Page 45 of The Christmas Box

I just laugh. Then tell her, “I barely recognize you, by the way, without your red coat and beard.”

“That was a lot of fun,” she says. “Getting to hear what all the kiddos want for Christmas. And getting to enjoy the look on your face when you thought I was a creepy old man.” She lets out a laugh so big it echoes.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice thick with sarcasm. “Hilarious.”

“So you two are out spreading holiday cheer today?”

I keep it simple. “Something like that.”

“Well, there are certainly worse ways you could spend your time. And worse people to spend it with.” She ends on a wink.

But I’m not going there with her, so I change gears. “How’s Dad today?”

Her expression does nothing to reassure me. It reminds me of Gabbi’s the other night: one that’s learned to accept—and convey—hard realities. “He’s in fine enough spirits. But his pain is increasing. We’re having to medicate him a little more heavily to keep him comfortable.”

I consider asking if this means the end is near, but I hold the question inside. Maybe I don’t want to know. “Think I’ll go check in on him,” I tell her. “Let the light-shining reindeer know where I am when she’s done passing out cookies.”

Helen nods, and as I walk away, she calls behind me, “Nice hat.”

Crap. Forgot I had the damn thing on.

Lexi

After Travis and I do a stealth cookie drop on the McIntosh porch, Marianne Jorgensen surprises me by coming out of the house next door—I didn’t realize she was Darlene’s neighbor.

“I see what you did there, Lexi Hargrove,” she says softly from her porch, wrapping a long cardigan sweater tighter around her to ward off the cold. “Darlene will be thrilled by a secret delivery and I won’t breathe a word.”

I step over into her yard to say, “It wasn’t just me. It was Travis, too.” I motion toward the man in the Santa hat already making his way back to his truck, parked on the residential street. “We just want to make sure everyone gets something in their stocking this year.”

She flicks her gaze back and forth between me and him several times. “I don’t know this Travis guy,” she finally says, “but if I were you, I’d be hoping to gethimin my stocking.”

I just laugh, like she’s so crazy to suggest such a thing. I don’t tell her I’m way ahead of her. Or that, despite my wish, I have no idea if I should evenwanthim in my stocking—if he’s just going back to his other life in Chicago soon. All I know is that without him, we wouldn’t be making these Christmas wishes come true.

It’s after dark when we head back to Main Street. While Travis grabs us a couple of to-go pizza slices for an on-the-run dinner before we set out on our last delivery of the day, I pop in to the Country Creamery and buy an ice cream cone I don’t really want, in order to chat Carl up.

As he dips my cookies-n-cream, I ask, “Don’t you have a big anniversary later this month? What are you getting Gina?” I smile my enthusiasm to let him know it’s something worth making a big deal of.

“Indeed we do,” he tells me. “Our twenty-fifth. But we don’t waste money on things like that.” He ends with a short head shake, peering at me over his glasses as usual. I’ve long thought ice cream is too cheerful a business for a man of Carl’s temperament.

“Carl, Carl, Carl,” I lecture him. “You really must. A twenty-fifth anniversary is a huge accomplishment. Can you just imagine how loved and appreciated Gina will feel being surprised with a special gift to commemorate twenty-five beautiful years together?”

Passing the finished cone over the high glass counter, he narrows his gaze on me skeptically. “You really think that’s necessary? What would I even get?”

“I do. And jewelry,” I answer without missing a beat. “A pretty bracelet or necklace. Go to a jeweler. Let them help you pick out the perfect thing. It doesn’t have to be pricy. But not too cheap either.” I point a finger in his direction, knowing him to be a penny-pincher. Which is fine—except for those times when it isn’t. “I think Gina would find it very meaningful.”

As I pay for my unwanted cone, he casts me a sidelong glance, as if wondering what I know and how I know it, but thankfully he doesn’t ask. “I’ll think about it,” he replies instead.

“Don’t just think. Buy. It’s a special occasion,” I remind him, then head back toward the red pickup at the curb, hoping our final delivery goes as well as the rest.

As we drive toward Mikayla’s little house on a twisty country road outside town, we’re both tired, and quiet, because it’s been a long day. But a gratifying one.

I wonder if Travis is quiet because of his dad, too. At the manor earlier, Tom woke up only long enough to seem glad to see us and to nibble on the last cookie in the tin from the bakery. I stood in the doorway, watching from a distance as Travis bent over his father, brushing cookie crumbs away and straightening his blanket, almost tucking him in, the same way I’m sure Tom once tucked Travis in at night years ago.

“There,” I tell him now, pointing out the little house. Lights shine inside, but there are no signs that it’s Christmas. Travis steers slowly past the gravel driveway, not stopping, and we find a place to park the old Ford a short distance up the road next to a dilapidated barn.

After Travis hoists the five-foot artificial tree over one shoulder and I grab out various shopping bags, the two of us go trundling up the snow-lined road like a couple of wintertime thieves in the night. “Guess you’re experienced at this,” he whispers.

“At what?” I whisper back.

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