Page 16 of The Christmas Letters
My thoughts turn to Drew. He lost his parents too, and it strikes me as odd that I would read this letter today, right after hearing Drew tell me a similar story. I mean, I know it happens. Accidents happen. People die. But two stories in one day? It makes me wonder what the statistics actually are. How many kids are orphaned every year? And how do they ever make it through?
I may grumble about my parents, but I’m not unaware of my privilege. I still have them both in my life, and I’ve never wanted for anything. It’s a sobering reminder to be grateful, even for a family that isn’t perfect.
I do some quick math, looking again at the postage date stamped on the outside of the letter. If Max was ten when he wrote to Santa, that means he’s close to my age now.
I refold the letter and slip it back into the envelope, but instead of putting it in the box with the others, I tuck it inside my purse. This one feels special enough to give it a little extra care.
I put the lid on the box, then cross to my bedroom to grab a hoodie and pull on my Uggs. The entire time, I can’t shake the thought of the little boy with no parents.
Does Max still live on Sullivan’s Island? Does his grandmother? What did he think when he didn’t get a response from Santa? But then, even if he had gotten a response, it wouldn’t have been the one he wanted.
He wouldn’t have gotten his parents back.
I hate that I’ll never know how things turned out for him.
Wherever he is, whatever his life has become, I hope he’s okay. I hope he’shappy.
Chapter Four
Tess
It’sjustbeforesevenwhen I arrive at Francie’s, and the cafe is mostly empty with only a few people sitting at a table next to the window. I glance over the display case of pastries, tarts, quiches, and pre-made sandwiches, nearly picked clean.
I smile at the woman behind the counter and cross my fingers. “Please tell me you still have some chicken salad left.”
The woman grins back. “Enough for a couple of sandwiches, I’d guess.”
“Oh, good. My very pregnant friend will be so happy to hear it. Go ahead and give me everything you’ve got left.”
She chuckles easily. “It’s not the first time an expectant mama has craved my chicken salad. Can I get you anything else to go with it?”
“You’re Francie?” I ask, suddenly feeling a little starstruck. This woman’s food is famous all over the Lowcountry.
“Have been all my life,” she says easily.
I add a couple of cinnamon rolls to the order and a loaf of sourdough bread—Chloe has always loved sourdough—then a thought suddenly pops into my head. Francie’s has been around as long as I can remember, and Sullivan’s isn’t a big island.
Would she know anything about the mystery letter I found?
“Hey, do you mind if I ask you a question?” I ask as Francie hands over my food.
“I can’t guarantee I’ll know the answer, but I reckon asking won’t hurt anything.”
I smile, loving the soft lilt to Francie’s Southern accent. Lowcountry island Southern has a sound all its own. It’s softer, gentler, rounder than a typical Southern drawl.
I pull out the letter. “Old Magnolia Road is on Sullivan’s, right?”
Francie nods. “Sure. It runs along the water a block over.”
I already knew as much but asking about geography felt like a smart lead-in question. “Do you happen to know if someone named Max lives on Old Magnolia?”
Francie narrows her eyes. “That’s kinda general. There might be plenty of people named Max on the island. Why are you asking?”
“I don’t mean any harm,” I say quickly, sensing Francie growing a little wary. This woman is likely loyal to her fellow islanders, and for all she knows, I’m just a stranger snooping around. I’ll probably get closer to an answer if I stick to the truth.
I hold up the letter. “I found this. I do volunteer work with an organization that answers letters to Santa. But this one got stuck in the box, and no one ever answered it. It’s from a little boy named Max. He would be an adult now, close to my age.”
Francie’s expression softens, and she holds out her hand. “May I?”
