Page 35 of The Christmas Box

While Dad chats, I find myself scanning the park for Lexi, since I’m sure she’s here somewhere. I see Santa Claus with a little kid on his knee in the gazebo, and Janie from the bakery selling fancy, iced cookies, and families posing for pictures in front of the big Christmas tree—but no Lexi Hargrove.

After Dad finishes a conversation with someone and informs me, “I built a deck for that fella a few years back,” a teenage girl in an elf costume appears before us wearing a big smile.

“Happy Holidays! Come over by the tree and I’ll take your picture.”

I start to object, out of the sheer habit of not wanting to commemorate our broken relationship, but when Dad looks up hopefully, I say, “Sure,” and push the chair in that direction.

The elf takes my phone and snaps a few shots of us, my hand on his shoulder.

When that’s done, I ask Dad if he wants a cookie and wheel him over to Janie’s table near the gazebo. He selects one shaped like a mitten. And as he talks with still more friends I never knew he had, I step back to lean against one of the gazebo’s thick white posts.

“Pssst,” I think I hear someone say nearby, but I ignore it.

A few seconds later, though, there it is again. “Pssst. Pssst, little boy.” Now it comes with a weirdly deep voice. “Little boy, come tell Santa what you want.”

I turn my head to see that Santa, sitting a few feet away in a big chair, is indeed talking tome. He’s smiling at me, in fact, and it’s getting fairly creepy—until he reaches up to pull down his beard, revealing a familiar face underneath.

“It’s just me, Travis.” Helen’s bold grin tells me she’s extremely amused with herself.

I give her a small ya-got-me smile in return. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—Helen always seems to be at the center of all things Winterberry. But I keep my voice low as I reply, “There’s nothing I want for Christmas, Helen.”

“But there’s something I wantforyou.” She sounds mysterious as she reverts to her deep Santa voice, the fake white beard back in place.

“What’s that?” I indulge her to ask.

“It’s a secret.”

I only shake my head and arch an eyebrow in her direction. “Have you been dipping into the eggnog, Santa?”

At this, she just laughs. Then she glances across the park in a way that makes me follow her eyes, until my gaze falls on none other than the person I’ve been looking for: my pretty neighbor from the Christmas Box.

Ah, I knew she’d never miss a Winterberry Christmas event—heck, she probablycreatedthe event. She’s manning the hot chocolate table, currently helping a little kid spoon chocolate chips on top of a whipped cream-covered paper cup as she wiggles her hips to Kelly Clarkson’sUnderneath the Tree.

Watching from a distance, it’s hard to miss what a vibrant woman she is. And a resilient one, too. Some people who’ve suffered losses—like me— go through their existences angry and bitter. While Lexi somehow still manages to soak up all of life’s little joys every single day.

That’s when I realize Helen is eyeing me, waiting for some kind of response. I simply say, “Santa, I have no idea what you’re talking about. And I have to go push a man around in a wheelchair now.”

“You’re a good egg, Travis Hutchins,” she calls softly behind me, back in her normal voice.

I toss her a wink as I start toward Dad. “Don’t let it get around.”

A few seconds later, Dad is filling me in on the guys he was just talking to, and saying he heard someone is selling some tasty pumpkin pie over by the cocoa booth.

“You want a slice?” I ask.

“That sounds real good. In fact, think I’ll save my cookie for later and eat some pie right now. I’m not real hungry, but I’ve always loved pumpkin pie.”

“I remember,” I tell him.

I have no idea if Lexi sees me as Dad and I approach the booth next to hers. ButIstay very aware ofher. She’s wearing a white puffy vest over a fuzzy red sweater, her long hair falling in gentle waves from beneath a red knit hat with a fluffy ball on top, and now Dara is at her side sporting her usual antlers as both sing along with Kelly.

As Dad digs into his pie a minute later, she catches me looking—so since eye contact has been made, I roll Dad over to her table. “If it’s not Mrs. Claus herself,” I say with a smile.

“Mr. Scrooge,” she greets me. “Behaving less Scroogier tonight than usual, though.”

I ignore the teasing accusation in her voice, instead asking, “Do you know my father, Tom? Dad, this is Lexi Hargrove.”

“Yes,” she says, “we’ve met here and there along the way. How are you tonight, Mr. Hutchins?” She holds her hand out to him across the table.

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