Devon was in his office, seated at his desk. He was wearing a dark grey suit with a cream shirt and a Christmas-themed tie. He had just finished placing a ribbon on a gaily wrapped gift when Michael wandered in, a bemused look on his face.
"Yo, Devon."
"What is it, Michael?" He placed the box to one side.
"Melissa is writing a note for Santa."
"And?"
"She's 17, not 7. I mean, um, well . . ."
"Yes, Michael, Melissa is well aware that Santa Claus isn't real. However, Christmas is her favorite holiday."
"Singing carols? Decorating the tree? Getting presents?"
"It was Elizabeth's favorite holiday."
Michael was surprised. "Melissa didn't get along that well with her mother."
"No," agreed Devon, "she did not."
"Then why –"
Because Elizabeth wanted picture-perfect Christmases." Michael was obviously confused, so Devon elaborated. "And a sobbing child does not a picture-perfect Christmas make. So Garthe had to –"
"Garthe had to behave himself at Christmastime." Michael finally got it.
Devon leaned back, gazing at the ceiling in reminiscence. "Indeed. And Melissa did believe in Santa Claus for a long time. After all, he must have been real. Why else would Garthe not bother – or bully – her at Christmas?"
"How old was she when she finally figured it out?"
"She was seven. But she made me promise not to tell anyone," Devon said with a fond smile. "And managed to pretend for another two years."
Michael laughed. "Good for her."
"Even after that, of course, Garthe still had to behave himself at Christmastime. It was only for a couple of weeks. But it was enough that Melissa has only happy memories of the holiday."
"And she still leaves a note for Santa?"
"Oh, yes. Along with a thermos of hot chocolate and two of Mrs. Davis's famous chocolate chip cookies. It's tradition, you see." He paused, then added reflectively, "Wilton looked forward to his late night snack. And note from his baby girl."
Melissa came in, wearing a nearly full-length dress. Her long hair was done up and she was wearing makeup and jewelry. Michael was stunned at how she looked, all dressed up. As Devon had once observed, she looked like her beautiful mother, though she had her father's eyes and hair color.
"Ready, Uncle Devon?"
"Of course, my dear."
"Are you joining us for Midnight Mass, Michael?"
"No, Michael has other plans for the evening."
Devon handed the present from his desk to Michael, who accepted it wordlessly. Melissa missed the look the two men exchanged.
"Oh, okay. Enjoy your evening."
Michael looked at the box in his hand. "I will. Have fun at church."
"We always do."
Devon came over and proffered his arm to Melissa, and then they left the room. Michael hefted the box in his hand thoughtfully. Then he, too, left . . . for some hot chocolate, a couple of cookies, and a note from Melissa to go with his Christmas present from Devon.