The Santa Suit

Begin Reading

Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

Thank you for buying this

St. Martin’s Press ebook.

To receive special offers, bonus content,

and info on new releases and other great reads,

sign up for our newsletters.

Or visit us online at

us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

For email updates on the author, click here.

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

For Patti Callahan Henry, aka Peach,

who came along for the ride

Chapter 1

“There it is!” Ivy Perkins pointed at the weather-beaten sign hanging from a dented mailbox nearly obscured by a stand of overgrown dead shrubbery. “Four Roses Farm, Punkin. See it?”

She slowed the Volvo carefully, mindful of the sheets of black ice covering the road.

Punkin barely raised his muzzle from the passenger seat. He’d been dozing since they’d passed through Charlotte, where the steady rain had transitioned to sleet, lulled to sleep by the rhythmic swishing of the windshield wipers and the cheery Christmas music streaming from the Volvo’s radio.

The farmhouse driveway was more potholes than paving, and as the car bumped slowly up the narrow stretch, Ivy was adding “new driveway” to the list of home improvements she’d been mentally composing since departing Atlanta in the pre-dawn gloom.

Her heart began to race as the house came into view. There was the front porch she’d been dreaming of. Complete with a row of rockers! Four narrow brick chimneys rose from the corners of the single-story wood-frame house, which meant four fireplaces. Ever since she’d spotted the house in the online real estate listings, she’d been picturing herself seated in front of a cozy fire, in the parlor, sipping hot cider. Okay, to be honest, she pictured herself sipping a good Cabernet. Punkin’s bed would be pulled close to the hearth. She would start listening to classical music. And learn to knit. Or crochet. Maybe both.

As she got closer, she noticed the porch seemed to—no, it definitely did have a major sag in the middle that hadn’t shown up in the online photographs. And that white paint? Unless the light here was very bad, the color that best came to mind was more curdled buttermilk than white. But all of her online search engine words had very specifically consisted of “old” and “white” and “farmhouse.”

She added “paint” to the list of home improvements.

The bumpy ride roused Punkin from his nap. He was sitting up now, alert, tail thumping on the leather upholstery.

She glanced over at him. “What do you think, Punkin? Not really white, but it’s definitely old, and since we have almost two acres of land, I’d call that a farmhouse, wouldn’t you?”