“Okay, Punkin,” Ivy said, rousting the dog from the sun-soaked spot he’d claimed by the front window. “I’m gonna walk into town to do some paperwork and maybe rustle up some caffeine. You stay here and guard the chickens, okay?”
Punkin raised his muzzle, sniffed the air, and went right back to sleep.
It was just after eleven, and the air was cold and crisp, with what her father called bluebird skies. Ivy scuffed along through the fallen leaves on the narrow two-lane blacktop road into town, waving at the occasional truck or car that slowed, then passed by. As she walked, her thoughts returned to the poignant note tucked in the pocket of the Santa suit.
Maybe, while she was in town, she could find out more about the identity of the note’s author.
Tarburton was clearly a town that got behind Christmas. Display windows in the shops around the square were decked out for the holidays, all the utility poles wore large evergreen wreaths with perky red bows, and in the center of the square itself was a towering Fraser fir glittering with oversized white, silver, and gold ornaments and lights.
Ivy wandered around the business district until she spotted a café called The Coffee Cup.
Every booth in the café was occupied, but she slid onto an empty stool at the counter right next to the cash register. The walls were egg yolk yellow and the countertop was yellow Formica and the room buzzed with dozens of conversations.
“Coffee?” The waitress placed a thick china mug before her and started to pour before Ivy had time to answer.
“You know what you want to eat?” The waitress looked to be about Ivy’s age, with white blond hair swept into a high ponytail and dark penciled-on eyebrows.
“Could I see a menu?”
The waitress slid a laminated sheet of paper in front of Ivy. “You must be new in town, huh?”
Ivy scanned the menu. “Yes, I just moved in.” She was trying to decide between a club sandwich and a hot roast beef sandwich.
“The special’s good today. Pork chop, baked apples, and collard greens,” the waitress said, pointing to a piece of paper clipped to the menu. “Whereabouts did you move to? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I’ll have the special, then,” Ivy said. “Do you know Four Roses Farm?”
“You mean the Christmas house? Bob and Betty Rae’s old place? I didn’t even know it was for sale.”
“That’s the one,” Ivy said. “Did you happen to know the Roses? I found this old Santa suit, and there’s a note in the pocket I’m wondering about.…”
“You want that chop fried or baked?” the waitress asked.
“Baked.”
“Corn bread or biscuit?”
“Biscuit.”
“Got it.” The waitress walked away, scribbling on her order pad.
Ivy sipped her coffee and half listened to the buzz of conversation surrounding her. Ten minutes later, the waitress slid a heaping plate in front of her. “Thanks,” Ivy said.
“Are y’all gonna start lighting up the Christmas house again this year?” the waitress asked, tucking Ivy’s check under the edge of the plate.
Ivy shook her head. There was no “y’all” at the farmhouse, unless you included Punkin, but she knew from experience that he was useless at chores that required opposable thumbs.
“Afraid not,” she said, taking a bite of pork chop. “I just moved in, and there’s so much to do, because the house hasn’t been lived in—”
“Well, that’s a damn shame,” the waitress said, cutting her off. She flounced off to the far end of the counter. As Ivy ate her lunch she saw the waitress leaning across the counter, conversing with another diner in a loud whisper, her eyes shooting daggers in Ivy’s direction.
She hurriedly finished her lunch and set off across the square to finish her errands.
* * *
At the county courthouse, a small but stately white Greek Revival building, she stopped at the animal control office and applied for Punkin’s dog tag and presented his vet records for rabies certification. Then she found the clerk’s office and filled out the paperwork to change her voter registration and file for homestead exemption.
“So, you’re the lady who bought Four Roses, huh?” asked the clerk as he looked over the documents she’d just filled out. He was an older man who looked to be in his early sixties. The name badge pinned to his carefully starched shirt read: “Herman Schoonover.”
“Welcome to Tarburton.”
She waited to be asked about the Christmas lights, but he busied himself typing something into his computer.
“Thanks,” she said. “Did you know the Rose family?”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “Everybody knew Bob and Betty Rae, rest their souls. They were the salt of the earth. They sure made Christmas special for the folks in this town.”
“I understand Mr. Rose used to play Santa Claus,” Ivy said.
“That’s right. Every kid who grew up in these parts sat on Santa Bob’s lap over the years, my own kids and grandkids included.”
“I know it’s a long shot,” Ivy said. “But I’m looking for a father and daughter who I think used to live around here. The father’s name is Everett, and the daughter’s name was Carlette. And I think the father must have served in the military. Probably Vietnam?”
“Last name?”
“I’m hoping you can tell me.”
Mr. Schoonover scratched his nose while he thought about it. “No, those names don’t ring a bell, but I didn’t move to town until the mid-eighties. Which makes me a newcomer to some folks.”
“Like me,” Ivy said, handing him her paperwork.
“Any special reason you’re looking for these folks?” he asked.
Ivy hesitated. It sounded far-fetched, even to her. “I found a note. In the pocket of Mr. Rose’s Santa suit, from this little girl named Carlette, asking Santa to bring her father home safely. From the war. It … touched me.”
“Wish I could help you,” Mr. Schoonover said. He puffed out his chest a little. “I’m an old Navy man myself.” He tapped some keys on his computer, nodded, and looked up. “Okay. You’re all squared away here. Have yourself a good Christmas, you hear?”
It had started to warm up while she was in the courthouse, so Ivy decided to check out the town square. There was a fountain in the middle, near the soldier’s memorial statue, and she’d noticed it had a special spigot, close to the ground, for dogs. Now that Punkin was a legal resident, she’d bring him along on her next visit to town.
She sat on a bench near the memorial, enjoying the feel of the winter sun on her face as she took inventory of the shops around the square. From here she spotted a hardware store and a gift shop, the café where she’d had lunch, a candy shop, and a florist.
“Hi!”
The young woman stood a few feet away. She was in her early twenties, Ivy thought, with dark, expressive eyes, long, wavy brown hair, and a shy smile, and she looked vaguely familiar.
“Hi,” Ivy said.
“Don’t think I’m weird, but I work in the clerk’s office, and I couldn’t help but overhear you just now, asking Mr. Schoonover about someone named Carlette? My name’s Phoebe Huddleston, by the way.”