Archive of Our Own

"Hello?"

"Jules?"

I grin. "Oh, hello, Margie. How are you, dear?" 

Only one person consistently calls me Jules these days ten months after our return home from the safe house in California. Occasionally, Seth will use the nickname, but it was Margie who claimed it early on all those months ago, when I became her stepmother. Mrs. Fletcher, being no longer accurate, it had felt far too personal for Seth’s daughter to call me Jessica.

Initially, I wondered if there had been time for us to develop a relationship before marrying her father, if she would have become comfortable calling me Jessica.

However, it didn't matter. Margie was shy in the beginning, but she had been receptive to me. When she brought Ruth that initial weekend in January, I had taken care of the exhausted young woman, putting her to bed in our bedroom, insisting that the rest of the family would care for Ruth while Margie slept. Then, when they stayed an extra day, so that Seth could place tubes in the baby's ears the following Monday morning after our wedding celebration, I sat with Margie in the hospital waiting room, helping to distract and soothe her in any way possible.

I had not been blessed with children, but I had been blessed with two wonderful husbands in my life, a nephew who I helped raise as my own, and his son who calls me grandma. And now? A stepdaughter and stepgranddaughter. 

My life is full and brimming with joy these days.

I can hear the baby fussing through the handset and Margie's voice shushing her before she clears her throat, and says, "Sorry, Jules, Ruth was demanding more food. She won't eat her peas but wants more carrots."

I chuckle, “Sounds like her grandfather. He prefers carrots to peas, too.”

Margie laughs. “Yes, I suppose so.”

I wait while she gathers her thoughts, not knowing if she had a purpose for calling or was only wanting to chat. I'm content either way, enjoying her calls, as we have eased into a relationship.

I don't have to wait long.

“Jules, I wondered…would you like to go Christmas shopping on Black Friday?”

If anyone else had asked such a thing, my answer would have been no without equivocation. But for Margie? That activity sounds like something a mother and daughter might enjoy doing together, and I will do anything I can to nurture the bond between us.

Still, I must be honest. This year has been a lesson in humility. Returning home from witness protection has meant that I have been faced with first learning to be alone during the day again, separate from my husband, and strangely enough that anxiety has also been present on the opposite spectrum when I am in crowded environments. 

Seth and I accepted Margie's invitation to visit for Thanksgiving next week, and we plan to travel to Portland on Thanksgiving morning, staying two nights. It will be our first time away from home since late summer, when I went on an abbreviated book tour for ten days. After negotiating with Vaughan, I managed to travel to New York and Chicago, but even with Seth traveling with me and the help of several phone sessions with my psychologist, ten days and two cities had been my limit.

Arriving home afterwards, I had retreated from all but Seth for the first week to come back down from the stress and anxiety. Seth has been my support and strength this year, understanding what I am going through, as we lived through witness protection together. He has handled the aftereffects better than I have though. I sense that he had willed himself to be okay, watching me struggle, and trying to help. It frustrated me in the beginning; I used to be the type of person that could logically reason my way through something, but these days, I am less successful. 

I am improving though. Shortly after our one-month anniversary weekend at the cabin, I made a call to the psychologist in New York whom Vaughan recommended. Dr. Reynolds is a kind older gentleman, who does not read mystery novels, and although I shared with him some details about my career in the beginning, I appreciate having someone to talk to who has no stake in it, trusting his objectivity. 

At any other time in my life, I don't think I would have been receptive to psychotherapy, even after Frank died, but this is different. I'm married and have someone else to consider besides myself. While Seth will do all he can to help me, part of how I can help him is to seek additional support from an outside source when I can. This experience has been far bigger than any one person should be asked to handle. 

I love him too much to put that much pressure on him. 

Traveling to stay with Margie and her family next week is the first time since my summer tour that I will leave Cabot Cove. I'm focusing on what I'm excited about, like seeing Margie and the baby, getting to know Todd, and eating our Thanksgiving meal, while being aware and mindful of the things that could bother or make me anxious, such as being in a new environment away from home and engaging in public activities. Something like shopping in a crowded shopping mall would fit the bill for what could cause stress and anxiety.

