I manage to restrain my curiosity long enough to go through the rest of the stack of mail. A couple of bills get tossed to one side, and a postcard from Paul and Janet ends up between my refrigerator door and a magnet of a pineapple wearing sunglasses Bellamy brought back from vacation last spring.
The couple from across the street has been fulfilling their life dream of traveling the country together to celebrate their anniversary. They’ve been sending Sam and me postcards along the way. They don’t know it, but he and I have been secretly practicing our board game skills so we can blow them out of the water during our first game night when they come back.
I’m still working on Clue.
Bringing my fresh cup of coffee with me, I take the card into the living room and curl up in the corner of the couch to open it. The card is an elaborate depiction of a Victorian-style Santa Claus accented with more of the glitter like the sticker on the envelope. Inside is an inscription in handwriting I don’t recognize.
It’s definitely not natural handwriting. It looks like someone painstakingly tried to create a script style that fit with the image on the card. The effect is lovely, if somewhat off-putting.
“Make your list. Check it twice. Have to find out who’s naughty, not nice.”
That is definitely off-putting. I read it again to make sure I actually read the words correctly. Those are most certainly not the words to that song. Good effort, though. Which leads me to believe that even though there’s no signature, I know who sent the card.
I pick up my phone and make a video call. As usual, one of Xavier’s eyeballs shows up on the screen first. His phone is one of the things that rarely fails to illustrate how disconnected from the world Xavier still is after his years spent in prison.
He’s a brilliant man known for concocting and bringing to life complex and incredible inventions. His house is overflowing with gadgets, traps, and features he designed. Lights that change brightness and color based on the volume and emotion in his voice. Doors equipped with systems that interact with computer chips on a keyring, so the door will pop back open if he tries to close it from the outside with the keys still inside.
And yet he is baffled by answering a video call.
But they are how he prefers to communicate. He doesn’t like to talk on the phone. He says it disorients him and he’s better at understanding people when he can see their faces. So this is what we do.
“Xavier?”
“Emma? Can you see me?”
“I can see your eye. Pull the phone back.”
His features gradually come into view. “How’s this?”
“Much better.”
“Good.” He smiles. “How are you?”
“I just wanted to thank you for the Christmas card. It’s really beautiful. If you are sending versions to anyone else, though, you might want to change up the inscription. You got the words to the song wrong and it’s a little creepy. But I love the Santa,” I say.
Xavier looks at me strangely. “What card?”
“The card you sent me.” I pick up the card and hold it up in front of the phone so he can see it. “This one.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t send that.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“What do you mean you didn’t send it?” I frown, completely surprised by his response. “Of course you did.”
“I mean, I think I would remember filling out a Christmas card and sending it to you. But I suppose it’s possible that I don’t,” he says.
I close my eyes and squeeze the bridge of my nose between my thumb and finger.
“Xavier, I need you to think really carefully. Did you send me this Christmas card?”
“No,” he says without hesitation.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Give the holidays their own time, Emma. Don’t rush the long winter’s nap when we haven’t even celebrated the harvest,” he says.
“Does that mean you don’t send Christmas cards before Thanksgiving?” I ask.
“No, I don’t,” he says. “I also don’t sing whole Christmas carols. Or watch Christmas episodes of TV shows. I won’t eat candy canes or gingerbread men or anything shaped like a tree. No eggnog or cranberry ginger ale. No Christmas sweaters, pajamas, or socks. None of that before Thanksgiving.”
“Why not?” I ask.
There’s a brief pause. “Because it’s not Christmas season yet.”
“When does Christmas season start?” I ask.
“As soon as all the Thanksgiving food has been consumed. Unless there is a bridge dessert. That can be consumed during the transition period,” he says.
“What is a bridge dessert?” Dean asks from somewhere off the screen.
“A dessert that would be seasonally appropriate to consume for either Thanksgiving or Christmas due to shared flavor palettes or cultural significance. Pumpkin pie, for example. A traditional element of the Thanksgiving table despite the fact that pilgrims would not have used pumpkins and had no ingredients to make a crust or a custard-based pie, it then bridges over to Christmas as in, ‘later we’ll have some pumpkin pie and we’ll do some caroling’,” he says.
“That was a Christmas carol,” I point out. “I thought you didn’t do that.”
“Technically, that was a Christmas song, not a carol. But it wasn’t in its entirety. Sampling small portions is acceptable. As is eating banana pudding for both Thanksgiving and Christmas, as it is wildly illogical for both. Chocolate pudding with candy cane striped whipped cream, however… Christmas only.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want to have any wildly illogical foods at the holidays,” I smile. “You seriously didn’t send this?”
“Emma…” Dean says, leaning into the frame and giving me the lifted eyebrows that say stop and think about proceeding with this line of conversation.
“Emma, I’m coming to your house tomorrow. Why would I send you a Christmas card? You know how I feel about the current state of the United States postal system and its delivery methods.”
I nod. “I do.” I let out a sigh. “That’s just strange. Alright. Well, I’m going to go keep getting things
