. He didn't have a lawyer, but if somebody didn't get back to him within the hour, he'd find one.

He sat for a moment and fumed, then snatched the phone back up and called his sister. She, too, was hiding behind her voicemail.

"Jenn, what the devil were you thinking letting Corky sucker you into helping him with that letter? The paper will be taking it down, and I'd better not see it pop up again or you're gonna lose your aunt rights."

He stabbed End again and half strangled his phone before slamming it back on the desk. Great. Now he'd cracked it. He swore and glared at his computer screen.

And reread his son's letter and wanted to cry.

I wrot last year abot bringing me a new mommy but daddy furgot to mal it.

Daddy didn't furgot. Daddy lied about furgotting. It had been easier than trying to explain to his son that the aches piercing his heart had left him emotionally crippled. Corky hadn't been that old when his mom died, but he remembered enough to know he missed her hugs, missed her tucking him in at night. He wanted a mommy like the other kids had, and even though Jenn did a lot to help out, it wasn't the same. As a real estate agent, she was busy, and her hours were all over the map. She couldn't be around all the time. And she shouldn't have to.

"Somebody's got to help fill the gap," she often reminded Griffin when he told her she needed to pay more attention to her own life.

Their parents lived a couple of towns away, so Jenn had been stepping in a lot since Kaitlyn died. Maybe she was tired of wrapping so much of her life around his. She never said, but he was pretty sure it was why things hadn't worked out with her last man. Now she was starting to see someone new. He shouldn't have to stand in line for Jenn's attention behind Griff and Corky, although Griff suspected he already was. She did so much for them. Griff turned down the heat on his anger with his sister.

They were still going to have to have a talk though. Maybe they would even revert back to their childhood and there would be some yelling involved.

His phone rang, showing the number of the Carol Clarion . He answered with a curt, "Hello."

"Mr. Marks, this is Camille Carlisle, returning your call. I do apologize for this mix-up. We will, of course, take down your son's letter to Santa immediately."

"Good," he said, and could almost hear his mother scolding, Not your sweetest voice, dear . Well, he didn't feel all that sweet.

"I want you to know that the page does state clearly that, by allowing their children to write to Santa care of the Clarion , parents are giving the paper permission to print those letters."

Covering her butt. Had she talked to their legal team? "Well, I didn't allow it, and it was sent in without my permission," he snapped. Now he was really sounding like a jerk, but he didn't care. "And I didn't appreciate Santa's answer, either. ‘Why don't you ask Daddy to find you a mommy? I'm sure he'd like to help Santa out.' Where does your Santa get off dishing out advice?"

"Again, I'm very sorry. It will be taken down immediately," she said. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" Unlike his, her voice was calm and rational.

"No. Thank you."

"All right then. Have a good day," she said, and was gone.

He hadn't had a good day since Kaitlyn died. He rubbed his forehead in an effort to stop the dull throb that was starting. He'd have to have a talk with Corky and explain that mommies weren't that easy to replace. In fact, ones like Kaitlyn were impossible to replace. She was impossible to replace. Corky was going to have to learn to be content with his dad and his aunt.

And Griff was going to have to continue working on getting up every morning and setting aside the bitterness that kept him company all through the night, keeping him tossing and turning.

The first year after she died, visions of his wife had lurked around every corner of the house. He'd see her when he first awoke, lying next to him, her hair spread out on her pillow like thick threads of gold. She greeted him when he walked into the kitchen to get cereal for Corky. It felt so real, envisioning her leaning on the counter in that big, ugly T-shirt she loved to sleep in, holding out a mug of coffee and smiling at him. He'd catch sight of her sitting in one corner of the couch, keeping him company as he watched a football game, cheering at all the right moments because she was determined to be a Seahawks fan like him.

He managed to get through the new morning ritual with just him making coffee and pouring cereal into a bowl for Corky. And Corky always cuddled up next to him on the couch when he was watching a game. He'd explain the plays to his son, they'd eat chips and he'd try not to squeeze too tightly when he tucked his kid in bed although he wanted to.

