The front of the postcard featured a color photo of Cinderella Castle at Disney World.
The girlish handwriting on the back was full of flourishes:
Hi, Granddaddy. We are at Disney World, having a great time. Mom said I shouldn’t tell you, but I think you should know that she got married, and we are here on her honeymoon. Walter says he was Daddy’s friend in the Army. I miss you and I’m sorry about Granny. Love, Carlette.
Ivy raised an eyebrow.
“Walter Ramsberger was best man at Ev and Diana’s wedding. He and Ev went through basic training together and shipped out to Vietnam at the same time. Walter came back, but like I said, Ev didn’t.”
The other card was a formal graduation announcement:
MR. AND MRS. WALTER RAMSBERGER ANNOUNCE THE GRADUATION OF THEIR DAUGHTER, CARLETTE DIANE, FROM ROCKY SHOALS SENIOR HIGH SCHOOL, FORT MILL, S.C., MAY 5, 1982.
“I sent her a graduation card with a hundred-dollar bill in it,” the old man said. “Mailed to the last address I had for Diana. But I guess they must have moved, because the card came back unopened.”
His hand strayed to Punkin’s head, and he stroked the dog’s ears.
“So you completely lost touch with your granddaughter?” Ivy said. “That’s so sad.”
“It is,” he agreed. “I moved back here to this house, after Polly died. I brought my sweetheart home to be buried in the family plot at Piney Grove, like she wanted. Everett’s remains are there too. I had no ties to Seattle, and well, I keep hoping, someday, I’ll hear that doorbell ring and I’ll look out and see that little girl standing on my doorstep again.”
He busied himself putting the two cards back into the picture frame, and when he looked up again tears glistened behind the glasses. “Maybe that’s why I answered the door today. I’m a foolish old man, I know. Carlette would be a grown woman now. Might have grandkids of her own. I wonder if I’d recognize her, if I saw her again. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Have you ever tried to track her down?” Ivy asked, her voice gentle.
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Mr. Jones said. “Anyway, what’s the point? All that is ancient history now.” His hands shook badly as he stroked Punkin’s head, and Ivy felt guilty for knocking on this stranger’s door and stirring up old heartache.
“Okay,” she said, nodding agreement. “I understand.” She hesitated. “Would you like to keep Carlette’s note?”
Mr. Jones seemed surprised by her offer. “Yes,” he said finally. “I think I would.” He pulled himself up from his armchair and hobbled over to the television, an old-fashioned console affair with a bulbous screen and rabbit-ear antennas. He plucked a cut-glass jar from the top of the console.
He opened the jar and held it out to Ivy. “Here. Take one.”
The jar was full of cellophane-wrapped chocolate candies. Ivy took one and gave him a questioning look.
“These were Carlette’s favorites. I always keep them in the house. Don’t eat a lot of sweets myself, except for these.”
“I’m not really a sweets person either,” Ivy confessed.
“Try one of these,” Mr. Jones urged. “I buy ’em from a shop here in town. They’re different. Not too sweet. More minty.”
She obligingly peeled the wrapper away and tasted. He was right. The candy was dark chocolate, sweet with just a hint of pepper and a big dose of mint.
“Pretty good,” she admitted.
Lawrence Jones helped himself to a piece of candy. “I guess I just like the taste of peppermint. It reminds me of Christmas. And hope.”
Chapter 8
Ivy read and reread the email from her home-builder client. The words “severing our relationship” swam before her eyes. A nice way of saying she was fired.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it had. She’d never been fired before, never really failed at anything. Well, except at marriage. So now she was oh for two in just the past nine months.
She picked up a piece of the chocolate candy Lawrence Jones had pressed upon her, peeled off the cellophane, and sucked. The smell of peppermint and the slight peppery tang of the candy somehow eased the sting of rejection. She examined the printing on the wrapper and typed the company’s name into her computer’s search engine.
“Oh no,” she muttered, looking down at the company website. It looked like it had been designed by someone with less than a passing understanding of graphic design. Or public relations, or marketing.
It was clunky, even ugly. But she did manage to learn that Langley Sweets had been around for ninety years, was still owned by a member of the Langley family, Nancy Langley Bergstrom, and that their best-known product was the one she was holding in her hand—Dark Chocolate PepperyMint Patties.
“Not a bad name,” Ivy mused, but it, and the product itself, was the only thing to like about the public face of Langley Sweets. The website didn’t even have a link to buy the product, for heaven’s sake. The packaging, company logo, all of it, was completely mediocre and utterly charmless. There was a photo of the candy shop on the website, and she realized she’d passed the business several times on her trips downtown, without ever taking notice of it.
Ivy took another tentative taste of the PepperyMint. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Lawrence Jones was right. These candies were special. They conjured up hope, and holidays, and, well, even a little bit of magic.
She opened her laptop and began typing, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she conjured up a new advertising campaign for PepperyMint Patties.
“PepperyMint: So good they’ll take your breath away!”
But it wasn’t just words this brand needed; they needed new images too. Ivy’s mind turned to the old Christmas cards and Santa Claus photos and letters she’d discovered in the trunk currently residing in the otherwise-empty guest bedroom.
* * *
Ivy sat cross-legged on the floor of the bedroom. The folders of cards, letters, and photos were spilled haphazardly across the top layer of items in the trunk.
The letters to Santa tugged at her heartstrings.
Dear Santa: Please bring me an Easy-Bake Oven so I can help my mama cook. Her oven don’t work. Your friend, Amanda.
Santa Bob had made some kind of chicken-scratch notes on the back of the letter. Ivy could make out what looked like an address, but the rest was illegible.
Dear Santa: I would like a real big-leaguer catcher’s glove for Christmas. My dad says his old glove is good enough, but it’s way too big. P.S. We are moving soon, because my dad needs to find a job, but Mama says you’ll know where to find us. Sinserly, Mack Purdom.
Stapled to the bottom of the letter was what looked like a yellowing page torn from an old Sears, Roebuck catalog with a catcher’s mitt circled in red.
There were dozens of other letters, with requests for dolls, bicycles, skateboards, and even one for a real live panda bear, but only a few had notes scribbled on them—presumably by Santa himself. Ivy wondered idly about the meaning of the scribbles.
The old greeting cards were a treasure trove of ideas, with their retro images of impish elves, dancing Christmas trees, and grinning snowmen.