Page 3 of The Christmas Letters
“Oh, of course,” Mrs. Greenly says, cutting me off. “We already have four dozen letters for Santa, and we’ll have twice that by the end of November. And then there’s the Christmas Eve Gala. Lydia is over the decorations, but there are probably other parts that—”
“What about the hospital?” I blurt. “Is there a group that visits the children’s hospital?”
Mrs. Greenly’s face lights up. “There sure is. Julie Waterson heads that group. I’ll send you the schedule and let Julie know. She’ll be thrilled to have a young face joining her team.” She gives me an expectant look. “What else?”
“Oh. I was thinking if I started with just the hospital—”
“How are you at fundraising?” she asks, cutting off my protests.
“No fundraising for me,” I say a little too quickly. “That’s my mother’s territory.”
Mrs. Greenly frowns. “The silent auction, then? We’re gathering art this year. Do you know anything about art? My Trish is heading that up. I’m sure she’d love to spend some time with you and catch up.”
I shake my head, hoping Mrs. Greenly doesn’t remember the art history degree I earned from the College of Charleston. I may be more qualified than most, but I’d rather eat my diploma than intentionally spend time with Trish Greenly. She was my mortal enemy through all of cotillion, and she poured a glass of punch on my dress at my debutante ball. She swears it was an accident, but I saw the gleam in her eye. Not even the three weeks I spent connecting with my inner peace on the shores of Bali could give me enough Zen to deal with Trish any longer than absolutely necessary.
“I don’t think art is my thing either,” I say, which is the truth. I didn’t pick the degree. My mother did. Because it’s a “perfectly respectable degree that will serve you well when you’re a hostess to your husband’s important guests.”
Mrs. Greenly taps her pen against the desk. “Well, I suppose you could handle the letters to Santa. It’s tedious work, but you could do it from home.”
I immediately perk up, liking the idea of doing something from home. “What would that involve?”
“It’s easy, really; we have drop boxes at several post offices around town and at the fire station over on Elm Street. You’ll need to gather the letters once a week or so, open them, read them, and respond. We like the responses to be handwritten so they feel more authentic—you know, so the children think they’re getting something directly from the North Pole—but you write the same thing in every letter, just filling in the child’s name and address. No creativity required.”
“So I just write out the letter and mail one to each kid?”
“That’s it.” She stands and walks across the room, pulling an oversized file box from the shelf behind me. The box is covered in faded Christmas paper that’s wrinkled and lifted at the corners. It looks absolutely ancient. “These are the letters we’ve gathered so far. Plus a key that will open the collection boxes at each location.”
I lift the lid and look inside. The top letter is addressed in crayon toSanta Claus, The North Pole.
Mrs. Greenly has no idea how happy she’s made me. I’m volunteering for TWO different jobs, both of which I can do without having to come back here at all. This is better than I ever imagined.
I stand up, letter box in hand. “This looks great, Mrs. Greenly. Thanks so much for your help.”
“Well thank you for being so willing.” She reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder. “We were all so happy when your mother told us you were back in town. I’m sure it was embarrassing after everything that happened, but there’s nothing to worry about. You’re with us now. We’ll get you right as rain before you know it.”
“Honestly, Mrs. Greenly,” I say, forcing the tension out of my jaw, “I’ve never felt morerightthan I do right now.”
“Of course, darling,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Will you be at the yacht club this weekend? I heard the Stagers’ son is back in town for a visit.” She raises her eyebrows, suggestion heavy in her eyes.
I swallow a groan. Spending time with Johnny Stager almost sounds worse than curating art with Trish Greenly. “I don’t think I can make it this weekend. But thanks for thinking of me. Will you tell Johnny I said hi?”
I finally escape Mrs. Greenly and the stuffy Southern Society offices and step into the muggy Charleston air. Even in November, we have as many warm days as we do cool ones and we started today on the warmer side. But a surprisingly cool breeze is blowing now, lifting the hem of my skirt, and I breathe deeply, savoring the unexpected chill.
I look at the sky. The palm trees lining the street are swaying against a backdrop of heavy storm clouds. That explains the breeze. I hurry toward my car, knowing from experience how quickly a Charleston storm can hit. I open the passenger side door and drop my purse and the box of letters inside, pulling out my keys and my wallet. I’m too close to Vera’s Coffee not to get that macchiato I’ve been craving, but the brushed leather of my purse willnotdo well in the rain.
If I’m lucky, I’ll make it back to the car before the storm starts. Either way, at least my purse is safe.
Vera’s is more crowded than it should be on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon, the line reaching almost to the door. When I finally turn away from the counter, macchiato in hand, rain is sliding down the front windows of the coffee shop in thick sheets.
This isn’t just the kind of rain that might ruin my purse. This is the kind of rain that could completely wash me away.
I walk to the window and look toward my car. It isn’tthatfar. A block and a half, maybe. But I’m not wearing the shoes to run for it, especially not while holding my very full macchiato.
So…I guess I’m waiting outthe storm at Vera’s.
I drop into a chair at an empty table, but without my purse, I don’t even have my phone.
I’ve never felt so naked.
