Dear Santa

“You’re here, you’re here!” the little girl cried, wrapping herself around Mia’s thighs, as Grant looked on.

“Aren’t you forgetting somebody?” Mia whispered to Haley. “Maybe your daddy would like a welcome back hug, too.”

“But I just saw him this morning!” Haley said. “And ’sides, he doesn’t know how to hug.”

“Then maybe,” Mia said softly, “you could show him how.”

Haley glanced over at Grant and then looked back at Mia. “He’s the daddy. He has to hug first.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. She hauled Haley up, dangling her in front of her father. “Hug, already.”

As she’d hoped, Grant grabbed for his daughter, and Haley – bless her – threw her arms around her father’s neck, and ta-da!

“Now, was that so hard?” Mia asked.

But when she next looked up, Grant’s gaze briefly touched hers, swarming with a world of unspoken emotions, setting off a volley of a whole bunch of the suckers inside her head, as well.

KAREN TEMPLETON,

a bestselling author and RITA® Award nominee, is the mother of five sons and living proof that romance and dirty nappies are not mutually exclusive terms. An Easterner transplanted to Albuquerque, New Mexico, she spends far too much time trying to coax her garden to yield roses and produce something resembling a lawn, all the while fantasising about a weekend alone with her husband. Or at least an uninterrupted conversation.

Dear Reader,

Like every other five-year-old, at some point I asked my mother if Santa was real. Since the gifts were all piled in a corner of my parents’ bedroom, the whole Ho-Ho-Ho Delivery Service thing was kind of shot, anyway. So Mama told me Santa Claus was a spirit (cagey woman, my mother), and off I went, satisfied. Not until much later, however, did I really appreciate the wisdom behind her response.

Because even the most secular version of Santa is still about the message, not only behind the trappings of the season, but also beyond a particular religious belief. Santa Claus symbolises love and generosity and joy…and, perhaps most of all, hope. So little Haley’s plea to the jolly old elf isn’t about asking for stuff, it’s an unselfish faith in something beyond her small self to bring healing and happiness to the people she loves.

Leave it to a small child to really get the true meaning of Christmas…just like that long-ago kindergartener who intuitively understood her mother’s off-the-cuff explanation about something far more substantial than mere myth.

Karen Templeton

KAREN TEMPLETON

To Tristan, my first grandbaby

Trust me – Santa will have nothing

on your grandparents!

Merry First Christmas, little one.

Chapter One

“Mr. Braeburn? Are you still there?”

“Yes, yes…” Grant released a long, strained breath, pressing his fingers into his eyelids. “I’m here.” He blinked at the rain-drenched vista on the other side of his home office window, watching distractedly as sixty-foot pines cowered and shuddered under the leaden sky’s relentless onslaught. “How—” He carefully cleared his throat. “How did you know to call me?”

“Mrs. Braeburn had emergency contact information in her purse. And the glove compartment.” The doctor—middle-aged, still not comfortable with making these sorts of calls, Grant guessed—paused. “And her briefcase.”

A humorless chuckle released the vise constricting Grant’s lungs. Catching himself, he sank into a leather club chair facing the window. “I’m sorry—”

“Shock often produces seemingly inappropriate emotions,” the doctor said kindly. “It’s a coping mechanism. So the pain doesn’t overwhelm us.”

“It’s not…” Outside, rivers slammed against the paned windows. Grant shook his head to clear it. “Justine and I were divorced more than a year ago.”

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” A pause. “I understand you have a daughter?”

Grant shut his eyes, willing his brain to assimilate… anything. “Yes. She’s here. It’s my weekend.”

“Then…you’ll tell her?”

“Of course,” Grant said, even as he thought, How the hell do you tell a three-year-old her mother’s dead? He sucked in an acid-tinged breath, then asked, “Justine…she was alone? In the car?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

Another pause, then a measured, “She apparently took a curve too quickly, hit a patch of wet leaves and lost control. She may have been on her cell phone.”

Typical, he thought bitterly. Justine would practically have a panic attack if she lost contact with the outside world for more than five minutes. With each breath, Grant’s lungs eased. Slightly. “I suppose I’ll need to make arrangements?”

“There’s no other family, then?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Mr. Braeburn, I could…give you some names if you, or the little girl, would like to talk to someone?”

