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The girls wanted hot chocolate before pretzels, so the three of us stood in line at the hot cocoa stand, bouncing on the balls of our feet and shivering exaggeratedly to make each other laugh. It was only when I started spinning in circles, telling the girls this was the best way to warm up, that I caught a flash of Dr. Stephen Florris’s face behind us. I stopped spinning, staggered a little, then greeted him breathlessly. “Dr. Florris!”
“Hello,” he said. “Enjoying the festivities?”
“Of course.” I glanced at the giant hot chocolate sign. “The hot chocolate is for the girls, not me. I’m taking it way easy on the sugar, like you said.” The girls were still spinning and laughing, and probably looked as though the last thing they needed was more sugar.
“Well, I’m off the clock, so I promise not to report you if you have some.”
We both laughed at how funny he was. Funny, and also charming and relaxed, and not at all like a man whose life was imploding because he’d lost this Christmas’s must-have toy for children ages five through eight.
“Well, have a good night, Fran,” Dr. Stephen Florris said.
“You too.”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling—not quite as beautifully as Cass’s did—and then turned and walked away.
I stood there and enjoyed the view. Then, when he was swallowed up by a group of elderly people in matching festive scarves and hats, I sighed and kept staring, just in case he suddenly turned around and ran back toward me, exclaiming, “Fran! How could I have been so blind? You are everything I have ever wanted in my life, and I love you!”
And I would say, “I love you too, Dr. Stephen Florris. Now kiss me.”
And we would kiss, and be carried away on a rising swell of orchestral music.
“Daddy!” Em tugged on my coat, and I looked down at her. Her face was pinched with concern. “Daddy, you need to pay for the hot chocolate!”
I fumbled out an apology and my wallet.
We moved away from the line and stood in the glow of the visitor center to drink our hot chocolate. In the window display, tiny figure skaters spun shakily on a mirror. Em and Ada left mitten smudges against the glass as they pressed against it to take in every detail of the tableau.
“It’s magic!” Ada exclaimed. “Daddy, how do they do that?”
“Um,” I said. “Magnets? Remote controls?”
“Magic,” she decided. “Em, look! There’s a puppy!”
I grabbed them by the collars and manhandled them to the next window. “Look, this one’s a hockey game!”
In the middle of the move, when Ada had asked if our new house’s yard would be big enough for a dog, I might have said “yes.” Which wasn’t the same as agreeing we’d get a dog, but five-year-olds aren’t exactly known for their nuanced interpretation of answers. I knew that, but past me had just wanted to get them pumped up for the move so they thought we were on an exciting adventure instead of Daddy’s Downward Spiral, and I figured future me could talk his way out of it later. Now that later was here and future me was present me, I could see exactly where I’d gone wrong.
“We should get some caramel popcorn,” I said. Dr Stephen Florris wouldn’t approve, but he didn’t know about the dog thing, and how I really, really needed to distract my kids right now.
Also, caramel popcorn sounded amazing.
We got our popcorn and browsed the streetside craft stalls. I spent more money than I wanted to on cutesy Christmas decorations, but given that the amount I wanted to spend was “zero,” and the decorations the girls desperately needed were “all of them,” I got off pretty lightly. We ambled up toward the old Mercantile Bank, where the crowd was growing in anticipation of the mayor turning on the lights.
“Daddy, what are they doing?” Ada craned her neck to watch as an old man dressed as an elf came around holding a bright red bucket.
“Oh.” I’d forgotten this Christmas Valley tradition. The mayor and Santa always turned on the lights at the first lighting ceremony, but there was this whole thing where if you’d purchased anything from the Christmas stalls, you wrote your name on your receipt and put it in the bucket for a chance to turn on the lights—with Santa, again—at the Christmas Eve ceremony. The Christmas Valley city council claimed it encouraged residents to support local businesses. I’d always thought it was to stop people from attempting to return whatever crap they’d bought, now they no longer retained any proof of purchase. “You can write your name, and win a chance to turn the lights on for the big ceremony on Christmas Eve.”
“Oh!” Em tugged on my coat. “Can we? Please, Daddy?”
I managed to find two receipts from the decorations, and wrote each of the girls’ names on them, along with my phone number.
“Frances!” the old man in the elf suit exclaimed. “Frances Cuthbert?” It was Bill Fischer, Donna Fischer’s husband, sporting goods store owner, and member of the Christmas Valley Chamber of Commerce. “Your mom said you were back!”
“Hi, Mr. Fischer,” I said. And then, because I couldn’t think of anything else, I tacked on, “Merry Christmas” and dropped the two receipts into his red bucket.
“Daddy!” Ada crouched down and picked up a damp piece of paper that must have fallen out of my pocket. “This is one too.” It looked like the receipt from our hot chocolates. I should have saved the planet and not gotten one. “You should write your name on it!”
“No, that’s—”
