by Laura Briggs
“This is Micah?” He glanced at the boy. His question received a shy nod from the child, who was now paying attention to the grownups in this room, studying Gavin’s appearance with quiet curiosity.
Gavin cursed himself mentally, imagining the kid’s excitement over the letter written in a moment of stupidity. What would he think, now that his fantasy had been dashed to nothing? You shouldn't have done it, he thought to himself, feeling his heart sink. Dumb move, Gavin.
“Hey,” he began, squatting down to confront the child at eye level. “Look, Micah, I’m sorry," he said. "That letter you got wasn't from Santa. It was from me. And I'm sorry for lying to you like that." His eye switched to study Micah's mother, and see if there was approval on her face for this apology. "And for reading your letter in the first place. It was wrong.”
He struggled for something else to say as the child stared at him, solemnly. “It’s really your mom you should talk to about this sort of stuff," he added. "I’m not sure even the real Saint Nick could give you the right advice on something this important, okay?”
The boy shrugged, smiling slightly. “It’s okay. I liked what you wrote anyway," he answered. "If Santa couldn't answer, it was nice of you to write back for him instead. I liked your letter."
His mother’s mouth dropped open with surprise. For a moment, she seemed to lose her hostile demeanor. Touching her son’s shoulder, she told him, “Micah, why don’t you look at the brochures on that table across the room? See if there’s something you’d like to do while we’re here. I’ll tell you when it’s time to leave.”
Reluctantly, the boy obeyed. Once he was out of earshot, his mother turned back to Gavin. He offered her a smile, one he hoped would seem apologetic. Maybe she was done being angry, he thought.
“I must’ve seemed harsh a minute ago,” she said. “It’s just that Micah never mentioned any of this to me, so it’s all very surprising.” She bit her lip, a gesture Gavin found strangely appealing. "He never talked about wanting — he never said anything about wishing things were different, I mean."
“You don’t owe me an apology,” he answered. “What I did was completely out of line.”
Customer relations weren’t his specialty, but he knew she could get him fired if she wanted. No one could blame her, and Gavin wouldn’t be able to argue his defense if it came to that. Trying not to think about this, he jerked his thumb towards the nearby counter, asking, “Can I get you something? Coffee?”
“No, thanks.” Her arms were crossed again, body language Gavin always heard indicated defensiveness. Then she wasn’t convinced by his apology. How to change her mind about his overstepped boundaries seemed far from obvious as they stood there, silently facing each other.
“Is this something you do a lot?” she asked, after a minute. “Answer the mail for people who don’t exist?” She must have seen the other letters on the ‘Dear Santa’ wall and assumed he read those too. That he wrote responses for all of them, maybe.
“Never,” he said. “Even if we were supposed to, there’s just too much of it. Even if the whole town volunteered to answer mail, it would be impossible.” There had been talk of the local charities and churches taking on the job, making Santa's address official, but nothing was decided yet. Meaning that Gavin continued to file letters, sending the oldest ones to be shredded at the nearest Undeliverable Mail Center.
“I see.” Ms. Flynn was starting to believe him, it seemed. She had dropped the defensive act for one that was more casual, at least, her arms at her sides. Sighing, she told him, “I don’t know why I came here. I was just so upset when I saw that letter.” Not her son’s, of course, but the one that Gavin had written in response. "He was so excited about it, though ... I couldn't say 'no' when he asked to come."
He remembered what he’d said in that letter and flushed red. It wasn’t a reaction Gavin typically had with women, since he was comfortable talking with someone who caught his eye. Which made this whole experience all the more awkward, since he was definitely attracted to the woman in front of him.
She stared at the envelope in her hand. “I wish Micah had come to me with this instead. He never confides in anyone else, so I still can’t believe he did this.”
“Probably he didn’t want you to worry,” Gavin suggested. “His letter made it sound like you have a lot to handle already. Maybe he hoped someone else could listen. Even if it was Santa.”
