The Perfect Gift

C H A P T E R 🎄13

L I S A

I was plagued by uncertainty. What did I want? And could I even have what I wanted? Was it there for the taking?How could I walk away from my company—my entire lifen—and start over?

Then again, I wanted to be near Rosie and Miles. And I was feeling more and more at home in Greenfield.

It was a conundrum.

I walked through the gallery, collecting my thoughts as I went. I stopped to pick up a price tag that had been knocked loose, and I reaffixed it to a painting of a sailor.

We'd been working all over the gallery, preparing for the big influx of customers we expected for the festival.

I reached the front doors and pushed them open, stepping out onto the snowy streets. A taxi puttered past. An older man and a woman sat in the back seat.

They were clearly a couple. The woman rode with her head leaned on the man's shoulder, his arm around her and holding her close. The sight of them made me long for such a moment with Roseanne.

A brief flash of myself, Rosie, and Miles riding together after a long day of Christmas shopping popped into my mind. I couldn't help but relish the fantasy.

There had been so many times I'd wished I could find Rosie over the past five years. I'd even wondered what it would be like to have a child with her.

But arriving in Greenfield and discovering not only her, but our son, had been discombobulating, to say the least.

At that moment, standing on the sidewalk outside of the Greenfield Gallery, I realized that I wasn't against the idea of being a mother at all.

The problem wasn't Miles. The problem was Rosie and how she felt about me. Or didn't, for that matter.

I began to walk aimlessly through the town. Some part of my mind must have wanted to keep moving, despite the December chill. My breath came in white puffs as I strolled down streets decorated with merry ornaments.

Frosty the Snowman smiled with a "Merry Christmas" sign on top of a light pole. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer hung from a wire across the street so that at night, when the lights came on, it looked as if he were soaring. And, of course, Jolly Old St. Nick was everywhere, smiling his cherubic smile.

None of it lifted my spirits. My holiday cheer had been subsumed by the miasma of my doubts and fears.

I stopped in front of a large painted wooden likeness of Santa in a quiet park. I thrust my hands in my pockets, the cold air turning my cheeks numb and red.

Something came over me, and I found myself addressing Santa like a living idol.

"Hey, there, big guy." I sighed. "Feels weird talking to you. Haven't talked to Santa or written a letter in a long time."

My voice grew colder.

"Of course, my parents told me you weren't real when I was three. Three! Can you imagine doing that to a kid? Sucking all the joy out of the holidays, all of the magic and the wonder?"

I shook my head.

"Ah, it's not your fault, big man. They actually thought they were doing me a favor, if you can believe that."

I adopted my father's gruff diction.

"Look here, daughter, we didn't want to fill up your head with that nonsense. It was important to give you an advantage. Belief in Santa Claus is irrational. Your mother and I insisted you be raised to think rationally."

I leaned against the Santa cutout.

"I still wanted to believe in you, though. So, I wrote you a lot of letters in secret and stuffed them in the mailbox when my parents weren't looking. I guess I figured out that you weren't real when I asked for a Lego castle set when I was seven and I got a book on finance under the tree instead."