Page 12 of Christmas By Lamplight
Tanner kept reading, but his hands tightened on the book. He had to be hearing the murmurs of people realizing who he was.
Then a small child who looked about four years old walked up to Santa, fearless and curious, in the midst of his reading.
“You’re too thin for Santa,” the child announced.
Tanner paused. “I’ve been eating my vegetables.”
“Can I see your beard?”
“Oh, I don’t think?—”
But the child was already reaching up, tiny fingers grasping the white synthetic hair. And tugging.
The beard came away in the child’s hand.
Tanner Blake’s face was suddenly bare for everyone to see.
Chapter Four
The room went silent. Then the whispers started in earnest.
“That’s—”
“It’s him.”
“Tanner Blake.”
“Bad Santa.”
Hailey called out with delight, “You’re the story man! The one who was supposed to read to us before! My mom showed me your picture.”
Tanner sat frozen, the copy of Dickens still in his hands, his cover blown. He looked at Carrie—panic flashed in his eyes. The same panic from when she’d first recognized him in the shop.
Then something changed. Maybe it was Hailey’s recognition. Maybe it was the fact that he’d already read the letters, already given the children what they needed. Maybe it was exhaustion from hiding.
He stood, set down the book, and looked directly at the podcaster’s phone lens.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m Tanner Blake. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry the hospital lost their funding because of me. I’m sorry children nearly missed out on their Christmas story because I lost my temper on national television. I’m sorry I’ve let you down.” He paused. “But I’m here now. And if you’ll have me, I’d like to finish the story.”
The room stayed silent. The reporter’s camera, the podcaster’s phone, and a growing number of other phones were trained on him. This was it—the moment that would define whether his career recovered or died completely.
Hailey asked, “Will you do the voices? The scary ghost voices?”
Tanner’s laugh was surprised and genuine. “Yeah. I’ll do the voices.”
He picked up the book and kept reading. He did every voice—Scrooge, the ghosts, Tiny Tim. The children laughed, gasped, and smiled until Scrooge’s Christmas morning redemption.
When he finished, the crowd applauded. The hospital children cheered. And the reporter dabbed her eye.
Mrs. Snyder stood up. “Young man, how much was that lost fundraiser? A hundred thousand?”
Tanner nodded warily.
“Well.” She pulled out her checkbook. “I’m putting in a thousand. Who else?”
Oliver’s grandmother rose from her seat in the back, while Oliver clutched his new copy of Great Expectations. “Three years ago, Oliver had leukemia. The pediatric wing saved his life. We can never repay what they did, but we can help other families. Here’s ten thousand.”
The crowd went silent. Ten thousand dollars. From one family.