This risked making her angry again, bringing up stuff that wasn’t any of his business. She might think he was criticizing her parenting skills, for instance. But she didn’t seem angry. “It hasn’t been easy sometimes. I try not to let it show in front of Micah, but I guess kids notice more than we think," she admitted.
This was true of his own childhood, his mother’s resolve cracking sometimes beneath the weight of job overtime and single parenting, he remembered. “Nobody keeps it together all the time,” Gavin offered. “Everybody needs a break now and then.”
“Single parents can’t afford one.”
She must find his advice trite, thinking he knew nothing about it. Which he didn’t, compared to her. He understood Micah’s dilemma, though, and had the advantage of knowing her situation through her son’s eyes, while she knew nothing of him beyond the name tag on his jacket.
“Micah’s been through a lot,” she continued, “and I don’t want him getting his hopes up for something that—-well, isn’t likely to happen.”
“Which is pretty much what my letter did,” Gavin guessed. He followed her glance to where the boy flipped through tourist pamphlets. This was his fault. He should think of a better way to apologize, but all he could say was, “If there’s some way I can make this up to you, I’ll do it. I never thought writing that letter would cause any trouble. I just didn't want him to think Santa didn't care enough to answer him.”
“You answer a kid’s letter while pretending to be Santa Claus, and didn't think it would raise any questions?”
She was making fun of him now, a smile hidden in the corner of her mouth. It gave him hope she wasn’t planning to bring a lawsuit — or, else, report this to his supervisor. His own grin slid into place as he replied, “Good point. If anyone should know how important Santa is, it’s the guy who sorts his mail.”
It was the kind of line that would break the ice with someone he met at a party. For Ms. Flynn it had the opposite effect, her smile quickly fading. Not that Gavin planned to make a connection with a customer, especially a single mom passing through town with a beef against him for ruining her holiday season.
Replacing his grin with a serious expression, he said, “Again, if there’s something I can do—”
“Maybe it worked out for the best,” she interrupted. “If it helps me and Micah talk about some of the stuff he’s going through, then it’s not all bad, is it?”
“Delivery truck’s here, Gavin,” his co-worker Doug called cheerily from the hall.
“We should go,” said Ms. Flynn. “I can see you didn’t mean to confuse Micah. It was a mistake, that’s all.” Without giving him time to reply, she turned and strode to the table where her son waited.
He should stop her, find some way to make this up to her. To both of them, since the boy was the reason he wrote the letter in the first place. Who would think a few words scribbled on a piece of paper would change someone’s whole Christmas?
I guess to them I'm nothing but a jerk, he chided himself as they disappeared from sight, not giving him enough time to wave goodbye even.
*****
Complimentary pink lemonade was served after dinner. Piper and Micah didn’t have much appetite for it, though, since she had tentatively suggested they leave town in the morning.
“It’s not as if you really came to see the town,” she hinted. “We could do something else, something more festive. Maybe even visit family,” she said, even though her nearest relations were several states away, and probably had Christmas plans already. As for Micah’s grandparents, she couldn’t p
icture herself facing them quite yet. What would they say, for instance, when they learned how she used part of the gift money they sent?
Across from her, Micah pleaded, “But we just got here. We might like it.”
She suspected he had other motives for wanting to stay. Possibly involving the clerk who answered the letter, a subject he mentioned more than once since they got back to the resort. He kept talking about how neat it had been to meet the person who really wrote the letter. Did she think Gavin surfed, since he lived in Florida? Did he know how to build sand castles? What kind of work do people do at the post office with all those letters and packages?
“He was really sorry about pretending to be Santa,” Micah had said. “And he thought you were pretty—I could tell.”
Piper laughed. “I doubt that. After all, I was kind of hard on him," she answered.
“But you said you were sorry. That’s why you made me go sit at the table. So you could tell him without me knowing.”
She groaned, shoving aside the half-finished beverage in front of her. “You have to stop eavesdropping, mister. Didn’t you learn anything from what happened last time?”
