Page 10 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Saint Nick gets to our guest first, and to my surprise, he hisses at Ryan, his stripy orange fur puffing up like he’s seen his arch-nemesis cat, Fiddlesticks, from three houses down. “Oh goodness…he’s never like this with anyone.”

Saint Nick bats at Ryan with claws extended, getting in a few good swipes, much to my horror. Those claws of doom hurt, but he usually only whips them out at bathtime.

“Lucky me,” Ryan mutters, retreating a step toward the door.

His voice is a bit rough but still smooth—like the fine-grade sandpaper I use on some of the old things I make new.

I swoop down and grab my cat, who yowls in protest, his fur standing up like he’s a puffer fish.

A line appears between Ryan’s eyebrows. “Where’s your grandmother?”

I take a deep breath. “Let’s go sit in the parlor for a moment.”

Something hardens in his gaze, and I know he knows. A gasp of air escapes me, becauseI understandthe pain he’s feeling. It’s been sitting on my shoulders for weeks, making itself at home in my stiff muscles and dry eyes.

“Behave,” I whisper into Saint Nick’s furry ear and then set him down again.

He slinks away and then dashes behind the human-sized wooden nutcracker doll that stands guard behind my desk, but not before glaring at Ryan over his shoulder.

I slip the sealed envelope from the top of Grandma Edith’s desk into the pocket of my cardigan and lead Ryan into the parlor. He brings his bag with him.

I’ve tried to create an inviting and fun atmosphere, but I’ve only had a couple of guests come down to Hot Chocolate Happy Hour, held each day at 5 p.m., to enjoy hot chocolate from the carafe on the credenza, seasoned with some of the liqueurs stored beneath it. My grandmother always kept hot chocolate for guests at this time of year.It’s the little things, Belle, she’d say with a grin.

In the summer, she served sweet tea. Hot chocolate in the winter. Sometimes warm spiced cider in the fall. My memories of my childhood all seem to be organized around which drink was being served at the inn, a thought that makes me smile.

“Wow,” Ryan says as we walk in, his head swiveling as if it’s on one of those selfie sticks. “You’ve…made some changes.”

I can’t read the expression on his face, but his tone suggests he finds the changes off-putting. My personal Santa collection now lives in the parlor. All one hundred and seven of my merry men, an army of stuffed, stone, wood, plastic, and otherwise crafted Santas. Many of them are vintage, rescued from estate sales or bargain bins. Several of them are worth quite a bit of money, although none, of course, are as valuable as the starburst ornament that Grandma Edith gave away to a fellow collector to “spite” my father. Dad’s word.

Grandma Edith informed him about her dispensation of the ornament at the end of February, after she told everyone about her terminal diagnosis. Because, of course, my father being my father, the ornament was the first thing he asked about. He now goes to every advertised estate sale in the hope that he’ll find it and whoever took it has no idea of its true worth.

I try not to get offended by Ryan’s reaction to my Santas. He’s hardly the only one to have a knee-jerk reaction to my collection. But there’s no denying the cards are stacking up against this mysterious Ryan Reynolds. First, he’s a day late. Second, my sweet cat hates him. This is the third strike against him.

I give an aggrieved sniff. “It’s a renowned collection. They’ve been written up inHouse & Garden.”

He angles his head, checking out the full magnitude of the collection. “No shit.”

“Excuse me?”

He clears his throat. “Sorry. That’s…uh…great. Not really much of a magazine guy, but I’ve heard of that one before.”

He’s probably thinking ofBetter Homes & Gardens, but I won’t correct him. Thatwouldbe impressive. “Some of my Santas date back to colonial days.”

His gaze sweeps around the room again, lingering on one of my wooden Santas, whose face has been worn down by time. “Yeah, I can tell.”

Now, that’s just rude.

Grandma Edith asked you to be his friend, I remind myself.

So I take another big breath and turn toward him. How do I do this? Do I take his hands?

At a loss, I decide the best path forward is honesty. “I have some bad news, and I can’t think of a nice way to say it.”

“There probably isn’t a nice way,” he says, his mouth flat.

He already knows.

I gulp, then blurt out, “My grandmother passed away last month.”

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