He signed in the lower right margin, stamped the page with his state medical license seal, and handed me the copy.

Ten days later, Cole sat across from me in a corner booth at a SoHo bakery with two huge, ribbon-wrapped boxes on the wooden bench beside him.

“I bought these for Noah and Lily at FAO Schwarz yesterday afternoon,” Cole said, pushing a folded sheet of heavy cream paper toward my teacup.

“I wrote down everything I should have said on Christmas Eve.”

I left the folded letter leaning against the glass sugar bowl without opening it.