“After hearing everything that’s been going on in your life with Brian and Celeste, plus Media Blast, writing Santa might not be such a bad idea. Maybe a letter letting him know what you’d like most this Christmas is exactly what you need to do. And write it with the same trust you had as a child.”
It sounded silly for someone her age to be writing Santa.
“Lindy?” her mother prompted.
“I’ll think on it,” she said, not wanting to dampen her mother’s enthusiasm, and at the same time, finding the suggestion completely ridiculous. She struggled to believe in the magic of Christmas. If anyone learned she’d followed through with such an outrageous idea, she’d be embarrassed.
Later that same afternoon, Lindy helped her mother prepare dinner. Peeling potatoes, she found herself mulling over the silly Santa letters she’d penned as a kid. Her mother was right about one thing. She needed to believe that everything happened for a reason.
She was glad Brian had shown his true colors before their relationship went any further. Although difficult, Celeste should have been honest with her. It would have hurt, but not nearly as much as discovering their betrayal the way she had.
In retrospect, Lindy had to wonder how long they’d hid their affair. Weeks, surely. Weeks before her move, Lindy noticed changes in Brian before Celeste. He didn’t call as often, and when they did get together, he seemed distracted. She’d attributed his lack of attentiveness to any number of factors. To be fair to herself, with her work struggles, her mind had been preoccupied.
In contrast, Celeste was her normal cheery self; she hadn’t given anything away. It stunned Lindy how na?ve she’d been, how trusting. When confronted, Celeste had nothing to say and Lindy didn’t seem to, either. After those first awkward minutes, Celeste blurted out that she was sorry. Lindy didn’t stick around to hear anything more. She’d left, and they hadn’t spoken since, and that had been months ago.
Losing her best friend had been a major blow. They’d been as close as sisters, Lindy thought. Best friends. They’d done everything together for so long that losing Celeste was like missing her right arm. But friends, true friends, didn’t betray each other.
If Lindy were to write Santa, which she had no intention of doing, she’d ask for a new best friend. She’d also ask him to send her a new love interest. One with character and substance. A man with integrity. She wasn’t so much interested in tall, dark, and handsome. Brian had been all three. Looks didn’t matter nearly as much as what was going on inside his heart. A man with heart. In thinking about it, she wasn’t sure Santa or anyone else would be able to grant Lindy her wish.
CHAPTER FOUR
The door off the garage opened. “Is my girl home?” Lindy’s father asked. He paused long enough to kiss Ellen and then hug Lindy. “Missed you,” he said, his eyes full of love.
“You’re home early,” Ellen said, as she continued to build the dinner salad, adding a sliced pear and chopped walnuts.
Lindy knew that as supervisor of the local UPS center, her father didn’t often return home until six or even seven, especially at this time of year.
“I left early. I didn’t want to miss out on time with my baby girl.”
“Dad, I’m hardly a baby.”
“You’ll always be my Sweet Pea,” he countered.
Yup, this was home, and the love that surrounded her eased the ache in Lindy’s heart.
Opening the cookie jar, her dad reached for a thumbprint and headed to the countertop to sort the mail. After he went through everything, he looked to Ellen. “Did you show Lindy the Santa letters?”
“I did.”
“What did you think, Sweet Pea?” he asked.
She shrugged. “It was fun going over them with Mom.”
“And to think she saved them all these years.”
“Astonishing, really,” Lindy said.
Lindy spent the evening with her parents, catching up on everything she’d missed since her last visit. Her parents headed to bed at ten, and after calling her brother and planning to connect, Lindy went to her own room. Beau leaped onto her mattress and cuddled up at the foot of her bed. She intended to read as she did most nights. Sitting up in bed, her blankets gathered around her, with a book in her hands was how she normally ended her days. Instead of being drawn into the story, her thoughts drifted over the unexpected events of the day. Most likely, she wasn’t going to be able to concentrate.
Turning out the light, she tossed and turned for the next hour, then, giving up, she turned the nightstand lamp on and sat up. Knowing it was useless, she got out of bed, rummaging through her desk drawer until she found a tablet and a pen. She looked down at the blank page and wrote: