“Hi, Phoebe, I’m Ivy Perkins. You don’t seem too weird to me. What’s up?”
“The thing is, my mom’s best friend’s name, growing up, was Carlette. She almost named me that, but anyway, it’s not a real common name, so I thought—”
“Maybe your mom knew Carlette? And her family?” Ivy asked eagerly.
“Mom lives over in Rockdale, but I’m going over there this weekend, so I could ask, if you want. Or maybe you could come with me and ask her yourself. She loves having company.”
Ivy thought about everything she needed to accomplish at Four Roses Farm before the moving truck with her belongings arrived. There were more closets and cupboards to be emptied, the broken window in her bedroom needed to be replaced, and she wanted to walk her new property and check out the old chicken coop. Her to-do list was long and time was short.
But. The prospect of discovering the fate of Carlette’s father was irresistible. She took out a scrap of paper and scribbled her phone number on it. “Here’s how to reach me. I would love to meet your mom and ask about Carlette.”
Chapter 4
Ivy stood back from the fireplace wall to admire her progress. She’d spent the morning painting the parlor. The color she’d chosen was a soft blue-gray-green that seemed to change as the light shifted in the room. It was the exact color—or so she hoped—of the eggs her Araucana chicks would lay, eventually.
She’d made another surprise discovery too, while getting ready to paint the front doorframe. A small wooden carved object with Hebrew lettering, which had been screwed to the right side of the doorframe.
“Huh.” It looked to be a mezuzah. It was yet another puzzle, finding a traditional symbol of the Jewish faith—at a home owned by a family known far and wide for their embrace of all things Christmas.
She heard the sound of a vehicle in the driveway. Punkin heard it too and gave a short, sharp bark. When she looked out the window she saw a large box truck parked there, and Ezra Wheeler and a helper were wheeling a furniture dolly onto the porch.
“Hi!” she said, opening the front door. “I thought you’d call to let me know you were coming?”
“No time,” Ezra said. He gestured to the other man, who was burly and bald. “Jake, meet Ivy. She’s the one I told you about.”
Jake looked around the living room. Ivy had managed to shove most of the furniture into a corner, with the exception of the bulky sofa.
“You’re donating all this to the community thrift store? What are you going to sit on?”
“My own furniture should be here Monday,” Ivy said. “Until then, I’ve got a chair and a little table in the kitchen. I don’t need more than that.”
“Okay,” Jake said. “You’re the boss.”
Two hours later, all the rooms in the house were bare, with the exception of a mattress in Ivy’s bedroom and the wooden table and chair in the kitchen.
The men’s voices echoed in the high-ceilinged living room as they moved the last item, a heavy wooden footlocker. As they rolled the furniture dolly over the front doorjamb, the chest slipped off the dolly and fell, spilling papers and file folders all over the floor.
“Sorry,” Jake said, examining a gash in the wooden floor.
Ivy knelt down, gathering up the papers. There were old newspaper clippings, greeting cards, photographs, and letters. So many letters, all addressed simply “SANTA, Tarburton, NC.”
“Look at this!” she exclaimed, holding up a black-and-white photo of the jolly old elf himself, seated on an elaborately tufted chair, holding a little girl in his lap.
“Yup, that’s Santa Bob,” Jake said, examining the photo.
Ivy read the hand-lettering on the back. “Atkins Dept. Store, 1962. Darlene Meyers.” She picked up another photo, this one of Mr. and Mrs. Claus, standing on a parade float, waving to bystanders. “Christmas Parade 1990.”
She scooped up a handful of letters and replaced them in a folder marked SANTA LETTERS and showed them to Ezra. “Some of these postmarks go back to the 1960s. Looks like Big Bob kept every letter from every child he ever received.”
Jake shifted from one foot to the other, looking down at the trunk. “Uh, sorry to break up this little sentimental journey, y’all, but I gotta get this truck back.”
Ivy sighed. “It’s just a shame to throw away this stuff. I wonder if the local historical society would want any of it.”
“We could just leave the trunk here,” Jake said hopefully.
“Yes, please,” she said, laughing. “Sorry for the change of heart.”
While Jake went to stow the furniture dolly, Ezra looked around the now-bare room. The only remaining item, with the exception of the ladder, was Punkin’s bed, near the hearth.
“I like the paint job,” he said. His voice echoed in the high-ceilinged room. “But what happened to the chicks?”
“I moved them out to the kitchen where they get the morning sun, then I’ll bring them back here to the living room later in the afternoon.”
“Where’ll you put your Christmas tree?” he asked.
“I wasn’t planning on getting a tree this year,” Ivy said. “I mean, it’s just me and Punkin. Anyway, my ex got all our Christmas decorations in the divorce settlement.”
“All of them? That kind of sucks, doesn’t it?”
Ivy shrugged. “Most of them were from his family. I don’t mind. Decorating for Christmas isn’t really a priority for me this year what with all I need to do around here.”
“Like what?”
She ticked off the items on her list. “Number one is replace the missing pane of glass in the bedroom window. I’m afraid I’ll eventually have to replace or reglaze all these drafty old windows. But in the meantime, there’s another missing pane in the back bedroom window, and then my bathroom sink is stopped up, and I want to replace that front door lock because it really is too tricky. And then there’s the chicken coop…”
“I might know a guy,” Ezra said. A horn honked from the driveway. “Okay, I’d better go.”
* * *
Her new friend, Phoebe, called just as Ivy was washing the last traces of paint from her hands and arms.
“Hey, Ivy. My mom said she’d love to talk to you about her friend Carlette. I’m going over there this afternoon, and you could go with me if you want.”
“I’d love that,” Ivy said.
“I’ll pick you up at four.”
* * *
Sally Huddleston read the Santa letter out loud, then folded it and handed it back to Ivy.
“This brings back so many memories,” she said, sighing. “Carlette and her mama lived across the street from my family, growing up on Spruce Street. I believe that house belonged to Mr. Jones’s parents, and they were staying there while Mr. Jones was off in Vietnam.”
“Jones?” Ivy said eagerly. “That was her last name?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Huddleston nodded. “I know her daddy’s name was Everett, and her mama’s name was something with a D. Debra? Or Donna? Of course, I always just called her Mrs. J. I asked my own mother once why Mrs. J. hardly ever smiled or laughed, and she said it was because of the war.”