But he'd learned the hard way that when Hades came to take someone, it didn't matter how tightly you held them. They'd be gone anyway.

He could even take a shower now and turn from the image of her in there with him, naked. The steam they'd created in there had had nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

He sighed. He missed being married, missed having his wife to talk to at the end of the day. Missed shared jokes and fighting over the last popcorn in the bowl during movie night. He sure missed getting laid.

But this was his life now. He and Corky were on their own, and that was how it would have to be. They were both going to have to accept that, and so was his meddling sister.

He punched in her number again.

"Hey there," she answered cheerfully. "What's up?"

"You know what's up," he growled. "What were you thinking encouraging Corky to write that letter to Santa?"

"I didn't encourage him. He wanted to," she said in her own defense.

"Well, you didn't have to send it."

"I did, since you conveniently lost last year's."

"I would have lost this year's, too!"

"That's why Corky asked me to help him. What was I supposed to say?"

"That Santa doesn't bring mommies, and Daddy's not looking."

"Maybe it's time Daddy started looking. It's been three years, Griff. Kaitlyn wouldn't want you to wall yourself up for the rest of your life. She'd want Corky to have a mom."

"He's got you," Griff said, forgetting his earlier guilt over taking up so much of his sister's time.

"That's not the same, and you know it."

"Nothing's ever going to be the same again, and you know it."

"Of course, I do, and darn it, I miss her, too. She was my best friend."

"She was my everything," Griff muttered.

"She'd want you to move on and be happy."

"Why do people always say shit like that?" he grumbled.

"Because it's true. You didn't both die. You're still here, and so is your son. It doesn't do either one of you any good for you to wrap yourself up like a mummy."

"We're doing fine just as we are."

"Yeah, right. That's why he's asking Santa for a mom. Dip your toe in the water and at least go on a date once in a while."

So far he hadn't met anyone he wanted to go toe-dipping with. Some of those women stalking him after Kaitlyn died had been downright scary. There was something about their smiles and their condolences that had felt so...fake. Like syrup laid out to attract ants. He could almost feel himself getting crushed under the weight of all that sweetness. Just remembering tugged down the corners of his lips.

"Yeah, well, you bring me the perfect woman, and then we'll talk," he said.

"Maybe you need to write Santa," she taunted. "I've got to go. I'm showing a house, and my client just arrived. I'll see you guys tomorrow for cookie baking."

Cookie baking. Kaitlyn had loved to bake, and she'd always gone crazy at Christmas, making everything from frosted sugar cookies to gingerbread boys. Corky was too young to really remember that, but Griff sure did. In addition to gingerbread boys, Jenn had promised to bake Griff's favorite chocolate chip cookies with the mint M&Ms in them. Maybe she could help him talk to Corky. It was the least she could do after the mess she'd made.

On second thought, no. He'd tell her to keep her beak shut. The less said about Santa the better.

Camille summoned Stef to her office. "I had an interesting conversation a moment ago."

She wasn't smiling, which meant it wasn't the good kind of interesting. Stef dropped to the edge of the chair in front of Camille's desk.

Camille was Stef's hero. She was smart and successful and cared about the people she worked with. At forty-eight, she was a tower of strength, a woman who had fired two husbands who had not measured up. She'd finally found her perfect man in a reclusive writer in Seattle, who was now equally reclusive in Carol. He adored her, flattered her and had already turned her into a heroine in his latest bestselling fantasy. Like Camille, the fictitious Ara was a wise elder in her clan, tall and slender with steel-gray hair and matching steely gray eyes.

Camille's eyes weren't usually steely. They were this morning.

Stef swallowed nervously. "What happened?"

Camille turned her screen so Stef could see the Letters to Santa page. "Corcoran happened."

"What?" Stef stared at the page, looking for clues as to what was wrong.

"His father called."

