* * *
Her host leaned on his walker and lowered himself into a leather recliner. He motioned to the sofa. “Sit there. Is Punkin house-trained? I don’t want my carpet ruined.”
“Yes, sir,” Ivy said, seating herself on the sofa with Punkin crouched at her feet. “He’s very well trained.” The house was neat as a pin and as hot as an oven. Any oven except for the one at Ivy’s house. A small ceramic Christmas tree stood on a table in the corner of the room.
“By the way, I’m Lawrence E. Jones. I’ve owned this house since 1961. Now what’s this all about?”
“Jones?” Ivy sat up straight on the sofa. “Then, are you related to Diana Jones? And her daughter, Carlette?”
Mr. Jones clutched the handles of his walker. “Diana was my daughter-in-law. And Carlette was my granddaughter.”
Ivy realized she was holding her breath. She exhaled slowly. “And Everett?”
“Was my son.” He removed his glasses and wiped them on the sleeve of his sweater. Or the top layer of sweater. From where Ivy sat, it appeared that her host was wearing at least three sweaters. The outermost sweater was a navy blue cardigan, pilled on the front and unraveling at the sleeve.
“Why are you asking about my son and his family?”
“It’s a long story,” Ivy began. “I’m new in Tarburton. I just bought a farmhouse about a mile out of town. Maybe you knew Bob and Betty Rae Rose?”
“You bought Four Roses Farm?”
“Yes. I just moved in last week.”
“Does your husband farm?”
“No. I’m divorced.”
“So you’re the farmer?” He looked skeptical.
“Well, not yet. I mean, I have some chickens. And I have plans for a big garden, in the spring. I’ve already ordered my seeds.”
“What’s a young woman like you want with a decrepit old farmhouse like that? Nobody’s lived out there for years and years.”
“It’s not decrepit.” Ivy was offended on behalf of her new home. “It’s … well loved. It needs some work, that’s all. The roof is sound, and the plumbing works.…”
“I see.” Mr. Jones looked unconvinced.
“The thing is, the house came furnished, and I was cleaning out a closet in the master bedroom, and I found an old Santa Claus suit.”
“Santa Bob,” Mr. Jones said, nodding. “He was pretty much a legend in these parts. Betty Rae too. They were quite a couple. The wife and I used to take our little boy to see them at Atkins Department Store. And then we’d ride out to their place to see all the Christmas lights.”
“And Everett was that little boy?”
“That’s right.” His blue eyes searched her face. “Are you going to tell me what this has to do with my son?”
Ivy took the note from her pocket and handed it to Lawrence E. Jones. “I found this in the pocket of the Santa suit. It … touched me. I was intrigued.”
The old man read the note, tracing the childish scrawl with a bony fingertip. “Oh my.” He folded the note and handed it back. “Oh my.” He found a neatly pressed handkerchief in the pocket of his sweater and dabbed at his eyes. “Oh my goodness.”
Punkin crept closer to Mr. Jones’s chair. Ivy was astonished as the dog gently laid his muzzle in the old man’s lap.
“I take it … Carlette didn’t get her Christmas wish?” she asked.
“No,” Mr. Jones said softly. “Everett was a helicopter pilot with the Eighty-second Airborne. His chopper was shot down and he was declared missing in action in September of 1971. Diana didn’t want to tell Carlette what had happened, because, well, we were all praying he’d somehow be found alive.”
“I see.” Ivy folded and unfolded her hands in her lap, feeling her own eyes filling with unexpected tears.
“The Army didn’t officially declare him dead until three years later when the remains of the helicopter and Ev and the rest of his crew were found way out in the jungle,” Mr. Jones went on. “The waiting to hear was awful. For all of us, but most of all, for Diana. She and my granddaughter were living here in this house, because my company transferred me out to Seattle. She decided to stay here in Tarburton while Ev was overseas, because it was a free place to live.”
Ivy looked puzzled.
“Anyway, after we finally got the news that Everett was missing, Diana decided to move closer to her own folks, who lived down in South Carolina.”
“That makes sense,” Ivy said. “I talked to a neighbor, Sally Huddleston, who told me she and Carlette were best friends, but she lost track of Carlette, after the family moved away.”
He looked up sharply. “Sally? That must be the same little girl who lived across the street—in that house with the awnings. You talked to her?”
“Yes. I’ve become friends with her daughter Phoebe, who works at the courthouse.”
“Could I see the note again?” He held out his hand and she gave him the note.
He studied it closely.
“What about Carlette?” Ivy persisted. “And her mom? Where are they now?”
Lawrence Jones looked up. “I don’t mean to be rude, but why do you want to know? They’re strangers to you, right?”
“It’s the note,” Ivy said slowly. “It’s like a clue. Isn’t it? A little mystery. And since I found the note, somehow it feels like my responsibility. I’ve been wondering, since I found it, about Carlette, and her mama. And, of course, Everett. I’ve been wondering about Santa Bob too. I found a trunk full of letters from children to him, old Santa photos, and newspaper clippings. But why did he keep this one note, in the pocket of that suit? What was special about that particular letter?”
“I can’t answer that,” Mr. Jones said sadly. “If you find Carlette, maybe you could ask her yourself.”
Slowly, he pulled himself up from the chair and, with the aid of the walker, left the room. When he returned, he was holding a large, hinged picture frame, which he handed to Ivy.
The photo on the left showed a handsome young soldier in uniform, standing proudly in front of an American flag. “That’s Ev,” Mr. Jones said, pointing. The photo on the right showed a young teenage girl, with long coppery hair, braces, and a wisp of a smile.
“And that’s Carlette. Her eighth-grade school picture. It’s the last photo I have of her.”
Ivy handed the photo frame back to her host. “What happened?”
He lowered himself into his armchair, grimacing from the effort, and Punkin sat expectantly at his feet.
“The first couple years after she and her mom moved away, we’d hear from Diana pretty regular. We were still living out in Seattle, but we’d visit when we could, at Christmas and such. But then Polly, my wife, got sick with heart disease, and we couldn’t travel as much. She died in 1976. When Diana didn’t come to the funeral, didn’t even send a card, well, that hurt. I figured something was going on, but I kept on writing, sending birthday cards and such to Carlette.”
“Did Carlette write back, or call?”
Mr. Jones turned the frame over and slid the cardboard backing away from the girl’s photo. A color postcard and a thick square of vellum slid out. His hand shook as he handed both to his guest.