My heart sped up at Margie's question, and I'm searching my brain for an appropriate, but truthful response.

"Margie…I would love to spend some one-on-one time with you –"

Her voice sounds apologetic when she interrupts, correcting my assumption, "Oh, well, I doubt Todd will take care of Ruth for that long."

I have only met Todd once over the Labor Day weekend when they came to visit. He is a kind man, but rather clueless with what his young wife needs. I'm trying to stay broadminded, but comments like these make me want to encourage Margie to have a backbone. Instead, I focus on the positive and what I do know.

"Well, even if Todd doesn't take care of Ruth, your father will. A crowded shopping mall is no place for a toddler."

"You think so?"

"I know so." Even if I didn't struggle being in public, there is no doubt in my mind that Seth would demand to keep Ruth home, enjoying any excuse he can find to bond with his granddaughter.

"Oh, that would be a lot easier then."

"Yes, it will help. Margie, I know you're aware that I've not traveled as much this year because of everything that happened. But – well, what you may not know is that ever since, I become anxious in crowded places. I think I'll be fine if we keep it to a couple of hours, but I want it to be enjoyable for you, so I…want you to know that anything longer than that would likely be too much for me."

"Oh, Jules. I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

"Nothing to be sorry about. I'm touched you asked me, and I'm happy to spend time with you. But it's…a little challenging, and if, at any point, I seem a bit odd, I wouldn't want you to think anything of it."

"We don't have to go. There are other things we can do here. We could bake –"

"No, dear. You don't have to accommodate me other than being mindful of the time. This is what you asked me to do, and the more I can ease back into life, the better off I'll be."

Her voice is small and hesitant. "Well…if you're sure."

"Positive. Now, tell me. When and where do you want to go?"

"Oh, I thought we could go to the local shopping mall sometime after breakfast. I know there are some stores opening before sunrise, but I'm not a morning person."

I smile, even though she can't see me, grateful she doesn't want to leave too early when I hear the more aggressive shoppers race out to catch what they believe are the best deals. We continue talking for a few minutes, discussing the holiday menu and what Seth and I will bring Thanksgiving morning, and by the time I hang up, I feel confident that although the coming week will be challenging, the positives will be worth any discomfort.

S/J

"Jess?"

"I'm coming, darling!" 

Seth's voice sounds a little high, hearing him come through the back door, calling for me. This year, our pattern has been that whatever time he says he will be home, I make a fresh pot of coffee and wait for him in the kitchen. As he is rarely late, it helps me manage my workday, with the goal of seeing my husband at the end of it, a pleasant moment to look forward to. The few times when I'm not waiting at the table though, it creates a bit of anxiety for him.

I made our coffee ten minutes ago, and since I was cold, I had decided to have a cup before he arrived. When I poured it, I sloshed some over the lid, and it landed on my shirtsleeve. Hurrying upstairs to change and soak my shirt, hoping the stain will lift if I don't let it set, it makes me late back downstairs.

Now, returning to the kitchen, with Agatha hot on my heels, Seth and I reach for each other, our grip tight and secure. We have relied on one another this year in ways that I doubt we would have ever admitted we needed otherwise. But our vulnerability made our marriage real and strong from the beginning, and we don't pretend. 

"I'm sorry I worried you. I spilled coffee on my shirt and had to change and put it to soak."

He turns his face into the curve of my neck, and I shift in his arms, encouraging him to burrow closer. "It's okay."

Except it's not. I can hear it in his voice. Pulling away, I ask, "What's wrong?"

He doesn't answer, and I consider pushing him, but I wait instead, trusting he will share if he needs to. I rub my hands along his back, trying to offer comfort and reassurance.

He exhales loudly, a shuddering breath, and I shiver in fear. "I'm afraid one of my patients has leukemia. Their symptoms and labs all point in that direction, so I got them an emergency consult with a specialist in Augusta tomorrow."