Uh-oh. But still, "Hey, I didn't promise Corcoran a mom."

"No, instead you as much as promised him his father would get him one. Remember when we first started this? I told you to keep everything vague."

"I thought I had," Stef said in a small voice, and Camille's eyebrows dipped into a V. Yes, the eyes were definitely looking steely now.

The same wave of panic she'd gotten when a cop had stopped her for speeding a couple of months back rolled over Stef, going all the way from her face to her stomach. "I'm so sorry." She was afraid to ask, but she had to. "Am I fired?"

"Over one mistake? You know me better than that." Camille sighed. "This is as much on me as it is on you. I should have looked this over more carefully. But really, Stef, I shouldn't have to babysit you on this."

"I'm sorry. I guess I didn't think my answer through very well. I didn't really make any promises, though."

"Nothing concrete, but you put the boy's father in the hot seat, and he didn't appreciate it."

"I was only trying to make his child feel better," Stef said in her own defense.

"That's not your job," Camille said sternly. "This is not an advice column. Your job is to channel Santa and ho, ho, ho and promise the kids Santa will talk to their parents."

"Which I did." Sort of.

"Requests for things like drum sets and...whatever," Camille said with a flick of her hand, "don't matter. But we can't be wandering into sensitive areas like this. It's a good way to lose subscribers, and we can't afford that. So. No more letters asking for intangibles make the cut. I've smoothed ruffled feathers, and legal assures me we're okay, but we don't need to put ourselves in this position. Only respond to requests for toys and goodies from now on and always keep the answers vague. Like we talked about when we first started this page."

"I'm sorry," Stef managed. She still felt like she was being blamed unfairly, but it would be pointless to argue any more.

"Be more careful in the future," Camille said.

"I will," Stef promised, and left the office feeling like a kid who'd just gotten reamed by the principal.

It wasn't right. Here poor Corcoran had poured out his heart to Santa, and what did his tool of a father do? Call the paper and make a stink. What a Grinch. What a heartless father. It was a good thing she hadn't talked to the man. She'd have told him a thing or two.

And probably lost her job.

Sorry, Corcoran. I tried. She plopped down at her desk and called her sister. "Where are you?"

"I'm shopping with Elinor. What's up?"

"I don't want to be Santa anymore," said Stef.

"Uh-oh. What happened?"

Stef told her.

"Well, it could be worse. Camille could have fired you."

"I wouldn't have deserved that," Stef said. "In fact, I didn't deserve the lecture. I'm not the problem. The problem is this poor kid's father. Sheesh, what a jerk."

"It's not easy raising a kid alone. We know that, right?"

Yes, they did. Adele had struggled for the first few years after Dad died.

"But still. You don't call the paper and yell at them because your kid wrote a letter to Santa. I need chocolate."

"Want to meet us for lunch at Tillie's? Will that help? We can split a piece of her Death by Chocolate cake."

Tillie's Tearoom was the town's newest place to eat, and it catered to women with its lace curtains and tablecloths and mix-and-match fine china. Friends could go there for afternoon tea and enjoy cucumber sandwiches and little cakes and cookies, or they could opt for one of several salads along with freshly baked muffins. The salads were good, and the tea parties were fun, but the sisters went to Tillie's strictly for the cakes—white wedding cake, strawberry cake, carrot cake, lemon pound cake and, of course, chocolate cake.

"I've got too much work to do," Stef said. It was true. Mondays were always busy, and she was buried under Christmas.

"Okay, tomorrow then."

"That sounds good. I'll come by the shop," Stef said just as a call came in from Adele. "Why is Mom calling?"

"Brace yourself. She had a dream," Frankie said.

Sure enough, "I had a dream last night," said Adele as soon as Stef had answered.

"Oh, Mom, not another," Stef protested.

"It was about you."

"Great. Did I just get eaten by a tiger?" If so, there was accurate symbolism in that dream.

"You were sitting on Santa's lap."

"Yeah? Was he hot?"

"I'm being serious," Adele scolded.