“Thank you. But I have my own contacts. Should the need arise.”

“Of course. If there’s nothing else…?”

“No. No, wait…”

“Yes?”

A second’s wrestling preceded, “Her face?”

The doctor hesitated, then said, “She’d been a beautiful woman, I take it?”

For some time after the call, Grant stood staring into the late day dreariness outside, the phone still clamped in his chilled hand. An odd, tight smile pulled at his mouth. He could just imagine Justine’s soul—if she had one—floating over her lifeless body, wailing over losing her looks. Especially considering the megabucks she’d invested in them—

“Mr. B.? Everything all right?”

Grant turned; his housekeeper’s puglike face was more deeply creased than usual, worry peering out from light brown eyes framed in drooping crow’s feet. Etta Bruschetti didn’t exactly fit the mold of who one generally found keeping lives and houses intact in this part of the world. But the smart-mouthed brunette kept him honest, on his toes and from believing his own press. It also didn’t hurt that she cooked as though she’d been personally instructed by God.

He returned his gaze outside and said quietly, “Haley’s mother was killed in a car crash a few hours ago.”

“What? Ohmigod, you’re not serious!” Etta pressed a broad hand to her generous chest. “God, that’s awful. That poor woman!”

One side of Grant’s mouth twitched. “Oh, come on, Etta…I know how you felt about Justine.”

“Okay, so maybe I wasn’t exactly all broken up when the two of you split. But I wouldn’t wish somethin’ like that on anybody, you know what I mean?”

Even though the question was rhetorical, Grant nodded anyway. Etta stuffed her hands in the pockets of the white utilitarian apron she wore over her sweatshirt and jeans, the closest she came to a uniform unless Grant entertained. Which he hadn’t since the divorce. “Guess that means the baby’s gonna be living here full-time now, huh?”

His thought processes hadn’t gotten that far. But of course, he realized with a slug to his midsection—Justine’s death made him a single father.

One who had thus far bungled this fatherhood thing like nobody’s business.

“Yeah,” he finally said on a stream of air. “It does.”

A few minutes later, he climbed the stairs to his daughter’s bedroom, where Haley would spend hours at a time playing with her extensive stuffed toy and doll collection. At first, Grant had assumed Haley simply hadn’t inherited her mother’s sociability gene. Eventually, however, he’d realized the child simply preferred the company of her “friends” to him.

His heart racing, he stood outside his daughter’s partially open door, steeling himself as he listened to her nonstop chatter. Just like her mother, who’d never been at a loss for words, either. A good trait in a lawyer, Grant supposed. Swallowing sawdust, he knocked softly, then pushed the door open.

Instantly, the chatter stopped. A goofy-looking stuffed lion—Justine’s last present to her, Grant realized with a punch to his gut—clutched in her arms, Haley glanced up at his entrance, her expression a disturbing blend of caution and indifference. Selfishly—and guiltily—Grant had often wondered if perhaps a more outgoing child would have helped him overcome his own ineptitude, would have shattered by now whatever had kept him from feeling what other fathers felt for their children.

At least, some fathers.

Still, he wasn’t immune to his daughter’s almost painful beauty, with her dark blond curls and enormous, thick-lashed brown eyes, her fair skin with its perpetual faint blush. She also seemed frighteningly bright for a child who wouldn’t be four for another several weeks. But then, what did he know?

“Did Mommy call?” she asked with her customary directness, and his insides twisted. Without fail, Justine always called Haley during these weekend visits, even when she was away herself. Whatever had happened between him and his ex-wife, Justine had been completely devoted to their daughter.

In fact, his ex-wife had been completely besotted by Haley from the moment the doctor had laid the messy, squalling child in Justine’s arms…while Grant had only been bewildered. By the baby, by the unexpected—in this case—mother-daughter bond, by the cozy, exclusive world the two of them had with each other from day one. A world to which Grant had never been able to figure out the secret password that would have gained him entrance.

Flexing his hands at his hips, Grant crossed the hooked rug covered with dozens of multicolored pastel butterflies, eternally in flight in a pale blue sky, to sit heavily on a faux-painted toy chest. Too astute by far, Haley watched him, her gaze steady. Judgmental.

