Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Tanner was rewiring the lamp in the fiction section when Carrie found him.
“I need to ask you something,” she said. “And you can say no. Absolutely, completely, no-hard-feelings no.”
He looked up from the collection of lamp parts, eyebrows raised. “That’s a concerning preamble.”
“We’re doing a charity event for the Hollydale Children’s Hospital. Community members are reading to children to raise money for their pediatric wing.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the flyers.”
“I know about the fundraiser you were supposed to do. I know what happened. And this isn’t about that.”
He set down the wire strippers and looked at her with dread in his eyes.
“Our Santa just canceled this morning. Stomach flu.” She pulled copies of the letters from her pocket.
“The thing is, we have these letters from the children at the hospital. They wrote to Santa with their wishes and hopes. And Santa was going to answer their letters during the event tomorrow. Only we don’t have a Santa, so . . .”
“So you thought they would love to have the guy who cost them a hundred grand dress up and play Santa?” His voice was flat.
“I thought the guy who loves children and does charity work might want to help make their Christmas special. It’s a lot to ask, so I’ll understand if you can’t. But the children . . . And no one has to know that it’s you.” She waited. “Please?”
He took the letters, read Hailey’s wish about her dog, Marco’s about his sister, and Jade’s about the snow.
His jaw worked. When he looked up, his eyes were bright. “Nobody would know it’s me?”
“Full costume. Beard, suit, the works. You’d just be Santa, anonymous and safe.”
“What about my voice? People recognize—”
“It’s possible, but in that context, what are the odds of anyone making that connection?” She stopped. “But I’m not going to lie. It’s a risk. But the children need to know their Christmas wishes matter.”
He read the letters again, slower this time, like he was memorizing every word.
“I’ve been doing charity events since I was in high school,” he said finally. “Children’s hospitals, literacy programs, library fundraisers. I love doing it. But that one stupid video—” He stopped. “But . . . I’ve ruined Christmas, so I owe it to those children.”
“You don’t owe them.”
“Yes, I do.” He handed the letters back. “When is it?”
“Tomorrow. Seven p.m.”
“Okay. I’ll be Santa.”
“Thank you!” She fought the urge to throw her arms around his neck and hug him. Her heart swelled with affection for this man who was about to face a difficult situation but was willing to do it for the children.
Before she could stop herself, Carrie said, “For what it’s worth, you didn’t ruin Christmas. You had one bad moment on national television. That doesn’t erase all the good you’ve done.”
“Tell that to the internet.”
“The internet is full of people who’ve forgotten that they make mistakes and love judging people who have.” She met his eyes. “I’m not one of them.”
His expression shifted, as if he had something important to say. Instead, he just nodded. “Seven p.m. I’ll be ready.”
The Santa suit lay across his bed like a red velvet accusation. Tanner picked up the jacket, heavier than he’d expected. The fabric was worn at the elbows, shiny in places from years of use. How many other men had worn this? How many other Christmas Eves had it seen?
Tanner unfolded the letters again and gazed at Hailey’s careful handwriting, Marco’s smudged pencil, and Jade’s crayon drawings in the margins.
These children didn’t know who Tanner Blake was.
They definitely didn’t know about the scandal or the lost funding.
They just wanted someone to tell them Christmas still happened when they were stuck in hospital beds.
He’d done dozens of hospital readings over the years.
It started by chance. A friend’s child was sick, so he went to visit with a book that he thought she would enjoy, and somehow it became his thing.
It made his rollercoaster of a career feel worthwhile.
He never wanted to be famous. He wanted to tell stories.
The hospital visits let him do that in its purest form.
Until Portia ruined it.
No, that wasn’t fair. He did it to himself.
He lost his temper and gave her exactly what she’d been angling for.
She’d been difficult all day, making demands, needling him, and making snide comments about how lucky he was to be on a show with her.
He’d held it together until she made that crack about his mother. He should have known better.
The suit’s beard smelled like dust. He held it up to his face and looked in the mirror. Ridiculous. He looked like a mall Santa who’d lost his job and kept the uniform. But the children would see Santa. That was the magic of being young enough—you saw what you needed to see.
He thought about Carrie downstairs, probably going over her notes for the twentieth time. She’d created this entire event in three days, convinced the hospital to partner, gotten the word out online, and rallied the local community—all while her own business was failing.
Shannon had mentioned business troubles while Carrie was in the back room, so he admitted he’d seen the rent notice.
He hoped his assumption was wrong, but Shannon confirmed it.
Lamplight Books would probably close before the year was out.
But Carrie hadn’t said a word to him about it.
She was apparently too proud to ask for help.
He respected that, and he understood it. He’d grown up watching his mother work two jobs rather than ask his father for child support. Pride could be expensive, but sometimes it was all you had.
The Santa pants were too short, but he hoped his black boots would hide it. The hat barely stretched over his head. The whole look fell short of the magical Santa these children needed, but it was all he had, so he would make it work somehow.
His laptop chimed with an email from his audiobook publisher. They were reconsidering his contract for the upcoming spring recording schedule. It was industry speak for waiting to see if he was still toxic.