It got quiet after that, Micah’s shoulders sagging in defeat. The tables around them were empty, the other tourists finding something more interesting to fill their time. After swishing the ice in his empty cup a while, Micah asked, “Can I go look at the trees by the lobby? The ones with Christmas stuff on them?”
Piper smiled. “Sure. But stay where I can see you, okay?”
She hated for their vacation to fall flat; maybe she was being unreasonable. After all, there was no reason they couldn’t stay and hang around the resort. Micah could go swimming, something he never did at home unless it was in a pool at the local gym. Maybe they could even build a sandcastle, like the one he was talking about.
Stay, a voice urged. What are you afraid of anyway? The only answer that came to mind was the possibility of bumping into Mr. Wincott again. It wasn’t for the reasons Micah thought, although something about their conversation had affected her in a way she didn’t understand.
Clearly, Mr. Wincott hadn't meant for them to take his letter this serious. From the look on his face, he'd been shocked that Micah took it to heart, or that they had shown up here in search of its author.
Checking to make sure Micah wasn’t looking, she pulled the clerk’s letter from her purse and scanned its message with new interest. Her face grew warm as she read, “Your mom sounds deserving of true love, and I’m sure someone like her is bound to find a good person who can help mend her heart.”
Of course, he hadn’t known anything about her when he wrote that, he was simply being nice to a confused child. What did he think now? She flinched at the memory of her harsh accusations, the way she’d practically treated him like a criminal.
A quick glance confirmed Micah was still inspecting the Christmas display. An older couple strolled past him, while a man in Bermuda shorts talked on a cell phone just outside the lobby doors. And further down the path, moving directly towards her, was Gavin Wincott.
She felt a jolt of surprise. With mere feet between them, she realized the letter was still in her hands. Quickly, she folded it closed again.
“Mr. Wincott,” she said, her voice almost normal sounding. “Is this a coincidence?”
“I guess I could say it was,” he replied, “but I doubt you’d believe it.” He rested a hand on the chair across from her. “Can we talk a minute?”
“Of course.” She tucked the letter safely inside her tote bag. “Please don’t apologize again for what happened,” she told him. “I meant what I said about Micah and me being fine. You didn't ruin anything. It was just a shock to find out that someone actually wrote him back.”
“I know that,” he said. “But I still feel bad that you traveled all this way for nothing. That’s why I tracked you down. To see if I could fix my mistake.”
Whatever that meant, she wasn’t sure such a thing was possible. “I can’t ask you do anything else for us,” she answered. “One apology is more than fine, Mr. Wincott.”
A frown crinkled his eyes. He was a little older than her, but not much, his features strong beneath an outdoor tan. “Call me Gavin,” he said. “Mr. Wincott sounds stuffy, like some guy who runs a manor house.”
She laughed at that, agreeing the image didn’t fit him very well. “You can call me Piper,” she said. “But, really, I don’t see how you could possibly change anything, now that we’re here.”
“I have some time off this week,” he answered, “and I hoped you’d let me use it to make things up to you and your son. To show you both around town and find things he’d like to do. That kind of thing....”
“Oh…” She wasn't sure about this plan, or the intentions of the man proposing it. Her gaze flitted from Gavin to her son, who’d moved on to study a lighted hedge display in the shape of a reindeer and sleigh. “That’s nice of you,” she began. “But I told Micah we were checking out in the morning.”
Now might be a good time to make it a definite plan. Being shown around town by a stranger with a guilt complex — and maybe other motives — wasn't a good idea.
“Already?” He sounded disappointed. “The Pole isn’t a bad vacation spot. I’m not a big fan, but most people like it, especially kids. People have a great time here.”
“Micah isn’t your usual kid,” Piper said. “He’s not that interested in Christmas gifts and toys. In fact, your letter was the first thing he got excited about in a long time.”
