envelope. “Well, Eric Marrin, I can tell you this. The big guy doesn’t accept bribes.”
“But, I—”
“You’re up, kid,” Twinkie said, pushing him forward, then quickly turning to the next person in line. Eric approached slowly, reviewing all he planned to say. Then he crawled up on Santa’s lap and drew a steadying breath.
The smell of peppermint and pipe tobacco clung to his big red coat and tickled Eric’s nose. His lap was broad and his belly soft as a feather pillow and Eric leaned closer and looked up into the jolly old man’s eyes. Unlike the elf, Eric could see that Santa was patient and kind. “Are you really him?” he asked. Some of the kids at school claimed that Santa wasn’t real, but this guy sure looked real.
Santa chuckled, his beard quivering in merriment. “That I am, young man. Now, what’s your name and what can I do for you? What toys can I bring for you this Christmas?”
“My name is Eric Marrin and I don’t want any toys,” he said soberly, staring at a coal-black button on the front of Santa’s suit.
Santa gasped in surprise. “No toys? But every child wants toys for Christmas.”
“Not me. I want something else. Something much more important.”
Santa hooked his thumb under Eric’s chin and tipped his head up. “And what is that?”
“I—I want a huge Christmas tree with twinkling lights. And I want our house all decorated with plastic reindeer on the roof and a big wreath on the door. I want Christmas cookies and hot cider. And Christmas carols on the stereo. And on Christmas Eve, I want to fall asleep in front of the fireplace and have my dad carry me up to bed. And on Christmas Day, I want a huge turkey dinner and cherry pie for dessert.” The words had just tumbled out of his mouth and he’d been unable to stop them. Eric swallowed hard, knowing he was probably asking for the impossible. “I want it to be like when my mother lived with us. She always made Christmas special.”
For a long moment, Santa didn’t speak. Eric worried that he might toss him out of the Gingerbread Cottage for demanding too much. Toys were simple for a guy who owned his own toy factory, but Eric’s request was so complicated. Still, if Raymond was right, this Santa was his best shot at granting his Christmas wish.
“My—my mom left us right before Christmas two years ago. And my dad doesn’t know how to do Christmas right. Last year, we didn’t even have a tree. And—and he wants to go skiing again, but if we’re not home, we can’t have a real Christmas! You can help me, can’t you?”
“So you want your mother to come home for Christmas?”
“No,” Eric said, shaking his head. “I know she can’t come back. She’s an actress and she travels a lot. She’s in London now, doing a play. I see her in the summer for two weeks and she sends me postcards from all over. And—and I know you can’t bring me a new mother because there’s no way you can make a human in your toy factory. Not that I wouldn’t like a new mother, but hey, I know she won’t fit in the sleigh with all those toys and you’d never be able to get down the chimney carrying her in your sack and what if my dad didn’t like the kind you brought and—”
“What exactly do you want?” Santa asked, jumping in the moment Eric took a breath.
“The best Christmas ever!” he cried. “A Christmas like it used to be when my mom was here.”
“That’s a pretty big wish,” Santa said.
Eric cast his gaze to the toes of his rubber boots. “I know. But you’re Santa. If you can’t make it happen, who can?”
He risked a glance up to find Santa smiling warmly. “Do you have a letter for me, young man?”
Eric nodded. “I was going to put it in the mailbox.”
“Why don’t you give it to me personally and I’ll make sure I read it right after Mrs. Claus and I finish our dinner.”
Reaching in his jacket pocket, Eric withdrew the precious letter. Did this mean that Santa would grant his wish? Surely it must mean that he’d consider it. “Eric Marrin,” he murmured pointing to the return address, just to make sure. “731 Hawthorne Road, Schuyler Falls, New York. It’s the last driveway before you get to the bridge. The sign says Stony Creek Farm, Alex Marrin, owner. That’s my dad.”
“I’m sure it’s on my map,” Santa said. “I know I’ve been to your house before, Eric Marrin.” He patted Eric on the back. “You’re a good boy.”
Eric smiled. “I try,” he said as he slid off Santa’s lap. “Oh, and if you hear I broke the rules coming to see you tonight, maybe you could understand? I know I’m supposed to go home directly after school, but I really couldn’t ask my dad to bring me here. He’s very busy and I didn’t want him to think that I—”
“I understand. Now, do you know how to get home?”
Eric nodded. The city bus would take him back in the direction of his school and he’d have to run the mile down Hawthorne Road to make it home before dinner. He’d already told Gramps he’d planned to play at Raymond’s house after school and Raymond’s mother would drive him home. He’d have to sneak into the house unnoticed, but his father usually worked in the stables until supper time. And Gramps was usually busy with dinner preparations, his attention fixed on his favorite cooking show while the pots bubbled over on the stove.
Eric waved goodbye to Santa and, to his delight, Santa tucked his letter safe inside his big red jacket. “Some of the kids at school say you aren’t real, but I’ll always believe in you.”
With that, he hurried through the crowd and down the escalator to the first floor. When he’d finally reached the street, he took a deep breath of the crisp evening air. Fluffy snowflakes had begun to fall and the sidewalk was slippery. Eric picked up his pace, weaving in between holiday shoppers and after-work pedestrians.
The bus stop was on the other side of the town square. He paused only a moment to listen to the carolers and stare up at the huge Christmas tree, now dusted with snow. When he reached the bus stop, a long line had formed, but Eric was too excited to worry. So what if he got home a little late? So what if his father found out where he’d been? That didn’t matter anymore.
All that mattered was that Eric Marrin was going to have the most perfect Christmas in the whole wide world. Santa was going to make it happen.
“I DON’T LIKE THIS. This whole thing smells like month-old halibut.”
Holly Bennett glanced over at her assistant, Meghan O’Malley, then sighed. “And last week you thought the doorman at our office building was working as an undercover DEA agent and our seventy-year-old janitor was an international terrorist. Meg, you have got to get over this obsession with the news. Reading ten newspapers a day is starting to make you paranoid!”
As she spoke, Holly’s breath clouded in front of her face and a shiver skittered down her spine. She pulled her coat more tightly around her body, then let her gaze scan the picturesque town square. There was no denying that the situation was a little odd, but danger lurking in Schuyler Falls, New York? If she took a good look around, she would probably see the Waltons walking down the street.
“I like to be informed. Men find that sexy,” Meghan countered, her Long Island accent thick and colorful,
