Page 27 of The Christmas Box

I cross the street a little while later, thinking about my conversation with Lexi. Sure, she’d told me about losing her mom and grandma before, but maybe this is the first time I’m realizing she has struggles, too. She sure handles them differently than I do, though. It’s hard not to admire the way she just moves forward through it all, still seeing the good in every day.

What happened at the manor still has me on edge, though. Hot chocolate and talking with Lexi was…well, a nice balm after that—I’m glad I took her up on the invitation. But no amount of cocoa can fix what happened this afternoon.

Climbing the stairs to the apartment, I flip on a light and greet the dog. “Hey, girl,” I say as she comes trotting over, tail wagging a thousand miles an hour. I bend over, scratching and nuzzling her. “Yes, you missed me, I see that,” I tell her in a silly voice I’m not sure I’ve ever used before. I’ll have to get better about leaving lights on for her if I won’t be back before dark. “Bet you’re ready for supper, huh?”

I need to pick up a sack of dog food, but for now, I start breaking some deli turkey from the fridge into bite size pieces in a bowl.

It’s then that I notice her beginning to squat. “No,” I say quickly. “No, no.” I point to the puppy pad. “Paper,” I say. “Go on the paper.”

And that’s when something downright shocking happens. She trots across the room and goes on the paper.

“Oh my God,” I whisper. Then I walk over and stoop down beside her. “Good girl! Such a good girl. You did it—you really did it. It’s a miracle. What a good girl you are.”

And then I remember: treat! I’m supposed to give her a treat when she does it. I even bought some little doggie snacks just for this purpose—so I rush to the kitchen counter, grab one out of a box, and hold it down for her to take from me. “That’s for being such a good girl.”

I’m still petting her when I realize the word I just used. Miracle. I was kidding, exaggerating—but hell, what do I know? “Maybe Lexi’s right and Christmas miracles really do exist,” I murmur. “Maybe every single good thing that happens, in a way, is a miracle.”

Then I catch myself. I’m holding Marley’s face between my hands. And I’ve just told a dog I believe in miracles because she peed on the pad. I must be losing it. “I take it back,” I tell the pooch. “It’s not a miracle that you used the puppy pad. You’re clearly just a very smart, trainable dog.”

December 10

Lexi

The sign on the shop door saysOpen, but Main Street is dead.

Why? It’s snowing again. Just when most of what had fallen so far has melted, more’s coming down. I can’t believe it.

But I’m looking on the bright side. Even though I kept an eye out for Travis’s tree lights last night after our heart-to-heart and none came on, I still feel optimistic. Maybe he’ll never love Christmas the way I do, but at least now I understand why. And I still believe in my wish for him. I know he can come to appreciate Christmas again—somehow.

And further looking on the bright side: Maybe it’s actually good—in a way—that the store is empty, because I have a project to do. I’ve put it off and today is the deadline. I need to make a gingerbread house.

I’ve left it until the last minute because I’ve never actually built one before. Most Winterberrians would be shocked to find that out—I’m the Christmas lady, after all. And while I’ve baked some gingerbread men in my past, I’ve just never gotten into the homebuilding aspect of gingerbread. So I’ve bought two kits—allowing room for error—and that’s how I plan to spend this quiet, snowy day.

After I put on a pot of coffee and get the Christmas music going, I step behind the counter and open up the first box, containing gingerbread panels, icing with a piping bag, red and green fondant, colored gum drops, and some candy beads. On a sturdy cardboard base, I begin to build.

Or I try to anyway. It looks sloppy from the start.

But I keep going, attempting to piece together a house with my panels and icing.

Eventually, I take it apart and start again. But it doesn’t go much better. The cookie sheets seem too heavy to use as a roof—the whole thing keeps collapsing. I built sturdier houses of playing cards as a kid.

I’m to the point of frustration by the time the sleighbells announce a visitor and I look up to see Travis. “Coffee ready?”

I nod. “You’ll have to get it yourself, though—I’m up to my elbows in icing here.”

Yet I’d be perfectly happy to set it aside. There’s a gingerbread event this evening, but maybe I won’t go. Or I could show up empty-handed, but again, being the Christmas lady comes with a certain…ismystiquetoo strong of a word?—I’m not sure I’m ready to dispel.

After filling his usual green Santa cup, Travis takes a stool at the bar and begins eyeing my project. He squints. “What is that supposed to be?”

“A gingerbread house,” I answer without looking up from my task.

In my peripheral vision, he squints harder. “After a tornado?”

I toss him a sideways glance, then explain, “I’ve been invited to a little Christmas soirée at the bakery this evening, a gingerbread party. Every business on Main Street is invited to build a gingerbread house to be entered in a friendly contest.”

“That sounds horrible,” he says.

I ignore that, still focused on the problem at hand. “It’s my first year, and I was looking forward to it—but I’m not sure I have the knack for this.”

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