Page 1 of The Christmas Box

Day After Thanksgiving

Lexi

Lugging my new easel sign out into the cold morning twilight, I prop it on the sidewalk. In green chalk I’ve written:Grand Opening.

“Alexandra Louise Hargrove, is it truly happening? Is today really the day?”

I look up to find dear family friend Helen Brightway—once my grandmother’s bestie—approaching down the sidewalk. A heavyset woman in her sixties, she wears medical scrubs laden with cartoon Santa faces under her open coat.

“Yes, at last!” I call happily back. “Ten long years in the making!”

“A little early, isn’t it?” she asks kiddingly. And rightfully so. It’s not even 7a.m. Which might be when the Black Friday shoppers hit the ground running in cities and suburbs, but for shops in a small Kentucky town, our nine o’clock start time today is about as early as we expect people to be out and about.

Even so…“I’m too excited to wait,” I tell her. “So I’m just getting everythingextraready. And savoring the moment, I suppose.”

With that, I turn to face the building I just exited. Erected on Main Street in Winterberry, Kentucky in 1919, the brick structure was originally a bar, then a five-and-dime, and eventually a beauty parlor. For the last thirty years, though, it’s sat vacant—until I bought it a few months back. Now, the plate-glass storefront windows announce to passersby that it’s becomeThe Christmas Box. In smaller letters underneath:Where Every Day is a Holiday.

Did I go too far having the lettering painted in red-and-white candy cane stripes? I think not. If you’re gonna do something, go all in. The shop display windows are lined with fake snow and an array of small Christmas trees, reindeer, and snowmen. Beyond the window dressing, the building’s original mahogany bar remains, now housing the checkout at one end with coffee and cocoa at the other. The rest of the space is filled with antique tables boasting holiday décor and gift items amidst a forest of decorated artificial trees in all shapes and sizes.

As Helen drapes an arm lovingly around my shoulder, we both take in the splendor of my new business. “It’s magnificent,” she says. “Your mother and grandma would both be very proud.”

Her praise warms my heart as I tell her, “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

The warm little squeeze she gives makes it clear we’re both feeling the loss all over again, just for a minute. Some things never leave you.

“You’re gonna do great, honey.”

“I hope so. Chet Wheeler says I need to have a banner holiday season to stay solvent through the coming year.” Chet is my accountant—Winterberry’sonlyaccountant, as luck would have it. But he’s wisely advised my family on business matters for decades.

The rumble of an engine makes us both turn to see an old red pickup pull to the curb across the street. Old as in vintage-Americana-art old, but it appears well cared for and almost as shiny as new.

“I keep seeing that truck the last few days,” I tell Helen. “Any idea who’s in it?” In small towns, people make it their business to know such things.

So I’m not surprised when she does. “Travis Hutchins. Tom Hutchins’ boy.”

Well,thatpart’s a surprise. I try not to let it show on my face.

“Didn’t you go to school with him?” she asks.

“Yeah, we graduated together.” And he once hurt and humiliated me, but I keep that tidbit to myself. “I thought he moved away. To Chicago or someplace.” I try to sound very nonchalant, but I was happy when he left town right after high school, glad I’d never have to lay eyes on him again. Or so I thought.

“Indeed he did. Don’t believe he’s been back since. But Tom’s in a bad way. He’s with us at the manor now.” By which she means Bluegrass Manor, the rehab and rest home where Helen puts her nursing skills to use.

That’s another surprise. “I had no idea. What happened to him?” I don’t know Tom Hutchins well, but he’s become a fixture in our community, the guy you call when you need a deck or room addition built.

“At first they thought it was early onset dementia, but turns out the poor man has brain cancer. Wally took him for treatments, but it was too far gone.” Wally Hutchins is Tom’s brother, and the longtime owner of the building the red pickup sits parked in front of. “Wally and Edie had already put their house on the market and closed on their condo in Florida before Tom’s diagnosis, so when the house sold, Tom insisted they go ahead with their move, not wanting to hold them up. But Wally called Travis in Chicago and told him he needed to get his butt down here and take care of family business—you know, look out for his dad and the farm and such, until Tom passes.”

“Wow. That’s a lot.”

I’m still taking it in, in fact, when the truck’s door finally opens and Travis Hutchins gets out. I’m dazed by the sight of him. Why couldn’t he have gotten ugly over the past twelve years since graduation? Instead—ugh—he appears to have only become better looking. Once upon a time, he was a slightly rough, belligerent, long-haired kid in black clothes and combat boots. Now, his dark hair is much tidier and he looks like more of a rugged, flannel-and-denim-wearing guy.

“Morning,” Helen calls to him as he walks toward the rear of the pickup.

Cringing inside, I instinctively make a move to head back in the shop, but she grabs onto my wrist with catlike reflexes I’ve never noticed before.

Travis glances only briefly in our direction. “Morning.” Okay, one thing hasn’t changed about him—he still sounds a little belligerent. Like he’ll be cordial if he must, but it pains him.

“Someone’s up with the sun,” she says cheerfully.

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