"Oh, darling, I'm sorry."

"It happens."

"Maybe you're wrong?"

"I hope I am…but I don't think so."

I want to ask who it is, but I am a doctor's wife now, and even before I was, I'm aware of patient confidentiality. Despite my innate curiosity, I won't ask, tempting him to tell me as my husband, instead of maintaining his professionalism as a doctor.

However, I sense he wishes he could tell me, as there must be something particular about the person that is making their illness more difficult. He hasn't loosened his grip, and I am concerned.

Likely, there will be nothing I can do, but I need to ask, hoping that he will say there is. But when I do, he shakes his head against me, my neck becoming damp, and I know he is hiding tears. I try to pull away, but he won't let me.

Clearing his throat, he speaks, his voice a bit hoarse from emotion. "Jess, there is nothing you can do, other than what you are doing right now, and you know I can't tell you who it is. It has hit me harder than most though. To explain why…I can only say that the person reminds me of one of my girls and…I'm afraid for her."

His girls. So, the patient must remind him of Margie, baby Ruth, or me. No wonder he is crying on my shoulder. 

He had been hoping to retire by the end of the year, but it had taken him most of the year to find a doctor to take over his practice. That woman is moving to Cabot Cove the first week of December. As such, Seth has agreed to stay on through flu season on a part-time basis, until she gets comfortable. 

Days like today are why I know he wants to retire, even though he loves the work he does. He cares so deeply that it wears on him, despite most of Cabot Cove believing him to be a curmudgeon. While he will miss his practice, he will be less stressed for those like his patient today, who he can't do more for, other than write a referral and pray his skills as a diagnostician are wrong.

My chest clenches. "Oh, Husband. You are the most caring man." I tried to move away again, wanting to kiss him. He allows it this time, and I touch my lips to his, gauging his reaction, before pressing further, humming a sigh of contentment. As we pull away, I gaze into his eyes. They are clear, but his lashes are wet from his tears. He tries to turn away, but I reach up to wipe them carefully with my thumbs. I whisper, "I adore you."

"I adore you more."

I smirk, shaking my head. "Ready for your coffee?"

He nods, and I pour him a cup, topping off my own.

We sit down together, and I lift Agatha onto my lap, so she can settle down and purr.

"How was your day?"

"It was good. I finished writing a chapter and plotted the next one. I spoke to Margie earlier, too."

"Oh? How is she? And the baby?"

"I think you will call Ruth the baby until she goes off to college," I tease.

"She and Margie will always be my babies."

I smile and reach to squeeze his hand. "They're fine. Margie asked me to go Christmas shopping on Black Friday."

His eyes meet mine, and he asks, his voice soft and rumbly, like a teddy bear, "Are you able to do that, sweetheart?"

"Yes, I think so. I did tell her that I wouldn't be able to go for more than a few hours, but I want to. It seems like something…a mother would do with her daughter."

I stare at our hands clasped on the table, as I feel my voice grow thick with emotion. It's my turn to cry, as he pulls me to him. 

"She is lucky to have you, Woman."

"I'm the lucky one." 

S/J

Thanksgiving Day is lovely. Seth and I arrive at midday with our own contributions to the festive meal, and from the moment we enter Margie's house, Ruth stays glued to Seth's side. I love witnessing their bond, while I attempt to wait patiently to hold the little girl when she allows it. 

I usually serve as a placeholder for the person she wants to be held by, namely, any time her mother and grandfather are not available. I don’t mind in the least, because she still snuggles into my side, happy to be held and loved.

However, the one time of day that I have won, above her parents and grandfather, is bedtime. Somehow, we have bonded on her visits to Cabot Cove this year with all the many children's books I kept from when Grady was young. They had been a hit with Little Frank, and Ruth is finding joy in them now. She has favorites, latching on to several of the old picture books and she and I rock in the guest room chair, while I read to her and point at the pictures attempting to teach her a few words. 