Grant stared at his folded hands for a long moment, realizing he had no idea what the hell he was doing. What he was supposed to do. This was the kid who used to scream bloody murder if she lost sight of her mother for more than a few seconds—how on earth would she react to this?

“Daddy?”

The word was flat, perfunctory. She might as well have been calling him a plate or a chair or a tree. She kept her distance, hugging that lion, eyeing him suspiciously. “Are you mad?”

“No,” Grant said, surprised she would read his hesitation as anger. “But I have something to tell you. Something sad. And I’m not sure how to go about it.”

She waited, frowning, not so much trusting as curious, he thought. He took a deep breath and plunged.

“Mommy was in an accident,” he said quietly, his heart punching his rib cage. “In her car. And she got hurt very badly. So badly, the doctors couldn’t fix her. And… and she died.”

Haley stilled, her gaze fixed on his. Then she lowered her eyes to the lion and started stroking his mane, curling her small fingers through the golden fluff. From underneath her lashes, she peered at him again. “Died? Like Grandpa?”

She’d still been a baby when Grant’s father had died, much too young for Patrick Braeburn’s death to have made an impact. And Justine’s parents had both been gone long before she and Grant married. With a pang, Grant realized death was just a word to the little girl, a word without any real relevance or meaning.

“Yeah. Like Grandpa.”

Another moment or two passed before she said, “Mommy says the doctor always makes you better.”

“They tried their hardest, they really did—”

“So Mommy’s coming back. She always comes back. Always.”

“Not this time,” Grant said over the nausea. “She can’t.”

Hugging the lion more tightly, Haley kept her eyes locked in his for several seconds before returning to the other side of the room, where she squatted in front of her dollhouse and began one-handedly rearranging things, as if she’d somehow sucked the news inside her. Almost light-headed with uncertainty, he wondered if he should hold her. Ask her if she was okay. Something.

“Haley? Do you…want to talk?”

She swept one hand through her curls in a gesture that was her mother to a T. “No, thank you. I’ll talk to Mommy when she comes.”

Oh, God.

“Haley, Mommy’s not coming back—”

But she was shaking her head, the curls a blur as her movements became more and more agitated. “No, she’s coming back, an’ we’re going to the toy store when we get home, she promised.” Her eyes veered to Grant’s, dry but determined. “She promised.”

“Haley, honey—”

Grant reached for her, but she lurched backward, stumbling over a stuffed beagle lying sideways on the lacquered, honey-blond floor to land on her bottom.

“No!” she bellowed, frantically scrambling away, crab-style, to plaster herself against the wall underneath one window, between a pair of white bookcases crammed with books and games and puzzles. “I don’t want you! I want Mommy!”

Despite the wet-clay feeling of helplessness swamping him, Grant crouched in front of his daughter, who shoved the heels of her sneakers into the floor, pressing further into the wall. “It’s okay,” he said as she started to whimper, “I’m going to take care of you now—”

“No!” she shrieked, launching the stuffed lion at his chest. “I wanna go home! I want to talk to Mommy now!”

Grant sprang to his feet and crossed to the other side of the room, ramming his hand through his hair and trying to catch his breath. Rain still slashed at the windows, pummeled the roof, the normally comforting sounds of a rainy fall Saturday barely audible over Haley’s hysterics. Juggling millions of dollars of other people’s money, taking risks that most human beings wouldn’t dare…no sweat. How to comfort his daughter—how to even get over the first hurdle, of getting her to understand what was going on? Not a clue.

He glanced over at his little girl, huddled in her niche. She’d grabbed the lion again, clutching it to her and rocking, her face smashed into the thing’s mane. After a moment, Grant lowered himself onto the edge of Haley’s bed, a white four-poster smothered in yellow and white gingham ruffles. From ten feet and a world away, she glanced over, then scootched sideways to give him her back, clumsily scrubbing the back of her hand across her dripping nose.

“Go ’way.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because Mommy wouldn’t want me to leave you alone.”

Haley tossed a withering look over her shoulder, then pulled her knees closer to her chest, a tiny, stricken figure in her little corduroy skirt and sweater. And Grant, who was not by any means a religious man, found himself praying—pleading—to be shown what to do.