"Okay, sorry. Tell me about Santa and me."

"You said you didn't know what you wanted, and he said that he did. Then he reached behind him and pulled out a huge box."

"How did he manage that with me on his lap?"

Adele ignored her. "It was the size of a phone booth. You opened it, and there was a man in there."

"Thank you, Santa. What did he look like?"

"He had short hair, kind of a dark red, and one of those boyish faces—the kind where the man never looks his age. He was quite cute."

"I haven't met any man who fits that description," said Stef.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. And I doubt there is any man who looks like your dream man anywhere in Carol. I'm sure I've dated every single one here in the last six months." And been rejected by the newest one. The last thought made her frown. "Mom, I've gotta go. I'm up to my neck in work here."

"Okay, but keep your eyes peeled. I think this is a sign."

"Thanks, Mom. Love you," Stef said, and ended the call.

It would have been nice if her mother's dreams could be more useful, like warning people not to put certain letters to Santa in the paper.

"Talk about a sexy red dress," said Frankie, holding up a dress for Elinor's inspection. They were hunting in one of the nearby mall's department stores for new outfits for Elinor. It was red with a full skirt and a formfitting bodice that had a scooped neck trimmed with white faux fur. The cuffs on the long sleeves were also trimmed. "How do you like this?"

Elinor gnawed on her lower lip. "I don't know."

"Pair it with some black boots, and you'll look darling in it," Frankie assured her. "Why don't you at least try it on?"

Elinor considered another moment, then nodded decisively. "Okay, I think I will."

That gave them several items for Elinor to try on—a pale pink sweater (Elinor's choice), a red one with a bias-cut V-neck dotted with white snowflakes (Frankie's choice), a black sweater (a compromise between the two of them) to be paired with a red silk scarf and red pants. And black leggings to be paired with anything.

Off to the dressing rooms they went, and Frankie sat in a nearby chair, offering opinions as Elinor modeled the various outfits. The red dress was by far the best find.

"Wow," Frankie said when Elinor edged out of the changing room.

"Do you think it's too much?" Elinor worried.

"Too much what?"

Elinor shrugged. "Just. Too much."

Frankie suddenly got it. "You're worried that the dress is going to wear you instead of the other way around."

Elinor bit on her lip and nodded. "It seems more like a Frankie dress. Do you want to try it on?"

Actually, Frankie did. The dress fit perfectly, and seeing her reflection in it lifted her spirits. "I'm going to get this," she told Elinor, who was in the next room, trying on the pink sweater.

"You should," Elinor said.

"I'll let you borrow it if you change your mind about wearing it," Frankie promised.

"Thanks," said Elinor.

With that settled, it was back to the task at hand.

The black sweater and pants looked great on Elinor, and the red scarf would dress up the outfit for parties. If Elinor made it to any parties. As Frankie suspected, the pale pink sweater made Elinor look washed out.

"I think you'll definitely need to wear lipstick with that," Frankie said.

She sprang for everything, including the sweater that Elinor was so enamored of. "But now we need to get that lipstick if you're going to wear it," she insisted.

Frankie managed to convince Elinor to buy a dark pink lipstick, and the makeup expert added blush cream, light brown eyeliner, mascara and an eyebrow pencil that proved she had eyebrows. Frankie smiled, pleased with herself, and Elinor regarded her reflection with awe.

"I feel..." Elinor hesitated.

"Pretty?" suggested Frankie.

"Yes, definitely. But also, uh, conspicuous."

"You're just not used to seeing yourself in makeup," Frankie assured her. "You do want to stand out a little. What's the point of getting all these fun clothes if nobody sees you in them? And you do want a certain someone to notice you, right?"

Elinor smiled and nodded.

"Well, he will now," Frankie predicted.

Elinor had yet to confide who that someone was, but it had to be William Sharp, their newest best customer. He would be dazzled, and Frankie could hardly wait to see his reaction to the new and improved Elinor the following day.