Tonight, she asked me to read before bedtime, as a toddler who can only babble a few syllables can, while handing me book after book. I am happy to continue far past the time that I know I am supposed to. The little girl is only beginning to form syllables, but she points, smiles, and even giggles, and I have no defense for her chubby cheeks and toothy grin.

Now, it is the adults’ bedtime, and after wishing Todd and Margie a good night, Seth and I retire to the guest room, which only has a double bed. Seth assures me it is a comfortable one, having stayed here before. Margie and Todd apologized for the size, but we assure them we will be alright. We could have booked a hotel room, but knowing Seth wanted to stay with them, we will manage fine.

When I enter the bedroom, Seth is already in bed, reading. He looks up, and watches as I take my robe off and lay it across the foot of the bed. I crawl in, and he sets his book on the nightstand and turns the light off, already turning on his side, reaching to pull me towards him. There isn't much room in the bed, but we don't need much; we still sleep most nights in each other's arms. I rest my head on his chest, and he kisses the crown of my head, smelling my hair, making me smile.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?"

"Hmm, I'm tired, but yes, it was a lovely day."

"Good. I know this is a tiny bed with little privacy, but I enjoy staying with them. It gives me more time with Ruth while she is little."

"I know, darling. I'm happy to stay here. Besides, it gives me an excuse to sleep close all night."

He growls, "You don't need an excuse, Woman. I'm thrilled to hold you; you must know that."

I chuckle, "Of course. I'm teasing. But sometimes I wonder if I'm smothering you."

"Never. You could sleep directly on top of me every night, and I'd be content."

"Is that so?"

"You betcha." Pulling me closer, he drapes me across his chest, even pulling one leg over his, keeping his hand under my thigh to hold it in place. When I lift my head to look at him, he smiles. "You could stay like this all night if you want."

I shift my hips, aware of his body’s reaction before I see the recognition cross over his face. Smirking, I say, "I better not. We might get into trouble."

"Well, I can control my urges…can you?”

It’s a challenge, and I shift my hips one more time, as much to tease as to get comfortable. “Hmm, my urges yes, but you know I can’t stay quiet. So, behave if you want me to sleep like this.” I squint one eye open at him in command, and he shakes his head, grinning.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Chuckling under my breath, I snuggle in close, to sleep.

S/J

Margie and I head out to the shopping mall right after breakfast on Black Friday. I'm wearing a tweed pantsuit with a pink blouse, and my most comfortable, brown-heeled loafers. Margie is dressed in simple black trousers and a red button-up, but she looks lovely, her face full of excitement, and the anxiety that I felt upon waking, lessens.

Todd is upstairs getting ready for work when we leave, but Seth assures us that he and Ruth will have a fine time together. His hazel eyes are dancing as he holds the little girl's hands in the air, as she toddles around the living room floor.

"Daddy, don't let her take her first steps without me," Margie says, sounding worried. 

He glances up at us though, his eyes focused on his daughter, and says, "Don't worry, honey. She is barely putting any weight on her feet. I think she has a long way to go before she takes her first steps."

Margie appears soothed, because her shoulders relax, and she opens the door. I lean forward to kiss my beloved and he whispers for only me to hear, "Remember to breathe, sweetheart, and have fun."

I smile, nodding at him.

S/J

Shopping on Black Friday…isn't fun. It's not as terrible as I feared it could be, but it isn't carefree. Not that I thought it would be, but I had hoped it wouldn’t be awful. I do my best to focus on Margie though, helping her find items on her Christmas list. It’s easy to select clothes for Todd and Ruth and assist in finding a few small gifts for her friends from the mother's group she is a member of, but the toy store is overwhelming the moment we enter it. 

I follow, as Margie leads the way to the aisle with dolls in every shape and size. There are more options than I realized. 

Standing beside her, I do my best to help her consider what Ruth will like most, while more people crowd into the aisle than I thought could possibly fit, along with three separate people doggedly pushing shopping carts, despite the lack of space. 