Etta appeared at the doorway, phone in hand, frown in place. She motioned Grant over, then whispered, “It’s that friend of Justine’s. Mia Vaccaro? She said she and Justine were supposed to get together this afternoon, but she won’t answer her cell. Wants to know if you know anything.”

With a last glance at his daughter’s fragile-looking back, Grant took the phone, thinking this was why he’d never been a big fan of that whole prayer business to begin with.

Because all too often, the answer is exactly what you don’t want.

“Where is she?” Mia tossed the question in Grant’s housekeeper’s direction as she catapulted herself through the mansion’s open door, simultaneously unwinding her scarf and shrugging out of her tweed jacket.

“Upstairs, in her room,” the older woman said, relieving her of the garments. “But—”

“Thanks.”

Mia strode across the black-and-white tiled floor in the mini-rotunda that served as a vestibule, deaf to the screams of Money, money, money! reverberating from the high-ceilinged space. That she’d made it up here in one piece was a miracle in itself, considering all she really wanted to do was curl up in a corner somewhere until the world made sense again—

“Mia. Wait.”

The deep voice hit its mark like a sharpshooter’s bullet. Already at the foot of the curved staircase, Mia spun around, her gaze colliding with a pair of steely lasers, nailing her to the spot. Not until then did she realize she was panting, as though she’d run all the way from Manhattan instead of driven. Vaguely, it dawned on her that she hadn’t even changed clothes after she’d talked to Grant, that she was still in the same rumpled jeans and who-gives-a-damn hoodie she’d been wearing to schlep fake fall foliage to the pier for the Chins’ anniversary party the next night, that her tortoiseshell clip was hanging by maybe two teeth to her long, thick hair.

That she looked every bit the scatterbrain he undoubtedly thought she was.

“Grant! I’m sorry, traffic was a bear on the Henry Hudson, I got here as soon as I could!”

One side of his mouth ticked. Grant Braeburn’s version of a smile. “Clearly. Thank you. Before you go up…?” He gestured toward a room off the entryway. His office, if she remembered correctly. She’d been in the house before, of course—for the wedding, once after that for dinner with Christopher, a night branded in her memory as somewhere between miserable and excruciating. But she wasn’t here to see Justine’s ex, she was here for the little girl who’d wrapped herself around Mia’s heart from the first time she’d laid eyes on the baby when she was less than a day old.

“Mia!” came the imperious tone when she started upstairs. “We need to talk!”

“Later!”

She’d already reached the landing when his fingers wrapped around her arm. A lesser woman might have been intimidated—or, in other circumstances, turned on—by the man’s grip. Or, at the very least, let out a soft, feminine squeal of surprise. Instead, Mia went for the severely pissed-off look. One that nicely complemented Grant’s own.

“Damn it, Mia—I don’t want you breaking down in front of Haley.”

“Not a problem,” she said, yanking out of his grasp and striding across a billion bucks’ worth of oriental runner toward Haley’s room. Whatever issues Grant had with her—or she, him—would have to wait. Preferably until they were both dead and buried—

The thought literally made her stumble, although she righted herself before Grant could notice. She hoped. But despite the heartburn from hell dissolving her digestive system, she wasn’t about to crumple.

Not yet, anyway.

Grant loomed behind her, much too close, as, through Haley’s open door, Mia could see the child sitting quietly in the middle of her bed in her teddy-bear-flecked pajamas, sucking her thumb—a habit given up months ago. And clutched to her small, far-too-fragile-looking chest, Mia realized with another fiery blast to her midsection, was the stuffed lion Justine had only just given her.

“Hey, little bit,” she said softly, and the child’s head shot up. A second later she’d streaked across the room to wrap her arms around Mia’s thighs.

Then she tilted her head back, hope and worry and confusion tangled in her eyes. “Did Mommy come with you?”

Crap. Mia glanced over at Grant, whose glower had rearranged itself into something much more worrisome, then lowered herself to one knee, lumpy throats and heartburn from hell be damned.

“No, baby,” she said softly, brushing Haley’s curls off her cheek, praying she was striking the right balance between reassuring and serious. “Mommy’s not here.”

Haley disengaged herself to swing back and forth, clutching the toy. “Then are you going to take me back to the city?”

Slowly, Mia shook her head. “No, sweetie pie. You’re going to stay with your daddy now.”

