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His silver hair was combed neatly back; his weathered, sixty-year-old face was relaxed, the deep lines around his eyes crinkling into an expression of quiet, immense, unreserved joy.
Chloe stopped dead in the center of the hall, her small hand slipping from Eleanor’s fingers, her mouth falling open into a perfect, silent circle of pure, miraculous wonder.
“Mommy…” Chloe whispered, her voice barely a breath. “He came. Santa came through the front door.”
Arthur set his coffee mug down on the heavy stone mantel.
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He didn’t speak. He knelt down on one knee on the pine floorboards, resting his hands easily on his thigh, letting the golden firelight wash over his gray sweater.
“Good morning, Chloe,” Arthur said, his baritone rich, warm, and gentle as a summer breeze through the hemlocks. “Santa told me he had a very difficult time finding you in Ephrata. But he had a note on his manifest that said the bravest girl in Lancaster County was sleeping at Hawthorn Ridge.”