Tomorrow would determine that. If the fundraiser went well, it might shift the narrative away from him. But it was crucial that he kept his identity hidden, or he would make his PR nightmare even worse.
The smarter choice would have been to say no. But when Carrie held out those letters, she hadn’t begged, demanded, or guilted him into it. She’d just offered him a chance to be useful again. To use his voice for something that mattered.
He folded the suit carefully and placed it on the chair by the window. Through the glass, he could see Main Street preparing for tomorrow. Families hanging lights. The diner extending its hours. The whole town gearing up to support the children.
And Carrie’s bookshop stood at the center of it all.
Right now, sitting in his drafty apartment above a failing bookshop, he was glad to be part of it all. It gave him a purpose—to get through tomorrow, make children smile, and then go home to LA and try to salvage his career.
He would try not to think about what he would be leaving.
The next day blurred into frenzied preparations.
Shannon handled logistics while Carrie set up the reading corner, tested the video equipment, and arranged the special edition books and the small stack of letters.
The local news confirmed they would send a reporter, and a local podcaster was going to livestream the event.
At six-thirty, the event space began filling up with family members, while others watched the livestream from the bookstore.
Parents brought their children, and elderly couples attended who remembered when downtown Hollydale’s main street was thriving.
Teenagers who’d heard about the event on social media were there, and Mrs. Snyder arrived with her bridge club.
At six forty-five, there was no Santa in sight.
“Where is he?” Shannon hissed. “Carrie, if he bailed—”
In the doorway, a figure in full Santa regalia appeared—red suit, white beard, black boots, the works. Only the eyes were visible, dark and familiar beneath the white eyebrows and red hat.
“Ho ho ho,” Tanner said dryly. “Are you sure they won’t recognize me?”
“You look perfect.” Carrie adjusted his beard. “Can you breathe?”
“Barely.”
“More importantly, can you read?”
“We’re about to find out.”
At seven p.m., Carrie welcomed everyone, explained the partnership with the hospital, and introduced the special books they’d donated. Then she brought out Santa.
The children in the crowd gasped with delight. The adults smiled. Tanner/Tom/Santa settled into the reading chair he’d fixed just days ago, and Carrie handed him the first letter.
“This is from Hailey,” he said, searching the group of children before him. She raised her hand, and he smiled.
“Dear Santa,” Tanner read, his voice warm and steady through the beard. “I wish I could go home and see my dog, Biscuit, on Christmas morning. He doesn’t understand why I’m gone. Can you tell him I miss him?”
The room went quiet. Tanner looked at Hailey.
“Well, Hailey,” he said. “I had a talk with Biscuit just the other day—Santa has special ways of talking to dogs, you know. He told me he misses you too, but he wants you to know he understands you’re getting better.
Dogs are smart that way. They know that sometimes people have to be away so they can come back stronger.
He’s waiting for you and keeping your spot on the couch warm for when you get home. ”
A beaming Hailey clapped.
Tanner’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. He reached for the next letter.
“This is from Marco.” Marco raised his hand.
He read the wish about Marco’s sister being old enough to visit.
“Marco, I checked with the North Pole rules department. Oh, yes, we have rules that apply only at Christmas. And I pulled some strings.” A woman, clearly Marco’s mother, led a young girl to Marco’s wheelchair, and they hugged.
After a few moments passed and a few eyes were wiped, Santa said, “The best presents aren’t always the ones under the tree. Sometimes they’re the ones that show up when you need them most.”
Marco smiled through his tears.
Then came Jade’s letter—the one about snow.
Tanner read it slowly. When he finished, he was quiet. Then:
“Dear Jade, snow is patient. It waits for the perfect moment, and then it falls when you least expect it. I can’t bring it inside the hospital, but I can promise you this: when you see it again, it’ll be even more beautiful than you remembered.
Until then, close your eyes and imagine it.
Remember that each snowflake is different, just like you.
So that means you’re already carrying a little bit of winter magic inside you. ”
The reporter from the local news took photos, while the podcaster filmed. Parents dabbed their eyes, while Mrs. Snyder, eyes streaming, pulled several tissues from her purse.
And then Tanner did an unexpected thing. He pulled out a book from beside his chair—not one they’d planned, but a worn copy of A Christmas Carol from the shop’s classics section—and he read.
“Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.”
His voice filled the room, the same voice Carrie had been swooning over for months, but it was different in person, warmer and more real.
The children in the hospital watched, transfixed. The crowd grew still. Even Shannon, who’d been manning the donations table, had abandoned her post to listen.
As he read, a murmur rippled through the crowd. People leaned toward each other, whispering. Recognition dawning. That voice. That familiar, unmistakable voice.
Tanner kept reading, but his hands tightened on the book. He had to be hearing the murmurs of people realizing who he was.
Then a small child who looked about four years old walked up to Santa, fearless and curious, in the midst of his reading.
“You’re too thin for Santa,” the child announced.
Tanner paused. “I’ve been eating my vegetables.”
“Can I see your beard?”
“Oh, I don’t think—”
But the child was already reaching up, tiny fingers grasping the white synthetic hair. And tugging.
The beard came away in the child’s hand.
Tanner Blake’s face was suddenly bare for everyone to see.