Page 4 of The Christmas Box

To my surprise, though, he just shrugs it off and resumes looking as sullen as he did getting out of his truck. “We aren’t close. Never have been. I’m here more for my uncle’s sake than my dad’s. As soon as he’s in the ground, I’m gone, back to Chicago.”

Whoa—what a cold thing to say. But thenIremember something from high school that I’d totally forgotten until this moment. It seemed like he had a bad home life. His mother left when we were just kids, maybe fourteen or fifteen. And that’s when he started the black-clothes-and-combat-boots things. I would have thought perhaps that kind of shared loss would make him closer with his father, but maybe not. And this is none of my business. So I change the subject. “I didn’t know your uncle sold the building.” His aunt and uncle ran a toy store in the old Lucas building for the last five years or so, until recently closing up shop.

“He and Aunt Edie are retiring down south.” If I’m not mistaken, he’s relieved by the change in topic. “But he put me in touch with the woman who bought it—she’s opening a soap shop and hired me to build and install some custom shelving and cabinetry. That’s what I do up in Chicago—along with other custom building.”

“Like your dad,” I say.

He blinks, looking oddly taken aback by the obvious. “Sort of, I guess.”

Well, what started out as an awkward meeting has, unfortunately, stayed that way the entire time. I still wish he wasn’t so nice to look at, with broad, flannel-covered shoulders, a day’s dark stubble dusting a strong jawline, and those brown, brown eyes. Even though they’re hard, his eyes, a reminder that he doesn’t want to be here. In his hometown; at his dying father’s bedside; in a Christmas shop. He seems like a very unhappy guy.

So I can’t deny breathing a sigh of relief when he drains the last of the coffee from his mug and lowers it back to the old bar top with aplunkof finality. When he gets out his wallet and drops a bill next to the cup, I say, “I’ll get your change.”

“No need,” he answers.

“It was a good cup of coffee.”

“Well, okay. But only because I just remembered I don’t actually have my cash drawer in place yet. We don’t really open until nine.”

“Then I appreciate you letting me in.” And as he starts toward the door, he glances over his shoulder. “Good luck with your opening today.” Then he slants me a grin. “But I still hate Christmas.”

It’s a nice grin. The kind it’s hard not to grin back at. But I don’t, instead suggesting, “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

“Nope,” he shuts me down quickly. “I’m here for one reason, a different kind of obligation than the ones that come with Christmas, and that’s pretty much all I’m thinking about right now. So even if I get my coffee here, don’t think you’re gonna convert me into some kind of a Santaphile.”

Thisalmostmakes me laugh, but I hold it in. And I’m tempted to tell him he can actually get early morning coffee up the street at the bakery—yet for some reason I don’t.

As the sleighbells hanging on the door jingle behind his departure, I’m still wondering what happened with his family—to make his mother leave, to make his father someone he doesn’t seem to care about, to make him hate Christmas so much. Reminded that we all have our losses, I suddenly feel a little more understanding about him being a punk back in school.

But the jury’s still out on what he is now.

An hour and a half later, the sleighbells announce the next arrival and I look up to see Dara Burch, my friend and part-time employee. The fact that her long, black hair, streaked with strands of hot pink, is held back by a festive pair of fabric reindeer antlers, makes me smile. “Happy grand opening!” she greets me. “Are you excited?”

From behind the counter, I glance from side to side at all the stuff I’ve crammed into this shop. “Yes?” I don’t intend it to come out like a question, but it’s too late.

Her eyes widen with concern. “What’s wrong? I mean, it’s dream-come-true day. The lights are lit, the music is playing, every snowflake and gingerbread man is in place. Why do you look like a reindeer in headlights?”

The answer is something that’s been weighing on me, but maybe I didn’t let myself realize just how much until this morning. “What if we fail? What if the Christmas Box doesn’t make it?”

I can see she gets it; she knows this isn’t a sure thing. But that’s when she points to a rustic painted wooden sign, currently hanging over the antique mantelpiece, which says:Believe. “You wouldn’t have come this far if you didn’t believe in the place.”

“But what if I’m being naïve? What if I think we’ll make it just because I want to honor my mom’s wishes?”

“Look, every small business has to do what that sign says. And we have Christmas on our side—theseasonof believing.”

“Of course. You’re right.” That’s when I come back to myself, my usual self, the woman who looks at the world through hopeful eyes, despite everything, because that’s what’s gotten me through the dark times in my life.

Dara appears relieved. “Okay, that’s better. There for a minute, I didn’t even recognize you. But there’s my glass-half-full friend, my ‘everything will be okay’ pal, my believer-in-miracles buddy.”

“Opening day jitters,” I tell her. “Because of course I believe. I believe in holiday magic, and I believe in the Christmas Box.”

“Good—now we can get down to business. Want me to start the hot chocolate?”

“Go for it,” I tell her, then reach beneath the bar for the Santa hat I’ve stashed there, pulling it onto my head. Glancing in a mirror, I flop the white, furry ball into just the right position.

“By the way, did you know there’s a hottie working in the old toy store across the street?”

Yikes, did I ever. “That would be one Travis Hutchins.”

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