The Mrs. Claus Chronicles
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Greenhouse Letters Important Delivery Inn for All Seasons Bells First Lady
The Most Important Delivery
Chapter 3 of the Mrs. Claus Chrtonicles
Santa’s Village – March 1932
The snow was beginning to soften. Not melt exactly—this was still the North—but the sharp edges had dulled, and the trees stood a little less rigid. Spring, or at least Evela’s version of it, was quietly approaching.
It had been nearly three months since Merry Lou made the decision that surprised even herself: to remain in Santa’s Village for a while longer—indefinitely, if she was honest about it. What began as a winter visit had blossomed into something far more rooted. There was joy here. Curiosity. Wonder. And something else she wasn’t ready to name out loud—not yet.
Her greenhouse now held three varieties of snow-fruit, one fiddleleaf fig with a stubborn tilt, and a promising crop of winter tulips. But it wasn’t just the plants that had rooted here—it was her heart.
She and Chris had exchanged more letters than either could count by now, even with Jindle, the postal specialist elf, threatening to install a filing system. The letters ranged from thoughtful to ridiculous: musings on stars and kindness, quick notes about what the reindeer had done that morning, or long reflections on what it meant to belong. Sometimes Chris sent drawings—maps of imaginary lands, or diagrams of “how sleigh bells work (allegedly).” Merry Lou’s responses included pressed flower petals from her greenhouse, mini-recipes for tea blends, and once, an attempted poem that ended up rhyming mint with lint in a way that made them both laugh for days. There were gifts too: a hand-carved trowel with her initials, a batch of ginger-lemon biscuits (somewhat underbaked), a book of celestial charts, and a knitted scarf with a pattern that Chris swore was supposed to be reindeer.
And always, there were the sleigh rides.
They began as gentle afternoon circuits—down along Rootbeer River, across the whispering fields of snow, over the rooftops of Santa’s Village. But over time, Chris started teaching her more than just where to sit and how to hold the reins. He showed her how to read the wind by the shape of the clouds, how to signal a shift in formation to the lead reindeer, and how the sleigh’s stabilizers clicked into place when they climbed above a certain altitude. “The reins are half magic and half muscle,” he said once, guiding her hands. “But the secret ingredient is confidence.”
One moonlit flight took them high above the Londloan Steeps, where reindeer herds moved like dark ink across the snowy ridges. Another saw them circling a frozen waterfall lit by starlight so bright it looked like a silver ribbon had been strung through the forest. They shared warm blankets, peppermint cocoa, and stories that Chris claimed were all true—even the one about the talking snowshoe hare. Merry Lou wasn’t sure she believed that one, but she loved hearing it all the same.
It was during one of those sleigh rides that everything changed.
The day had started like many before: blue skies, a crisp breeze, and Chris coaxing Merry Lou into taking the reins while he leaned back with a cup of steaming cinnamon tea. “You’ve got a good feel for it,” he told her. “Firm, but kind. They listen to you.”
“I think they just know I give out peppermints afterward,” she quipped, but her cheeks flushed with pride.
They skimmed over the frozen river, circled the Great Fir Tree, and dipped low toward the reindeer fields. Merry Lou was doing marvelously—until she wasn’t.
A sudden gust of wind swept in from the Londloan Steeps, catching her off guard. The sleigh rocked, tilted sharply, and clipped the edge of a snow-banked supply sled parked near the stables. The reindeer reared in surprise, and the sleigh spun halfway before settling with a heavy thud in a drift.
Chris lurched forward, tea sloshing onto his coat. Merry Lou, stunned, looked down at the broken side rail and cracked runner.
“Oh no,” she whispered. “Chris, I’m so sorry—are you hurt?”
“No, no,” he said, brushing snow off his beard. “But that was a bit of a landing.”
They weren’t alone for long. Jorbin Gearstripe, the Village’s Head Sleighmaster, was on the scene in moments. The stocky elf had soot on his cap and a wrench tucked behind his ear.
“What in holly’s name happened here?” he barked, pacing around the dented sleigh with a look of deep offense, as though someone had trampled on his life's work.
“I—I lost the gust,” Merry Lou stammered. “It was my fault.”
Jorbin scowled at the splintered runner. “That sleigh’s barely two months out of tune-up. We just installed new stabilizers.”
Chris raised his hands. “Easy, Jorbin. Accidents happen.”
Jorbin gave Merry Lou a brief, grudging nod, then turned to his repair crew. “Get it to bay three. And someone tell Thimbletoes not to start hammering until I’ve assessed the frame.”
As the elves busied themselves, Merry Lou stood beside the wrecked sleigh, eyes glistening. “Chris… I’m so sorry. I should never have—”
“Hey,” he said gently, brushing her shoulder. “You didn’t crash the sleigh. You just… rerouted it a bit.”
“But Jorbin—”
“Jorbin always scowls like that,” Chris said. “You should’ve seen his face the first time I tried flying with one reindeer strapped in backwards. Looked like someone stole his nutmeg.”
She gave a small laugh, and Chris took her hand.
“Merry Lou,” he said, voice quieting. “I don’t care about the sleigh. I care about you.”
Her breath caught. His eyes, usually full of mischief, were steady and open.
“I’ve spent a century delivering joy to the world,” he said. “But the most important delivery I’ll ever make… is this one.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, velvet-lined box.
Inside was a ring—simple, elegant, with a sparkling snowflake-shaped diamond cradled in a setting of silver and carved holly leaves. The light caught it just so, as if the North Star had come to rest in her palm.
Merry Lou gasped, her mittened hands covering her mouth.
Then she nodded—once, twice—tears spilling onto her cheeks as she flung her arms around him.
“Yes. Of course I will.”
Chris smiled, then gently removed one of her gloves. With care and a little tremble in his fingers, he slipped the ring onto her hand.
It fit perfectly.
Later that evening, the sleigh bay was quiet again, save for the soft tick of Jorbin’s tools. A note appeared tacked to the sleigh’s side panel:
Damage: superficial.
Emotional impact: lasting.
Recommend reinforcing side rails—and scheduling wedding rehearsal.
– J.G.**
And just like that, a new journey had begun.