Gavin looked self-conscious, probably remembering her hostile remarks back at the post office. Changing the subject, he asked, “Micah likes art stuff, right? I’m assuming the reindeer drawing was his.”
“He’s won awards for it at school. I think it’s how he best expresses himself,” she said, forgetting temporarily that she hadn’t intended to share any more personal details with the man across from her. “He spends more time with pens and paper than he does with other kids.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Gavin replied. “People can let you down, but natural talent—that doesn’t hold you back.” He paused before adding, “If you decide to stick around, I think you’ll find plenty to keep you entertained. The sandcastle festival starts tomorrow, something a creative kid should really enjoy.”
Before she could answer, her son reappeared, hurrying back from the lobby. Out of breath, he offered Gavin a half grin. It was a friendlier greeting than he could muster for people he saw every day. She could tell that he was excited to see the letter's writer; his eyes lit up with enthusiasm as he grinned at Gavin.
“Hi Micah,” Gavin said, returning the smile. “I was just telling your mom about some of the stuff they do at the North Pole for Christmas. I bet this is pretty different from your home, right?”
Micah nodded. “It’s cool. I like the funny trees with the big leaves. And the sand—it’s like someone spilled a lot of sugar everywhere.”
“That’s right,” Gavin chuckled. “A good description for this place. Everything is a little sugar-coated here.”
Piper assumed he meant the North Pole’s seasonal displays. She wondered how many miles of lights and garland were involved in decorating the town square alone.
“I should let you get back to your vacation,” Gavin said, rising from the patio chair. “I hope you’ll have a good Christmas—wherever you decide to spend it.”
She watched him move down the path again. A look at Micah found him subdued, watching Gavin walk away. There was a little disappointment in his eyes.
She should stick to her plan and check them out of the hotel in the morning. They would have fun, just the two of them, somewhere far away from the disappointment of Micah’s misguided letter to Santa.
But instead, she leaned forward and called out, “Mr. Wincott! Gavin!” Waiting until he turned back around, she asked him, “What time does that sandcastle festival start?”
“Nine o’clock. About half a mile down the s
hore. You’ll see the banner for it.”
“All right,” she said, her glance meeting Micah’s hopeful one. “Then I guess we’ll see you there. If you’re around. ”
Gavin gave a slow nod, his smile returning. “See you there.”
*****
Beach umbrellas poked from the sand, like big pinwheels of color in a stretch of white. Piper and Micah crossed under the banner for the annual Christmas Castle Festival, joining the crowd of morning beach enthusiasts. People who paired bathing suits with sunglasses and Santa hats were already sculpting shapes from wet-packed sand, everything from dolphins to polar bears.
Piper spotted Mr. Wincott—Gavin, that is—standing on the shore. Barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, he was busy scanning the crowd. When he saw them, a friendly smile fell in place, as he called out, “Morning.”
With his muscular build and golden-brown hair, he fit perfectly with their surroundings. A thought Piper quickly chased away, as she told him, “Looks like quite the event.”
She was wearing a bathing suit which hadn't seen daylight in ages — she almost hadn't packed it, afraid that it was too tight-fitting and too out of style after years of being folded in a drawer. For a moment, she thought Gavin's glance was one of admiration, but if so, he quickly hid it with a friendly, polite smile. That made her a little less suspicious of him, strangely enough. "I guess a lot of people come for this, judging from the crowd," she added.
“It’s a big deal around here,” he agreed. In a lower voice, he confided, “I thought you might not show up. I thought I'd come just to see.”
“Well, we did,” she answered, though, in fact, she had laid awake the night before, debating the best thing to do. All of this seemed a little too different from the Christmases she knew. Sunbathing and seventy degree weather weren’t exactly what she had in mind when she first suggested they take a holiday getaway.
Micah was excited, though. Armed with the sand scoop and pail they had purchased from the resort’s gift shop, he was looking with curiosity at the displays taking shape around them. "Where do I start?" he asked Gavin, looking at him expectantly.