The little girl frowned. “Daddy said Mommy got broken an’ the doctors couldn’t fix her.”

“That’s right,” Mia said, swallowing back tears.

Soft brown eyes shifted from Mia to Grant and back again. “Like Hump-y Dump-y?”

“Yeah, baby. Like Humpty Dumpty.”

“But Hump-y Dump-y’s not real. Mommy said.”

Bugger. “Well, that’s true, but—”

“So where is she?”

Oh, brother. Mia glanced up at Grant, desperately hoping for a bone, here. Justine hadn’t been particularly religious that Mia knew of, and Grant’s spiritual bent was anybody’s guess. However, since no bone seemed to be forthcoming, Mia decided to go with thirty years of Catholic indoctrination and let the chips fall where they may. “She’s in heaven, sweetie. With the angels.”

“What’s heaven?”

Ah. Clearly she was introducing new material. “Someplace really, really nice where people go after they die.”

“It’s far away?”

“Yes. Very far.”

Her brow puckered, Haley fingered Mia’s loose hair. “C’n you get there in a taxi?”

“No.”

“How ’bout an airplane?”

“Nope.”

Almost expressionless, Haley looked at her for a long moment, then down at the lion. A second later, she held the lion out to Mia, who wagged one of the lion’s floppy paws and said softly, “Who’s this neat guy?”

“That’s Henry. Mommy gave him to me.”

“I know. I was with her when she bought him for you.”

“You were?”

“Uh-huh.”

After another moment’s thoughtful consideration, Haley leaned over and whispered, “I have to go to the bathroom,” and Mia whispered back, “Okay,” and the little girl bounced off, Henry safely tucked under one arm. Mia struggled to her feet; her hands stuffed in the front pocket of her hoodie, she frowned toward the bathroom door.

“You’ve already gotten ten times further than I could,” Grant said behind her, the words brittle as dry sticks. Mia turned her frown on him, thinking, And whose fault is that? From what Justine had said, the man hadn’t even tried to fight for joint custody. Not that Jus would have given it to him, but still.

But this was hardly the time to call him on any of it. She walked to the other side of the room, idly poking through the little girl’s collection of Dr. Seuss. “Weird, isn’t it?” Mia said, sliding Horton Hears a Who back into the bookcase. “To think there’s a time when we have no concept of what death means.”

“Do we ever?” he said softly.

She had nothing to say to that.

After several excruciatingly awkward moments, they heard a flush, then the water running. A minute later, Haley emerged from the bathroom, Henry still in tow. “Henry had to go pee-pee, too,” she said, climbing back up onto her bed. “He feels much better now.’ Cept he’s sad.”

“Oh?” Mia said, sitting beside her. “How come?”

“’Cause he misses his mommy.”

Mia braced herself, even as she forced a smile to her lips. “But he has you to take care of him, right? So maybe he’ll stop feeling so sad.”

Haley’s eyes swerved to Grant, then back to Mia. “But I’m not as good as her, she reads stories to him an’ buys him ice cream and toys and stuff to make him feel better after he gets his shots. Who’s gonna read to him if his mommy doesn’t come back?”

Was this normal, Mia wondered, that despite “Henry’s” being sad, Haley herself seemed more perplexed than unhappy? Mia reached out to smooth Henry’s flyaway mane. “Well, I suppose you could read to him,” she said, but Haley shook her head.

“I can’t tell what all the words are yet. Mostly I just look at the pictures.”

“Ah. But you know, I bet Henry would like looking at the pictures with you. Or maybe,” she added with another darted glance in Grant’s direction, “Henry’s daddy could read to him? Why not?” she added when Haley shook her head again, more vigorously this time.

“’Cause I don’t think he knows how, either.”

“You don’t think his daddy knows how to read?” Mia said, her words piercing Grant’s almost palpable stillness.

Haley hugged the toy harder. “I don’t think he knows how to read to Henry.”

“Well…maybe Henry could show him?”

A faint crease marring her brow, Haley seemed to think this over for a second before she shrugged and said softly, “Maybe.” Then she yawned and knuckled her eyes, a sleepy, overwhelmed little girl whose mother was dead and whose father, Mia uncharitably thought, had turned out to be a major disappointment.