Everett took a sip of wine, then continued.

“She never would have lasted a year with the likes of me and then none of us would have had her in our lives all those years.” He turned to look at Rachel. “Or the blessing she gave us a shortly after they were married, who I think we’d all agree is the reason we’re all gathered together tonight.”

Grant and John said they would drink to that. Rachel turned toward her father and felt her eyes begin to brim.

“You’re going to make me cry,” she told them.

The words were barely out of her mouth when she realized it was too late. The tears were streaming down her face, but she was smiling as well, realizing it was the happiest she’d been in—well, at least three Christmases.

There was a whirring noise coming from down the hall as Everett ushered his three guests out of the dining room. Her uncle motioned for Rachel to enter the library first and she opened the door to find a sight for sore eyes awaiting her.

“Saint Electronick!” she cried out.

The automaton looked shiny and bright, his red suit glistening with newly affixed sparkles and a fluffier white beard; it bowed back and forth in front of Everett’s Christmas tree and wood-burning fireplace.

Grant stared in disbelief at the mechanical four-foot gyrating Father Christmas. “I was wondering where he had gotten to.”

“I removed it from your basement a few months back and thought the old guy could use a going over. I asked Mrs. Bishop to plug it in before she left. I must say it gave her quite the fright when we did a test run earlier.”

“I didn’t sleep for a week the first time I saw it,” recalled Rachel.

Everett moved over and gently patted it on the head.

Saint Electronick blinked and uttered a boisterous “Bah Humbug!”

Grant stared at it. “He never did that before.”

“I made a few modifications.”

“Isn’t that your voice?” asked John.

Everett bowed in unison with the holiday robot. “Guilty as charged.” He patted it on the head again and it let loose a holiday epithet not fit for children.

“Everett . . .” Grant began to scold.

“Hold on to your reindeer, brother,” Everett said. “We still have Saint Electronick Classico. You just flip a switch here.”

Everett indicated a toggle on the back of the automaton’s neck and flipped it. Soon their old friend was back to his familiar “Happy Christmas” and “Ho-ho-ho”s. They soon put him on pause and dug in to the Macallan that John had brought.

Even Rachel, who rarely drank a scotch, had to admit the eighteen-year-old digestif was one of the smoothest things she had ever tasted. She could tell that John was particularly pleased that she enjoyed it.