I focus on breathing and edge towards the end of the aisle a few feet away from Margie, making sure I don't shrink in on myself and cause the situation to worsen. 

There are so many people. Everywhere I look, multi-colored lights are flashing and toys are making noise, my senses overloaded. 

My breathing becomes shallow, my palms itch, and perspiration breaks out on my forehead and chest. My logical plan to focus on helping Margie leaves my brain, and I begin to look for an escape, my body on overdrive. Fight or flight taking over.

How can I get away from here? Where can I go?

The only possible escape from the crowd around me is to leave the store through the front entrance. Yet, I know that will only lead to more people in the middle of the shopping mall, and I don't want to be separated from Margie. It would be difficult to find her again in this horde of people, and that would bring its own stress.

As I am searching my surroundings, going through every escape option and finding them unhelpful, I stop paying attention to Margie. She must realize though, because she moves directly in my line of sight, and grasps my hands that I hadn't realized I was clutching and wringing together. 

I look down at her hands covering mine, and I swallow convulsively. 

"Jules, look at me."

I glance up into her eyes, more like her father's than I previously realized. Not necessarily in appearance, but in emotion. Such kind eyes. 

I don't say anything, but I maintain eye contact, allowing her open assessment.

She keeps her voice low, but says, "It's okay if you need to leave. I'll come find you in a few minutes."

"It's too busy outside."

"We can determine a meeting place before you go."

"But –"

"But nothing. Jules, you need to take care of yourself. This is the last store I wanted to shop in. If you are okay to leave and wait for me just outside, I'm sure I can find you as soon as I finish."

I have an absurd desire to argue. I'm angry – at myself. It's only been an hour and a half since we arrived. I should have been able to make it at least two hours, and I had hoped for three. But instead, I have reached my limit, or at least I have inside this store. It's too much and I can't stay any longer.

I don't speak. I can't, for fear I will become emotional. Instead, I give her a half smile and nod, steeling my body, as I approach an oblivious couple blocking the aisle, the only barrier between me and my path to the exit. Asking them to excuse me, they finally take notice and shift out of the way, allowing me to squeeze past.

Once I exit the store, I breathe a sigh of relief. Freedom. Even though I am still indoors with masses of people walking around. Still, I'm content to wait, standing out of the way of passersby, which is not easy to do.

People watching is something my writer brain enjoys, but I have no desire to do so today. I'm drained, but I have one thing I hope to accomplish before we leave. 

Considering what to give Margie as a Christmas present has been a challenge. I want to give her something useful, but something that gives her pleasure that she would perhaps not spend money on otherwise. 

After I published my first book and received the first royalty check, I went out and bought a handbag that I had craved for years. I was embarrassed by the purchase at first. As a widowed schoolteacher it was beyond simple extravagance, yet somehow, I knew Frank would have approved. Especially since the remainder of the check went into savings and investments. It took me a long time to use that handbag though, putting it away in a closet for six months, but one day, I took it out and began to use it, and while it is a mere possession, it is one that always brings a smile to my face. Now, to this day, most of my travel is paid for by my publisher and my only real expenses are my wardrobe and my day-to-day living expenses in Cabot Cove. It's a privileged life I lead, but I do allow myself small pleasures on occasion, and I delight in sharing what I have been given with loved ones.

Deciding that a quality designer handbag is what I want to give my stepdaughter, I realize that the easiest thing is to have her choose it herself. It’s such a personal item that I want it to be something she truly loves. 

I don't think Seth will mind if I buy Margie an expensive handbag, and I certainly hope Margie won't.

After fifteen minutes, Margie leaves the toy store with a new bag in her hand and walks in my direction.

"Look, Jules. What do you think?"

She pulls out a beautiful miniature doll in a pink dress with a mass of blondish-brown hair, freckles, and brilliant blue eyes. I'm not sure what material the doll is made of, but she is soft and will be perfect for my stepgranddaughter to hold and play with as she grows.

"Oh, she is lovely, Margie. Ruth will love her."

