Page 7 of Postmarked December

When the toast popped, Marion plated a piece for each of them and dished up their eggs. As she returned the plates to the table, Heather’s progress slowed. In her hand was a red-and-white envelope with a dark green seal.

Marion craned her neck to see it as she retrieved the butter. “That’s a pretty envelope. Who’s it from?”

“I’m not sure. There’s no return address.” She squinted at the postmark. “It’s marked Franklin, Tennessee.” She opened the envelope as she racked her brain for possible friends who lived twenty-five minutes’ drive from her in the lovely little town of Franklin.

Inside wasn’t a card but a single sheet of paper. She read the message.

While “Christmas With You” is my favorite holiday song, I’d rather sing “All I Want for Christmas is You.” Got a corkscrew ready? Let’s have ourselves a bottle of wine. Go get us another. You know where to go. Merry Christmas.

Heather froze, the note falling to the floor.

“You okay?” Marion rushed to her side.

Tears sprang to Heather’s eyes at the memory: two Christmases ago, Toby yanking her into his arms while Mariah Carey played too loudly over the speaker in their apartment. They’d been out to dinner with friends and had too much wine, and he’d insisted on having more. They’d bought a bottle of Tennessee blackberry wine when they were shopping in Franklin, and she’d saved it to gift someone the next time they went to a party.

“Let’s open it,” he urged, giving her a spin.

“No.” She giggled. “It’s for a special occasion.”

“There’s no better occasion than this!” He dipped her as the music pulsed around them. He pressed his lips to hers, neither of them having any idea of what they’d face the next year.

“You’re white as a ghost. Do you need to sit?” Marion said.

Heather didn’t move.

Marion picked up the sheet of paper and studied it. “Who wrote this?”

Tears streamed down Heather’s cheeks. “I have no idea.”

Surely Toby couldn’t come back to me to help me through Christmas… Could he? That’s just silly. But it was the first thing to come to mind. Heather mustered the strength to address Marion again.

“The message reads as if it’s from Toby. He’d be the only one to know these things. Could this be some kind of prank?”

“Is it his handwriting?” Marion asked.

Heather scrutinized it. “It could be. It’s hard to say.” It had been so long since he’d been able to write legibly, and his notebooks were full of rushed, scratched-down lyrics, that she couldn’t remember what his handwriting looked like when he took time and tried. It sort of looked like his old writing. She dared not believe that it was.

“Maybe it was a well-meaning but poorly executed gesture?” Marion wrinkled her nose, concern written on her face. “Or could someone have been holding it for him and mailed it just now?”

Heather didn’t answer. She was too busy studying the envelope. Franklin was where they’d bought that wine. And the post date was two days ago. Had anyone seen them buy the wine two years prior? Certainly not. They’d gone in through the back door, and the owner had secured the shop. No one knew about that night—she hadn’t even told Marion. How could anyone have known? She took the letter from her friend and peered down at it through the haze of tears.

“If he did get someone to send it, why would he send this message to me? Why would he randomly want me to have a bottle of wine?”

Marion shrugged, looking perplexed. “Maybe he thought you might need it?”

Heather tried to make sense of the note, but nothing made sense. Her mind was a muddle. She dared not consider that she’d actually thought about what he’d want for Christmas this year, and what she’d want… Was it his gift? As much as she’d hoped for it, there was no way he could answer her… Right?

She pulled the envelope open to make sure there wasn’t something she’d missed, but nothing else was inside. There was no return address of any kind.

Fighting off the feeling of lightheadedness, she recounted to Marion the story of that night with Toby and the wine, explaining that they’d been inside—just the two of them—when they’d had the wine, and no one had seen them.

The memory was too good, too happy, and she broke down.

“Do you have some kind of stalker in the apartment?” Marion rubbed her back and gazed around the room protectively, scanning the ceiling and walls.

“I feel nauseous.” Heather hiccupped, the tears still flowing.

“Should we call the police?” Marion went over to the window and looked both ways down the street.