Page 13 of The Christmas Box

Together, we head toward the shop’s front door and both glance down at the same time to see a couple of dark eyes peering back through the glass. I quickly realize they’re attached to a scruffy white dog who almost blends into the backdrop of snow. He looks like a cross between a Jack Russell terrier and…something else, so kind of a mutt. But a pretty cute one.

“Somebody lose their dog?” Travis asks, looking annoyed. Doesn’t take much to annoy this guy, and I’m actually pretty stunned he agreed to make the box, even if hedidact like it was weird.

“I don’t recognize it,” I tell him. “And no collar—might be a stray.”

“Rough weather to be lost in.” The words sound more like observation than compassion, though.

“At least the overhang might keep him dry if he stays here until the snow stops.” The building’s entryway is recessed, with an antique mosaic penny tile design between the door and the sidewalk. Even without a star to put on a tree, I send up a silent wish for the dog to be kept warm and safe. Season of miracles, after all.

We both ease out the door in a way that keeps the poor dog from getting in. Then, as the three of us stand there on the old tile, snow still falling an arm’s length away, Travis asks, “You think if I let him in here while I’m gone, he’d go to the bathroom on the floor?”

Of course I think he would, but given the weather, I hear myself tell a tiny white lie. “Maybe he’ll be so grateful that he’ll just curl up and go to sleep.”

Travis looks as doubtful about this as I feel, but he reopens the plate-glass door and shoos the dog inside. “It’s your lucky night,” he calls behind it as it goes rushing in. “Don’t poop on my stuff!”

After he locks the door, he glances back at me to notice, “You’re not wearing a coat.” Like with the dog, it’s more observation than concern.

“When I got the idea about the box and saw you outside,” I explain, “I got excited and rushed over to ask you.”

At this, another teasing, half grin makes its way onto his handsome face. “I think you and I have different ideas about what’s exciting. You’d better get inside before you freeze to death.”

“And you’d better get to Winterburger before they shut down for the day.” A glance up the street reveals their lights are still on.

As we both start in different directions in the snow, he calls, “You have a nice night, Lexi Hargrove.”

I already suspect the night I’m going to have, however, will be filled with the questions already dancing like sugar plums in my head: Will I really get that box? Will it somehow be the missing ingredient in my recipe for holiday magic at the Christmas Box? And…did Travis Hutchins’ just flirt with me? Then again, calling me loopy isn’t exactly a wooing move, so maybe I misread some of that.

And the most troubling question: Why did I get all fluttery at the mere touch of his hand? Yes, I would like for him to find holiday joy—but that doesnotmean I want mystery flutterings from the guy. Those are two different things entirely, and one of them isnoton my Christmas menu.

December 3

Travis

No matter how much time I spend at the manor, leaving always feels like an escape. Partly because I still don’t know this man who’s never acknowledged his poor parenting or the fact that I got out from under his roof the second I turned eighteen and never came back. So after having a quick lunch with Dad, as I move past the nurse’s station, waving to Helen and a younger redheaded nurse named Gabbi, I suffer a familiar eagerness to reach the door and burst back out into the sunlight.

That’s when a hand closes over my wrist, halting me in place. I look down to see a woman in her forties with dark, shoulder-length hair and glasses, in a wheelchair. She’s wearing fleece pants sporting images of Olaf from Frozen. She says something, but I can’t understand her slurred speech. It makes me feel bad, and on edge, to have to ask, “Can you repeat that?”

She does, but I have no idea what she’s saying. I feel even worse now. I must be looking at her like a lost puppy. And she’s looking atmewith exasperation in her eyes.

Undaunted, however, she tugs at my arm as she maneuvers the wheelchair through a doorway into what I’m guessing is her room. As much as I’d rather not go in, I’m not mean enough to pull away. The room is tidier than many, and blatantly girlish with a pink flowered comforter on the bed topped by a lavender-and-white-yarn afghan. Small plush animals, only three or four inches tall, line the back of a small, wooden writing desk. Above the bed on the wall hang pink-and-purple wooden letters from a craft store that spell outShannon.

She’s still talking to me in words I don’t understand, and now I’m forced to tell her, “I’m sorry—I just don’t know what you’re saying.”

She rolls her eyes, like I’m an imbecile. Maybe I am. Then she wheels herself over to a chest of drawers in front of the room’s one window, points to it, mimics pushing it, and then gestures to a spot about five feet away.

“Ohhhh,” I say, at last understanding. “You want me to move the chest for you.”

Her eyes grow wide as she nods profusely. I can almost hear her thoughts:Finally, you get it, dummy.

I have no idea what’s so urgent about this, but maybe if you’re stuck in here and you see a guy who looks like he can move the piece of furniture you need moved, you don’t let him get away. There were times I felt helpless as a kid, but this has me thinking about helplessness in a whole different way. It’s not the first time a resident here has boldly insisted I help them in some way. I guess they don’t have the luxury of being subtle or polite.

So I shove the chest until she seems happy with where it is. And although it’s muffled-sounding to me, Iamable to make out the words when she says, “Thank you.”

Then, as if I’m not still standing there, she rolls her chair over to the window, angling it just so, and peers out. I glance out, too. Cardinals flit around in the snow, looking like a living Christmas card. Now I get it. She wanted to sit by the window, but the chest was in the way. I’ve never wanted to sit by a window that badly. But then again, I’ve never not been able to.

Pretty sure she’s done with me, I lift an awkward wave and say, “Enjoy the birds,” and exit back into the hallway with its usual cluttered array of wheelchairs and walkers.

“I see you met Shannon.”

---