Harriet watched her mom leave the driveway like a castaway watching a ship fade into the distance. There went the only person who understood how badly she needed to bake and was actually able and willing to do something to help her.

She couldn't keep this up forever, Harriet knew. Even if Frank didn't find out what she was up to, she wouldn't always be able to quell her cravings with such small hauls, and it would be even harder to make excuses for shopping trips once Christmas was over and the aching grief caused by her father's death had numbed.

This was only a temporary solution. The permanent one would require much more drastic measures.

Frank let her inside with a smile as he attempted to fan away a burnt odor coming from the kitchen. "Glad to have you back, babe. I'm almost done making dinner. Or trying to, anyway."

After forcing down leaky stuffed peppers that were more than a little charred, Harriet gave Frank her warmest smile. "Thank you, honey. That was delicious."

"You think so?" Frank puffed out his chest. "Not to brag or anything, but I made a couple tweaks to the recipe. I think it turned out even better this way."

Harriet couldn't tell if he was joking or not, so she just nodded. "I think so, too. If you keep this up, you should go work at a restaurant." So you can learn how to cook, Harriet added silently. Sam wasn't even a fifth his age, yet he already had a much stronger grasp of how not to turn the kitchen into a disaster area.

"Aw, shucks. Now I know you're lyin'! Was this at least okay for you? I wanted to spoil you like you spoil me, but it looks like the only thing getting spoiled tonight is our appetites."

"Don't worry about it," Harriet said. "I think the main thing I need tonight is some sleep. You would not believe the crowds I saw today!"

Sam peeked inside the shopping bag containing the hidden baking supplies. "What did you and Grandma get?" he asked.

Harriet's eyes widened as he reached out and gave the bag an experimental shake. "Something Santa would be very disappointed to know you tried to sneak a peek at."

"Best to leave it be," Frank said. "With Christmas so close, the big man's going to have to start finalizing his list. Wouldn't want you to get moved onto the wrong one."

"And if you're really patient, maybe he'll even get you something extra," Harriet said.

"But we're not even baking him cookies this year," Sam said. A look of pure horror crossed his face. "What if that's enough to put us all on the naughty list?"

"That's why your daddy made sure to buy an extra big pack of Oreos," Frank said. "I don't know about you, but I can't think of a better cookie to go with a glass of milk."

"Chocolate chip, snickerdoodles, butter cookies." Sam counted off each type on his fingers. "Anything except oatmeal raisin. Those are gross!"

"Maybe I'll get us a couple backups, just in case. I don't think Santa'll be picky, though. You don't get to be that fat by being a cookie snob."

"I dunno," Harriet said. "He has to go to a ton of houses. I think he can afford to be picky."

"But the elves though? Those little guys will eat anything," Frank said. "I bet they handle all the extras."

"But what about Mrs. Claus? Shouldn't we bake a few in case Santa wants to bring her some?" Sam asked.

"I think Mrs. Claus has herself covered," Harriet said with a wink. "Who do you think bakes Santa's cookies the rest of the year?"

"And you know you're not supposed to bake anymore," Frank said. "Santa will see you if you try to sneak a batch."

Sam looked toward the ceiling and yelled, "Okay, Santa! I won't do it."

"I think he can hear you just fine if you use your inside voice, buddy," Frank said with a wince. "How's about you show him you're in the Christmas spirit by helping me put up some more decorations?"

They'd already made great progress toward getting the house ready for Christmas. Frank had put up the tree while she was out, and Sam had started decorating the lower branches. He hadn't even broken anything yet, although he had of course unwrapped one of the tiny present ornaments to reveal for the third year in a row they were in fact filled with Styrofoam.

Not all the upper branches were barren though. Frank had hung the cupcake ornament near the top of the tree, just out of Harriet's reach.

While she and Frank handled the rest of the tree, Sam set out his favorite snowman placemats and snow globes. By the time they'd finished hanging the ornaments, Frank was pouring sweat. "I swear this is why people pig out so much during the holidays. By the time you're done going up and down the stupid ladder, you feel like you've climbed Mount Everest. I think I'm gonna hit the hay early tonight."

Harriet stifled a yawn. It would feel nice to rest after such a full day, but she had other plans. "You go ahead. I've got a couple more things I'd better set up."

"I don't know where you get your energy, but it looks like even Sam could use some of that."

He'd conked out midway through setting out their stuffed reindeer herd, curling up next to the one they'd dubbed Rudolph after taping a red ball of foam onto its nose. Frank heaved him into his arms with a grunt. "Dang, he's getting big. You sure you don't want to call it a night?"

"I've gotta put away what 'Santa' got him before his curiosity gets the better of him."

"Sounds like a plan. I'll keep the bed nice and toasty for you."

Harriet bided her time hanging their stockings and sticking a flurry of snowflake-shaped magnets onto the refrigerator. Between each satisfying thunk of a magnet clinging to the metal, she closed her eyes and listened. At last, Frank's snoring rumbled through the house.

Once she was sure he was sound asleep, she tiptoed into Sam's room.

His eyes shot open the moment her hand slipped over his mouth. "I've got everything ready, but we've gotta be quiet."

"Got what ready?" he whispered sleepily once she uncovered his lips.

"The baking supplies."

He glanced between her and the door to his room, his nightlight illuminating her trembling fingers with its soft glow. "But Dad said Santa will put me on the naughty list if I bake."

"Santa's not—" Harriet sighed. Finishing that sentence would make him lose his trust in her or, worse, have a breakdown that would alert Frank to what she was up to. She'd have to try a different tactic. "Would Santa want you to be miserable?"

"Of course not."

"Then why would he keep you from baking? It's not like it's hurting anyone."

Sam chewed his lip, thinking. "Why doesn't Dad want me to bake?"

Because he didn't care about making them happy. "He doesn't know how fun it is, honey."

"Can't we show him?"

That wasn't a bad idea. "Maybe, but first we have to get everything ready for him. Measuring out the ingredients isn't exactly his idea of fun."

"But what if he catches us?" Sam shuddered. "I'll be grounded until I'm a hundred."

He wouldn't do anything that drastic, but he could definitely make their lives even more hellish. They had to be as stealthy and quiet as mice in a cat-infested barn, and they couldn't do that if Sam was a nervous wreck.

"Okay, be miserable," Harriet said as she inched her way toward the door. "I don't need a sous chef to help me anyway, especially one who's too afraid to set foot in the kitchen."

She slipped out of his room and counted to herself. She didn't even make it to ten before the door eased open and Sam followed her with an exaggerated tiptoe.

"Glad to have you with me, Sous Chef. Now come help me pick out a recipe."

The soft padding of Sam's socks on the carpet echoed her footsteps until she made it to the cold tile of the kitchen. At last, she was home.