Chapter 2

I pull her to me and hug her tight. “Because he found mewhen I was your age,” I point out. “And Gramma and Pop-Pop still live in the same house. Didn’t Gramma help you write a letter to him?”

I feel her nod against my shoulder. “She mailed it already.”

“I’m sure she put her address on the outside,” I reason. “It’s called a return address, and the post office won’t send a letter without it. So when Santa gets it, he’ll look and see where it came from and know where to deliver your gifts.”

This would be the perfect time to ask what she asked for—my mom won’t tell me, and how am I supposed to play Santa if I don’t know?—but before I can think of a way to ask casually, Jenna pulls away from me and wipes her eyes. “Okay, good. You said we weren’t going back home—”

“We’ll get a new home soon,” I promise. My new position is in the same small town where I grew up, a good hour’s drive south of Richmond, and once I got the job offer, the move was inevitable. Unfortunately, this time of the year was a bit difficult to coordinate with mortgage companies and real estate agents. Everyone’s on vacation or closed until after Christmas. Thank God my parents are letting us stay with them for a while. “Just as soon as the holidays are over, we’ll find a place. I’m already looking.”

“Good,” Jenna says again. She sniffles, then wipes her nose with the back of her hand before reaching for something else to touch and play with on the shelf. Something ceramic, of course. Something breakable.

“We’ll be all right,” I tell her.

She shrugs, as if she knew that all along. “I just didn’t want Santa to leave my presents all the way back at the old house,” she explains. “Then I’d neverget them, not even the one thing I want most of all.”

God, please don’t let it be Mommy,I pray. I’m going to have to ask my mother about that damn letter. The last thing I need is a heart-broken daughter who expects to see Julia waiting for her under the tree on Christmas day.

* * * *

This close to the holiday, the mall is packed. I normally wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere neara shopping mall at the end of December, but in the small town where I grew up, Southpark Mall is literally the only place to go, and I promised Jenna some last-minute shopping to pick up gifts for her grandparents. Before we left, my mother tucked a twenty dollar bill into my pocket—despite my protests—and told me not to spend too much on them. “We have everything we need,” she said.

I pointed to Jenna, already decked out in her coat and hat. “Try telling that to her.”

My daughter settles on a pretty, less expensive snow globe for Gramma, and a heavy pewter belt buckle for Pop-Pop. I don’t have the heart to tell her neither gift is practical; my father stopped wearing belts when he retired five years ago. Instead, I give her the twenty and let her pay for the items. The pleased grin she gives me as she counts back the change is well worth the price.

There’s enough left over for an ice cream, so we head down to the food court, Jenna’s hand in mine to keep her close. The mall is packed with kids out of school, last minute shoppers, and people just milling around enjoying the holiday decorations. Long garlands of fake holly are strung along the walls and frame all the store windows. Occasionally we see someone dressed in an elf costume, who always waves at Jenna and points in the direction where we’re headed. And every few feet, there are signs leading us along, telling us to stop by Santa’s Holiday Mountain Resort to get a photo with the jolly old elf himself.

When we turn the final corner and come upon the huge papier mache mountain constructed in front of the food court, Jenna’s eyes go wide and her mouth drops into a perfect O of surprise. “Daddy, look!”

I barely glance over and nod. “Yes, honey, I see it.”

It’s the same mountain they had up each and every Christmas I can remember growing up. The glitter that makes it glisten has probably been refreshed, and the wispy strands of fake snow are new, but the animatronic animals scattered along the mountain’s slopes still jerk with the same motions I remember, and the line leading into Santa’s workshop in the mountain’s interior is still just as long. I hope Jenna doesn’t want to wait for a chance to sit on Santa’s lap.