Page 11 of Christmas By Lamplight
The next day blurred into frenzied preparations. Shannon handled logistics while Carrie set up the reading corner, tested the video equipment, and arranged the special edition books and the small stack of letters. The local news confirmed they would send a reporter, and a local podcaster was going to livestream the event.
At six-thirty, the event space began filling up with family members, while others watched the livestream from the bookstore. Parents brought their children, and elderly couples attended who remembered when downtown Hollydale’s main street was thriving. Teenagers who’d heard about the event on social media were there, and Mrs. Snyder arrived with her bridge club.
At six forty-five, there was no Santa in sight.
“Where is he?” Shannon hissed. “Carrie, if he bailed?—”
In the doorway, a figure in full Santa regalia appeared—red suit, white beard, black boots, the works. Only the eyes were visible, dark and familiar beneath the white eyebrows and red hat.
“Ho ho ho,” Tanner said dryly. “Are you sure they won’t recognize me?”
“You look perfect.” Carrie adjusted his beard. “Can you breathe?”
“Barely.”
“More importantly, can you read?”
“We’re about to find out.”
At seven p.m., Carrie welcomed everyone, explained the partnership with the hospital, and introduced the special books they’d donated. Then she brought out Santa.
The children in the crowd gasped with delight. The adults smiled. Tanner/Tom/Santa settled into the reading chair he’d fixed just days ago, and Carrie handed him the first letter.
“This is from Hailey,” he said, searching the group of children before him. She raised her hand, and he smiled.
“Dear Santa,” Tanner read, his voice warm and steady through the beard. “I wish I could go home and see my dog, Biscuit, on Christmas morning. He doesn’t understand why I’m gone. Can you tell him I miss him?”
The room went quiet. Tanner looked at Hailey.
“Well, Hailey,” he said. “I had a talk with Biscuit just the other day—Santa has special ways of talking to dogs, you know. He told me he misses you too, but he wants you to know he understands you’re getting better. Dogs are smart that way. They know that sometimes people have to be away so they can come back stronger. He’s waiting for you and keeping your spot on the couch warm for when you get home.”
A beaming Hailey clapped.
Tanner’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. He reached for the next letter.
“This is from Marco.” Marco raised his hand. He read the wish about Marco’s sister being old enough to visit. “Marco, I checked with the North Pole rules department. Oh, yes, we have rules that apply only at Christmas. And I pulled some strings.” A woman, clearly Marco’s mother, led a young girl to Marco’s wheelchair, and they hugged.
After a few moments passed and a few eyes were wiped, Santa said, “The best presents aren’t always the ones under the tree. Sometimes they’re the ones that show up when you need them most.”
Marco smiled through his tears.
Then came Jade’s letter—the one about snow.
Tanner read it slowly. When he finished, he was quiet. Then:
“Dear Jade, snow is patient. It waits for the perfect moment, and then it falls when you least expect it. I can’t bring it inside the hospital, but I can promise you this: when you see it again, it’ll be even more beautiful than you remembered. Until then, close your eyes and imagine it. Remember that each snowflake is different, just like you. So that means you’re already carrying a little bit of winter magic inside you.”
The reporter from the local news took photos, while the podcaster filmed. Parents dabbed their eyes, while Mrs. Snyder, eyes streaming, pulled several tissues from her purse.
And then Tanner did an unexpected thing. He pulled out a book from beside his chair—not one they’d planned, but a worn copy of A Christmas Carol from the shop’s classics section—and he read.
“Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.”
His voice filled the room, the same voice Carrie had been swooning over for months, but it was different in person, warmer and more real.
The children in the hospital watched, transfixed. The crowd grew still. Even Shannon, who’d been manning the donations table, had abandoned her post to listen.
As he read, a murmur rippled through the crowd. People leaned toward each other, whispering. Recognition dawning. That voice. That familiar, unmistakable voice.