"You think so?"

I nod.

Placing the doll back into the bag, Margie turns to me, and says, "Now, let's get you out of here. This place is a zoo."

"Not just yet, dear. I'd like to go into Macy's first."

She looks at me, doubtfully. I realize she isn't sure I am telling the truth. I stopped shaking and perspiring ten minutes ago, and focusing now on Margie and finding her gift, I am a woman with a mission. 

Trying to reassure her, I chuckle. "Believe me, I want to leave as soon as we finish at Macy's, but I would like to go there first…if that's alright?" Suddenly, I'm aware that perhaps she is overwhelmed by the crowds.

She smiles, "I think I can manage one more store."

Once inside the department store, I follow the signs to the handbags. When we enter the section located by the shoe department, I watch as she stares at the bags on display, and I imagine I see a flicker of desire when she peers at one behind the glass.

"What are you looking for, Jules? I'll help."

It's now or never. I reach one arm around her petite body, and lean in conspiratorially, saying, "Well, dear, I want to find a handbag for you."

She startles, her face bewildered. "For me?"

A bundle of nerves takes over, but I push ahead. "Yes, for you. It is Christmastime, and you are my stepdaughter. Every woman needs a handbag they love and enjoy using."

She whispers, while staring at a simple brown leather Coach bag, with gold details, in the case ahead of us, "I have purses." She begins playing with the shoulder strap of her plain black purse, and I recognize the self-conscious gesture.

Tilting my head to indicate the bag she is staring at, I ask, "But do you have that one?"

She scoffs, "Of course not! It's behind glass. It must cost a fortune!"

I chuckle. "Would you like to look at it?"

Now, she turns her face to stare at me. She is such a kind woman, and I have grown to love her this year in ways I didn't anticipate. First, as Seth's daughter, but it did not take long before I loved her for the wonderful woman she is. And now? I believe I love her as my own. Certainly, she is as close to a daughter as I'll ever have in this life. Aware of my deep insecurity about my lack of biological children, it's frustrating to doubt my role and where I fit in her life.

When I considered what to buy Margie for Christmas, I worried that she, or Seth, could view this as an attempt to buy her love, which is not my intention. I love her no matter what, because of who she is, but…this is our first holiday season together. I want to make it special, and while this could be considered materialistic, this is one of several things I want to do for her. 

Her face can only be described as incredulous, when she asks, "What?"

"Hmm, well, I want to look at it. Why don't we look at it together?"

A strand of her shoulder-length brown hair that she had tucked behind her ear comes loose and is laying across her cheek. I reach out and push it back behind her ear and then reach for her hand to lead her to the case, where an older saleswoman has been watching us astutely, aware that she has a fresh sale in sight.

"May I help you, ladies?"

"Yes, we'd like to see that Coach bag."

"Ah yes, this is the most popular bag that Coach makes. It's so versatile and the leather is soft." The woman knows better than to say more, placing the bag on the counter in a hushed tone of reverence, making me want to laugh.

I may love handbags, but at the end of the day, it's a handbag. A necessity for a woman, yes, but most importantly, it needs to be functional, while also hopefully, being attractive.

Margie hasn't reached out to touch it yet. She must want to, her hands are resting on the counter, twitching, but she hesitates. "Go ahead, dear. Open it and see if there are any zippered pockets. I always think that is the most important thing in a good handbag."

She looks at me, before cautiously, reaching forward and undoing the gold clasp, her hands shaking. I want to rest mine on top of hers and encourage her to relax, but I won't embarrass her in front of the saleslady. Instead, I wait, grateful to focus on someone else, instead of my own panic and anxiety that is simmering below the surface from earlier.

She peers into the bag, inspecting it, testing the zippers and locating hidden compartments in silence. Finding the price tag hidden in the back pocket, she starts to pull it out, and I reach to stop her, tucking it back inside, and shifting the attention to the saleslady. "Is this the only color this one comes in?"

"Oh, no, ma'am, we also have it in black."

