Page 61 of Daddy's Little Christmas

“That’s usually how you know.”

We stayed a while longer.

Santa had settled back into place near the tree, the crowd reforming around him effortlessly. Children leaned in close, mittens brushing red sleeves, voices lowered to conspiratorial whispers. Rudy stood beside me, hands tucked into his coat pockets, watching with an attention that felt deliberate rather than hungry.

He tracked the exchanges—the way Santa listened, nodding solemnly at things that mattered deeply when you were six or seven. The certainty with which each child handed over their wish and trusted it would be handled with care.

I wondered what it was like to witness that when your own childhood had never included anything so uncomplicated. When December had been something to get through, not something that arrived carrying warmth and patience and time.

Rudy’s gaze lingered as Santa handed a boy a small wrapped gift. The kid’s whole face lit up, like he’d just been handed proof that the world could be counted on. Rudy smiled—not wistful, or aching. Thoughtful. As if he were committing the moment to memory.

When the line finally thinned and Santa straightened, stretching his shoulders, he caught my eye and tilted his head in our direction.

“Well,” he boomed, still fully Santa, voice pitched just loud enough to carry. “Aren’t you two lookin’ suspiciously well-behaved.”

Rudy startled, then laughed softly. “We’re trying our best.”

“That’s what they all say,” Santa replied gravely. “Right before the marshmallows disappear.”

Rudy’s smile widened. “I won’t deny anything without counsel present.”

That did it. Santa’s eyes crinkled behind the beard. He stepped closer, boots crunching softly in the snow.

“Tom,” he said, tapping a gloved hand to his chest. “I wear a few hats around here, but this one gets the most honest answers.”

“Rudy,” he said, offering his hand without hesitation.

Tom took it. “Glad you found your way to Winterhaven, Rudy. We don’t take that letter box lightly.”

“I can see why,” Rudy said, glancing back at the oak box. “It feels… well cared for.”

My best friend’s mouth tipped into a small smile. “Not everyone sees that.”

They shared a look then—easy, unforced. Rudy relaxed into it without effort. Tom responded in kind, the same way he always did with people he liked: present, generous, unshowy.

Watching them together did something unexpected to me. Two people I cared about, fitting into the same space without effort.

For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would look like if Rudy didn’t have a return date already stamped on his stay. If Chicago weren’t waiting just beyond the edges of all this.

The thought didn’t hurt.

It settled. Quiet. Persistent. Like something I wasn’t ready to let go of yet.

Tom clapped his gloved hands together, bringing me back to the present. “Duty calls,” he said, already turning back toward the tree. Then, over his shoulder, “Take care, Whitlock.” And to Rudy, “Hope to see you again.”

We both waved at him.

The square began to thin as families drifted off toward warm cars. The lights stayed bright, but the energy softened, the way it always did once the kids started yawning and parents started checking watches.

Rudy tucked his hands deeper into his coat sleeves, shoulders hunching just slightly against the cold.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Just… full. In a good way.”

I nodded. I knew that feeling.

We stood there another moment, neither of us in a rush, until the quiet between us felt like an invitation instead of an ending.