Before long, it really was Braden’s bedtime. He put up little more than a token resistance—for all his complaining about Santa, Remy knew he really wanted morning to come so he could open his gifts. This evening when Remy tucked him into bed, Braden didn’t even ask for a book. He closed his eyes tight and promised, “When I open them again, it’ll be Christmas!”
“Well, don’t open them for eight or nine hours, then.” Remy leaned down to give Braden a kiss on the forehead.
“Is six too early to wake up?” his son wanted to know.
Remy knew whatever he said would make no difference. He remembered waking at the crack of dawn on Christmas Day as a child and waiting breathlessly in the living room, staring at the presents so prettily wrapped beneath the tree, willing his parents to move faster. Hi
