“In a trunk at the house,” Ivy said. “Santa Bob’s son-in-law left them behind. He said he’s not the sentimental type.”

“Aww,” Nancy said. “What are you going to do with them?”

“I thought maybe you’d like to use them in here in the store,” Ivy said. “After the holidays, I’ll see if the local historical society would like them. And all these Santa letters and old greeting cards—would you like to borrow them?”

Nancy was smiling down at the retro images. “I could make a darling window display. Folks could see if they recognize themselves, or family members. Maybe it would drum up more business.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Ivy agreed. “So, what do you say? Are you ready for a rebranding? And a new website? Think of it as a makeover for Langley Sweets?”

Nancy Bergstrom hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure. Why not? What have I got to lose? When do we start?”

“Right now,” Ivy said. “I can get the website up today. I really think online orders—especially after Christmas is over—could revive your business.” She filled the candymaker in on her plans, got the password for her social media accounts, and even, reluctantly, agreed to an initial payment— of PepperyMint Patties—for her services.

She leaned under the table and roused her sleeping dog. “Come on, Punkin. We’ve got one more stop to make.”

Chapter 9

Lawrence Jones gazed down at the photo of his granddaughter and smiled wistfully. “This is how I remember Carlette. Always so serious. And always asking questions. Ev was like that too.” He tapped the photo with his fingertip. “I remember this dress. My wife made it. She was so happy to have a little girl to sew dresses for.”

“It’s beautiful,” Ivy said. “She was an adorable little girl.”

“She looked a lot like my wife. Everyone said so.”

Ivy looked around the tidy little living room. Her host had propped some Christmas cards on the mantel, beside a wooden manger scene, and there were two small wrapped packages under a tabletop Christmas tree that hadn’t been there during her previous visit.

“A real Christmas tree?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” her host said, nodding vigorously. “No fake trees for me. Nosirreebob! Nothing else smells as good as a fresh-cut Christmas tree. One of my neighbors always brings mine over and puts it up for me. Have you gotten your tree yet?”

“Don’t think I’ll bother with a tree this year,” Ivy said. “I’m still in the middle of getting settled in at the farmhouse, and after all, it’s just me.”

“So what?” he said gently. “I’m the only one who’ll see my tree, but it still makes me happy. I sit here and look at my tree all lit up, every night, and I remember the meaning of the tree and the Christmas season. My family might be mostly gone, but I still have my memories of them.”

“It looks like you’ve already had a visit from Santa,” Ivy observed, trying to change the subject.