“By the way, I’m Lawrence E. Jones. I’ve owned this house since 1961. Now what’s this all about?”

“Jones?” Ivy sat up straight on the sofa. “Then, are you related to Diana Jones? And her daughter, Carlette?”

Mr. Jones clutched the handles of his walker. “Diana was my daughter-in-law. And Carlette was my granddaughter.”

Ivy realized she was holding her breath. She exhaled slowly. “And Everett?”

“Was my son.” He removed his glasses and wiped them on the sleeve of his sweater. Or the top layer of sweater. From where Ivy sat, it appeared that her host was wearing at least three sweaters. The outermost sweater was a navy blue cardigan, pilled on the front and unraveling at the sleeve.

“Why are you asking about my son and his family?”

“It’s a long story,” Ivy began. “I’m new in Tarburton. I just bought a farmhouse about a mile out of town. Maybe you knew Bob and Betty Rae Rose?”

“You bought Four Roses Farm?”

“Yes. I just moved in last week.”

“Does your husband farm?”

“No. I’m divorced.”

“So you’re the farmer?” He looked skeptical.

“Well, not yet. I mean, I have some chickens. And I have plans for a big garden, in the spring. I’ve already ordered my seeds.”

“What’s a young woman like you want with a decrepit old farmhouse like that? Nobody’s lived out there for years and years.”

“It’s not decrepit.” Ivy was offended on behalf of her new home. “It’s … well loved. It needs some work, that’s all. The roof is sound, and the plumbing works.…”

“I see.” Mr. Jones looked unconvinced.

“The thing is, the house came furnished, and I was cleaning out a closet in the master bedroom, and I found an old Santa Claus suit.”

“Santa Bob,” Mr. Jones said, nodding. “He was pretty much a legend in these parts. Betty Rae too. They were quite a couple. The wife and I used to take our little boy to see them at Atkins Department Store. And then we’d ride out to their place to see all the Christmas lights.”

“And Everett was that little boy?”

“That’s right.” His blue eyes searched her face. “Are you going to tell me what this has to do with my son?”

Ivy took the note from her pocket and handed it to Lawrence E. Jones. “I found this in the pocket of the Santa suit. It … touched me. I was intrigued.”

The old man read the note, tracing the childish scrawl with a bony fingertip. “Oh my.” He folded the note and handed it back. “Oh my.” He found a neatly pressed handkerchief in the pocket of his sweater and dabbed at his eyes. “Oh my goodness.”

Punkin crept closer to Mr. Jones’s chair. Ivy was astonished as the dog gently laid his muzzle in the old man’s lap.

“I take it … Carlette didn’t get her Christmas wish?” she asked.

“No,” Mr. Jones said softly. “Everett was a helicopter pilot with the Eighty-second Airborne. His chopper was shot down and he was declared missing in action in September of 1971. Diana didn’t want to tell Carlette what had happened, because, well, we were all praying he’d somehow be found alive.”