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
Letters, Laughter, and a Sleigh Ride
Chapter 2 of the Mrs. Claus Chronicles
Winslow Junction, Illinois — February 1932
It began with a fiddleleaf fig and a folded paper heart.
Merry Lou Jensen discovered both on the first morning of February, brushing frost from the greenhouse door behind her little cottage. The fig sat in a polished clay pot just outside the threshold, its broad leaves glossy with dew and unmistakably magical. Nestled between the roots was a small, heart-shaped note sealed with a shimmer of golden wax.
She knelt and unfolded it carefully. The paper smelled faintly of cinnamon and evergreen.
Dear Miss Merry Lou,
For your greenhouse—a fig that doesn’t fuss and never fades. I can’t say the same for the sender, who fusses endlessly and fades into mist when nervous.
Yours truly,
—Chris
She smiled. The plant—sturdy, enchanted, and strangely warm to the touch—was a perfect gift. The note? Even better.
A puff of red shimmer flitted past her shoulder, and she turned just in time to catch a glimpse of something small and fast—no larger than a squirrel, but wearing a pointed cap. It zipped upward into the bare limbs of the maple tree and vanished before she could take a closer look.
That was only the beginning.
By the fifth of February, the notes came more regularly. Sometimes they arrived under her pillow, sometimes tucked into her seed packets, once folded neatly into a cinnamon roll from the Winslow bakery. Each was a marvel—shaped like stars, spirals, even a perfectly proportioned sleigh—and all in that same familiar handwriting.
The messages were thoughtful, lighthearted, and warm:
Hope the fiddleleaf hasn’t started humming—it’s a seasonal side effect. Let me know if it sings in C major.
Also: If you see something odd in the sky tonight, don’t worry. Probably weather.
One afternoon, she found a small leather pouch on her porch, barely large enough to hold a sandwich. A tag was tied to the drawstring:
Small Portal Sack – for convenient correspondence and surprise pastries. Instructions inside.
Inside was a folded note on crisp parchment:
Dear Miss Merry Lou,
Simply drop your reply into this sack. It will be whisked away before you can blink. You may also receive small gifts. Please don’t toss in soup.
Yours from a distance made shorter,
—Chris
From then on, their correspondence grew quicker and more curious. She’d slip a letter inside, whisper the word “send,” and feel the faint whoosh of magic as the sack briefly glowed and emptied itself.
He’d reply with sketches, riddles, or brief observations:
Saw a goose today. It winked. Not sure how I feel about that.
Have you ever met a snowflake that refused to melt?
Someone in the stables fed the reindeer coffee. Rudy Winters is livid.
She replied with questions of her own, and small tokens: pressed flowers, photos, her favorite oatmeal cookie recipe, and once, a postcard of the Winslow town square with an ink-drawn mustache added to the statue of the founder.
On the evening of February 8th, Merry Lou found a small basket waiting outside her back door. Inside: a thermos of peppermint cocoa, a bundle of marshmallows shaped like moons, and a pair of red fingerless gloves with white snowflake embroidery. A folded note lay beneath the gloves.
Wear these tomorrow. Dress warm. Wait by the garden gate at twilight. No questions.
The next evening, wrapped in the gloves and her favorite winter coat, Merry Lou waited as instructed. The snow lay clean and crisp beneath the fading light. Her fiddleleaf fig glowed faintly in the greenhouse behind her, its leaves catching the last rays of sunset.
Then she heard it—a jingle of bells, soft and distant, followed by the delicate hiss of runners on snow.
Chris Kringle appeared just beyond the hedge, standing beside the most peculiar sleigh she’d ever seen. It was painted green and gold, shaped like a curled otter with its paws outstretched. The seat was tufted with something suspiciously like marshmallow fluff, and two gray-spotted reindeer stood harnessed at the front, exhaling lazy clouds of steam.
The sleigh was humming.
“You came,” he said, brushing off the seat for her. “I wasn’t sure the gloves would be enough.”
“You sent a singing sleigh to my garden gate,” she said, eyeing the sky. “I think you were reasonably confident.”
He grinned. “Shall we?”
They lifted into the sky and rose above Winslow Junction, rooftops shrinking beneath them as the sleigh cut through the still February air. They glided over farmlands and frozen creeks, circling low above the town square, then climbing high into the open sky where the auroras danced like ribbon candy—mint, raspberry, and violet swirling above the stars.
They lifted into the sky and rose above Winslow Junction, rooftops shrinking beneath them as the sleigh cut through the still February air. They glided over farmlands and frozen creeks, circling low above the town square, then climbing high into the open sky where the auroras danced like ribbon candy—mint, raspberry, and violet swirling above the stars.
For a long time, neither spoke. Merry Lou leaned back, letting the air brush her cheeks, the reins jingling softly in rhythm.
Then the sleigh bumped.
From its side panels came a swell of waltz music—elegant and completely uninvited. The Sleigh of Whimsy tilted gently into a slow spin.
“You said it was fixed!” she laughed, gripping the side as they twirled.
“I said it was tuned,” Chris replied. “It only plays in three-four time now.”
They spiraled through the air in wide loops while the sleigh played what sounded suspiciously like a romantic overture. She couldn’t stop laughing.
When they finally landed in the clearing behind her greenhouse, Merry Lou was breathless and still chuckling. Chris handed her the thermos of cocoa from the basket.
“This may be my favorite ridiculous thing you’ve done yet,” she said.
Chris tipped an imaginary hat. “I aim to impress.”
A few days later, she sent a note through the portal sack:
Dear Sky-Spinning Gentleman,
Next time, I drive.
P.S. The fig now leans toward music. I think it prefers jazz.
—Merry Lou
The next reply came with a sketched blueprint of a dual-steering sleigh and a field guide titled: "How Not to Crash Into the Moon." Tucked inside was another note:
Would you teach me to grow something? Everything I plant turns into candy canes. It’s alarming.
P.S. This letter delivered courtesy of Jindle, our True Elf postal specialist. He writes haiku when bored.
That Saturday, she invited him to her greenhouse.
Chris arrived wearing an oversized scarf and a hat shaped like a turnip. “This was a gift,” he said flatly.
They spent the afternoon planting frostberries and whisper-roses. Chris tried to water everything three times until Merry Lou confiscated the watering can. When he asked whether soil came in different “flavors,” she made him taste compost tea. He didn’t ask again.
Later that week, while delivering a second batch of peppermint marshmallows through the portal sack, Merry Lou included a brief note:
Tried feeding one of these to your reindeer. They loved it. The sparkly one licked my glove clean.
—M
The reply came swiftly:
Merry Lou,
You gave Twinkle marshmallows. She now refuses regular oats and keeps demanding “dessert.” Rudy Winters is not amused.
—C
P.S. The gloves still smell faintly of sugar.
By month’s end, the snow had begun to soften, and the moon hung lower in the early morning sky. Chris stood in the Reindeer Barn, pen in hand, staring at a letter he’d rewritten six times.
This one he kept.
Dear Merry Lou,
You’ve brightened this winter in ways I didn’t know were possible. Would you join me next weekend—for a walk, a snowball toss, or a journey neither of us has taken?
I’ll bring the cider.
Yours in snow and starlight,
—Chris
P.S. Rudy Winters says hello. He also says: never, ever feed marshmallows to the reindeer again.