“There’s no such thing as going quiet on the internet, though,” Ezra reminded her. “I found mentions of you in the Atlanta paper when you landed a big client—and when you left the company you’d helped start.”

“Yeah, ‘left’ is PR spin for ‘forced out,’” Ivy said, looking up at him.

“I, uh, also stalked your ex. I even saw the wedding photos of him and Restaurant Barbie.”

Ivy’s voice sounded a warning note. “Getting kinda creepy here, dude.”

“No worries. I unfollowed. He’s not even very interesting.”

“You still haven’t told me why James decided to accept my lowball offer,” she pointed out.

“It was James’s idea. He wanted to know all about the woman who was buying Four Roses Farm. So I followed your digital footprint. Found your name on the website you volunteered to design for that animal rescue nonprofit in Atlanta.”

Ivy yawned and pushed an errant strand of hair out of her eye. “Lots of people do volunteer work.”

“Not as many as you’d think. After I listed the farmhouse, I started talking to the locals about Bob and Betty Rae Rose. They were pretty remarkable folks. They were Jewish—did you know that?”

“I found a little mezuzah nailed above the front door, so I did wonder about that,” Ivy said. “It made the whole Christmas connection pretty intriguing.”

“That community thrift store you donated all this furniture to—before buying it back? Betty Rae started that, as a fundraiser for a shelter for battered women. Bob donated the money to build the shelter. He also financed the obstetrics wing for the hospital, and started a college scholarship fund for deserving seniors graduating from the local high school. And he did it all anonymously; in fact, he insisted that his donations be kept a secret.”

“Then how did you find out about all his good works?” Ivy asked.

“I’ve become pretty good friends with the loan officer at the local bank,” Ezra said. “We were having lunch and I mentioned I’d tracked down the owner of Four Roses Farm, and he let it slip that Bob and Betty Rae had been longtime benefactors to the community.”

“Oh my gosh!” Ivy exclaimed. She told Ezra about the scribbled notations on the Santa Claus letters she’d found in the old trunk that was now serving as the cottage’s living room coffee table.

“The letters with the notes—they were all from kids who seemed to be pretty needy,” she said slowly. “I bet Bob Rose made it his business to make sure those kids got what they’d asked for on Christmas morning—an Easy-Bake Oven for a little girl whose mother’s stove was broken, a catcher’s mitt for a kid whose father was out of work.…”

“And then there was the little girl named Carlette who just wanted her daddy to come home from the war,” Ezra said quietly. “The one wish it was out of Bob Rose’s power to grant.”

“Yeah.” Ivy sighed. “I bet that’s why he kept that note in the pocket of the Santa suit. As a reminder.”