"Hmm, well, brown and black are good neutrals."

"Indeed."

Aware that the lady is only wanting to make a commission, it is more important to me that Margie wants whatever bag I buy her. "Margie, would you care to look at any of the others?" I ask, waving my hand towards a few more within view that are similar styles, but different brands. 

Shaking her head, she answers, "Oh, no. That's the…"

Curious, I ask, "That's the, what?"

"Nothing," her pale cheeks have gone red, and the errant strand of hair has fallen over her cheek again.

Placing my hand on her arm, I turn her around and lead her a few steps away from the saleslady. "What is it, dear?"

"I can't let you buy that, Jules. I don't even know how much it is!" She sounds exasperated, whispering, and raising her hand to gesture, before letting it fall back to her side.

"What were you going to say before?"

"What?"

"You said, that's the…"

Flustered now, she says, "Oh. That's the one."

I smile at her. I thought that was what she meant. I suspect she is like most women and has wanted a specific handbag for a long time. Likely, she has eyed that exact bag before, whether in a store or on the arm of a woman in public. 

"Margie, dear, look at me."

She does, and there is such openness in her face, and the vulnerability in her eyes makes my chest ache. 

I need to be vulnerable with her in return. Keeping my voice low, so that no one else hears, I lean closer. "You know that I don't have biological children, but what you may not know is that I wanted them desperately, and it was the greatest regret of my life that Frank and I were never blessed that way…Grady came to live with us around the time that we realized I couldn't carry a child, and he was special as a result. He really became our son, even though it's only been this past year that we have discussed our feelings. Little Frank has latched on to calling me his grandma, and those relationships have been healing. But, Margie, you are part of that healing now. Marrying your father and having you as my stepdaughter and Ruth as another grandchild, I – I – well, my dear, there aren't enough words to describe how happy I am. How much I care for you and am grateful for the relationship we have. I don't ever want to take your mother's place, but I always wanted a daughter. I know it's just a handbag, but it's something that I imagine a mother would give a daughter, and…you would give me great joy if you would accept it as your Christmas gift." 

I managed not to cry, her pale eyes staring at me now, and she says, "On one condition."

I'm not expecting that, but I tilt my head in acknowledgement, wiping away the single tear that escapes then, despite my best efforts not to let it.

"You stop calling me your stepdaughter."

"Oh." Dread creeps over me, fearing I have offended her, but she squeezes my arm, locking eyes with me again.

"Stop calling me your stepdaughter, because I want to be your daughter. You're right; I don't want you to take my mom's place, so I won't ever call you my mom, but I think I could refer to you in conversation as my mother if that's alright?"

I feel breathless, and as though she has given me the best present in return. "Oh. Yes, of course. If you would like to."

She grins. "You'll always be Jules to me, and that's what I'll still call you, but I am so happy you and my dad are married. You're wonderful to him and he is the happiest I have seen him since my mom got sick. I've enjoyed getting to know you this year, and we are family now. Aren't we?"

My smile is lopsided, but I nod, desperate not to cry. "Yes, we are."

"Alright, I have one more condition."

I tease. "Only one?" She isn't normally so forthright.

"Yes, I'd like to keep it under the tree until Christmas. If it's a Christmas present, I want to wait until then to open it."

"Delayed gratification," I say, amused, knowing that trait didn't come from Seth.

She pauses, and I sense she needs to say something more, but isn't sure how.

"Go ahead. What do you need?"

She sighs. "It's only…Jules, you have no idea how much that purse even costs!"

I laugh. I can't help it. I hope she doesn't think it's boastful, knowing my financial circumstances are far different than she has ever experienced, but this is not a conversation I want to linger on, yet I understand her concern. I lean forward, and whisper in her ear, "Guess what? It doesn't matter; it's a gift for my daughter."

I pull away, and turn back around towards the glass counter, the woman already looking at us in delight, and Margie responds, disbelieving, "Well, if you're sure…"

I wink at her. "Just call me, Mrs. Santa Claus."