Ivy sat cross-legged on the floor of the bedroom. The folders of cards, letters, and photos were spilled haphazardly across the top layer of items in the trunk.

The letters to Santa tugged at her heartstrings.

Dear Santa: Please bring me an Easy-Bake Oven so I can help my mama cook. Her oven don’t work. Your friend, Amanda.

Santa Bob had made some kind of chicken-scratch notes on the back of the letter. Ivy could make out what looked like an address, but the rest was illegible.

Dear Santa: I would like a real big-leaguer catcher’s glove for Christmas. My dad says his old glove is good enough, but it’s way too big. P.S. We are moving soon, because my dad needs to find a job, but Mama says you’ll know where to find us. Sinserly, Mack Purdom.

Stapled to the bottom of the letter was what looked like a yellowing page torn from an old Sears, Roebuck catalog with a catcher’s mitt circled in red.

There were dozens of other letters, with requests for dolls, bicycles, skateboards, and even one for a real live panda bear, but only a few had notes scribbled on them—presumably by Santa himself. Ivy wondered idly about the meaning of the scribbles.

The old greeting cards were a treasure trove of ideas, with their retro images of impish elves, dancing Christmas trees, and grinning snowmen.

One card in particular caught her interest. The illustration depicted two red-garbed pixies playing tug-of-war with a candy cane.

“Perfect,” Ivy said, setting the card aside. She dug farther into the trunk, marveling that each layer seemed to reveal another ring representing the life of the former owners of Four Roses Farm.

The department store Santa pictures were treasures in themselves, each showing Santa Bob, photographed through the ages, always beaming at a child. Sometimes the children looked in awe at Santa, other children were laughing, and still others were captured with tear-stained, screaming faces. On the back of each photo was taped a slip of paper with a serial number, and the child’s name, neatly typed.

As she shuffled through the photographs, she came to one that stopped her cold. A little girl was seated on Santa Bob’s lap, tugging solemnly at his beard. Ivy turned the photo over and her breath caught in her throat. “Carlette Jones.”

Ivy studied the photo more closely. Carlette had a large candy cane clutched in her left hand. She was dressed in a red plaid dress with a starched crinoline, white tights, and black patent-leather Mary Janes. Ivy too had once worn similar shoes, which crackled when she walked and pinched her toes.

And was it her imagination? Or did Santa seem to be listening more intently to this child’s fondest wish?

She set Carlette’s photo on top of the file of photographs and decided she would deliver it to Lawrence Jones. And maybe, she thought, the Langley candy company would be interested in displaying these relics of bygone days in their dusty little shop.