Page 2 of The Christmas Box

“Had to pick up a few things out at the farm.” His voice is wooden—he’s clearly being nice because he feels he has to, not because it comes naturally. So it throws me a little when he adds, “You’re out early, too.”

Helen points vaguely north. “I walk up to the bakery and get donuts for work when I have the morning shift.” Then she motions to the east. “Guess I haven’t mentioned that my house sits just around the corner on Grant Street. Will I see you at the manor today?”

He gives a short nod as he lowers the tailgate with aclank. “After I get some work done here.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” she says to me, loud enough that she’s clearly trying to make this a group convo, “but Travis’s Uncle Wally just sold the Lucas Building. While he’s here, Travis is remodeling the ground floor for the new tenant and staying in the apartment upstairs.”

Oh brother. I live in the apartment abovemyshop, too. And Travis Hutchins isnotmy idea of a good neighbor. “Ah,” I say.

It’s then that he looks up from whatever he’s getting ready to unload from the truck and calls to Helen, “Anywhere I can get a cup of coffee this early?”

Fair question given that old Main Street, while somewhat lively during business hours, is mostly deserted otherwise. So I’m surprised yet again when she answers, “Sure—right here at the Christmas Box.” She points over her shoulder at my shop.

“We’re not really open yet,” I remind her under my breath.

“Sure you are,” she answers quietly.

“He can get coffee at the bakery,” I reply through slightly-clenched teeth. Janie’s Bakery is the only place in townactuallyopen this early.

“Oh, that’s all the way down the block,” she says as if it’s a trek through the Himalayas. “Your place is right here. You said you were excited to open, so open.”

And just like that, she’s off with a “Toodeloo,” toddling her way toward the bakery—as Travis Hutchins abandons his unloading to cross the street toward me. “I’m not sure the coffee’s ready yet,” I tell him. Unfortunately, however, I did put a pot on before walking outside.

“I’m kinda desperate for it,” he answers, “so I can wait.”

And thus in a weird twist of fate, it would seem that Travis Hutchins, the boy who once stood me up on a very special night, is destined to be my very first customer at the Christmas Box.

As he follows me through the door, I feel fifty shades of awkward, not wanting to turn and find myself face-to-face with him.

“So this place is…what?” he asks.

“A Christmas shop,” I answer shortly. I mean, does it not speak for itself? Trees dripping with tinsel and ornaments, stockings hung by the old chimney with care, colored lights, artificial snow, and Michael Buble crooning holiday standards over hidden speakers. What elsecouldit be?

“Is it, like, a pop-up shop? Just open for a month?”

“No,” I say, slightly annoyed. “We’re open all year long.” I’ve led him to the far end of the counter where the drink bar resides, and I check the coffee pot to find it’s still dripping. Rats.

“And…you don’t change it out to sell other stuff after Christmas?”

“Well, the name of the shop is the Christmas Box, so no.” Again, is this a hard concept to grasp?

“Hmm,” he says. It comes out sounding judgmental.

“Hmm?” I repeat to ask what he’s hmming. I finally glance his way, sorry to discover he’s just as handsome close-up as he was across the street.

Giving his head a short shake, he answers, “Nothing.”

“Seems likesomething.”

After a short hesitation, he says, “I’m just not a fan of Christmas, that’s all. So it’s hard for me to understand why anyone would want a never-ending holiday season. It’s bad enough just getting through December. I wouldn’t be able to handle all the fake warmth and fake cheer and fake snow all year long. I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but doesanyonereally want it to be Christmas all the time?”

I guess Iamtaking it the wrong way, because just who does this guy think he is? His attitude cuts to the very heart of my business model, a model that believes people want that Christmasy feeling for more than just the month of December. “First of all,” I say, “the snow might be fake, but holiday warmth and cheer are very real. PeopleloveChristmas. They plan for it all year long. Christmas is about joy and giving and the holiday spirit—what’snotto love? In case you haven’t heard, it’s the most wonderful time of the year.”

He gives his head an argumentative tilt before shooting back at me, “Nope, the song got it wrong—it’s the mosthorribletime of the year. Christmas is about commercialism, materialism, obligation, expectation, and being treated like you’re letting the whole world down if you just want to live your life normally and not wear ugly Christmas sweaters all December long.”

First, I take a deep breath—then I give himmypoint of view. “My familytreasuredChristmas. My dad died serving in Afghanistan when I was little, but my mom and grandma always made Christmas special for me, even when times were hard and my mother could have turned bitter. The two of them ran the Winterberry Diner that used to be next door, and they turned the place into a winter wonderland when the holidays rolled around. People loved their holiday spirit.”

He squints, looking a little confused as he says, “I think I remember that place, but…”

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