Page 4 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

It was probably time to go back upstairs. I could come down later to scope out the tree. But I found myself wondering what this nice old broad was doing alone on Christmas Eve. I didn’t like it.

“Where’s Anabelle tonight?” I asked.

“Why? Would you like to draw a phallus on her face?” she asked, completely straight-faced.

“No,” I said, laughing. “Just wondering why you’re working on Christmas Eve. Especially if you’ve got a granddaughter who has a thing for Christmas.”

Moving slowly, as if her whole body hurt, she edged out from behind the desk and motioned for me to join her. I followed her into the room with the Christmas tree, which she’d probably call the parlor.

It should’ve felt like a windfall—she was going to lead me straight to where I needed to go—but I didn’t feel good about it at all.

There was a credenza just inside the door, with a thermos sitting on a shiny metal plate on top, next to a couple of Frosty the Snowman mugs. She uncapped the thermos and poured something into the mugs—hot chocolate, by the scent—while I scoped out the tree.

It was large enough that two guys must have had to haul it in, and densely decorated from top to bottom with lights, tinsel, and old-fashioned ornaments. Looking for the sweetgum ornament would be like trying to find one specific needle in a needle factory.

You’re just looking for excuses to fail.

No one could call you out quite like the voice in your head.

Edith pressed one of the mugs into my hand, and I reflexively took a sip, lifting my eyebrows when I tasted the Baileys.

Edith shrugged. “We’re both alone on Christmas Eve, son. I suppose we might as well make the most of it.”

I could have pointed out that we weren’t alone because we had each other. But she didn’t seem like a woman who’d stand for bullshit, and truthfully, I would have been disappointed if she had. So instead, I touched my mug to hers and followed her to an old-fashioned, wooden-legged sofa facing the tree.

She lowered herself onto the gold-and-red-striped upholstery first, and I joined her.

For a moment, we sipped in silence, looking at the tree, my eyes moving over it slowly. But I couldn’t focus. The question of why she was here alone kept bothering me. “Why’d you have the hot chocolate out if you weren’t expecting company?”

“One never knows when a Christmas miracle will present itself.” She said it seriously, and I didn’t even feel like cracking a joke in response.

Another few seconds of silence passed, comfortably enough, and then she blurted, “My son is an idiot, and my daughter-in-law is no better. Theydidinvite me to celebrate Christmas with them this evening, but I told them no. I don’t hate myself. Keeping the inn open was a handy excuse.”

Snorting, I raised my mug to hers for another tap.

But she wasn’t smiling. She pointed to a framed photograph hanging on the wall opposite the tree, which I hadn’t noticed because I’d been trying to look for the sweetgum ornament without appearing to look for it.

The photograph was of a woman about my age with long, wavy brown hair and eyes so big they made me think of a baby deer. I instantly wanted to protect her. The thought was ridiculous, because I’d never successfully protected anyone. I’d only accepted this job to protect Jake, and I couldn’t even do that right, because I was getting the feeling I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to steal fromGrandma. Especially since she was this fawn-eyed woman’s real grandmother.

I cleared my throat to make sure my voice came out right and said, “I’m guessing that’s your granddaughter Anabelle?” I liked the musical sound of her name. It suited her. There was something elegant and sweet about her face.

She looked like she’d see right through me.

“Yes,” Edith said warmly. “She isn’t stupid at all, thank goodness. I’m grateful some traits skip a generation.”

“Was your husband stupid?” I asked, because Jake wasn’t around to tell me to stop running my mouth.

“Oh, yes. Terribly.”

I laughed in delight, then felt a fresh rumble of guilt move through me like a garbage truck backing up and preparing to dump its load.

She sipped more from her mug, then said, “She’s with a young man who’s all wrong for her. That’s where she is tonight. Nothing would do but to visithisfamily for the holiday. I’m worried he’ll propose.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s a hotelier.”

I was unclear on how that would automatically make him an asshole, but I had a feeling I’d agree with Edith on this one. She was a solid, salt-of-the-earth sort—if she said someone was a prick, he was a prick.

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