Page 7 of The Thief Who Saved Christmas

She was quiet for a long moment, studying me in the glow of the tree lights. Finally, she said, “You really will grow up to be a fine man someday. I can tell.”

I huffed a bitter laugh. “I wish I shared your confidence.”

“Take the starburst ornament. Take it, but I expect you to come back next Christmas. Come back, and tell me you’ve changed your life and made up with your brother. I’ll be waiting to hear it.”

Disbelief swallowed me like a black hole. This woman had threatened to turn her son in for taking the little ornament ontoAntiques Roadshow, and she was just going togiveit to me?

It would solve a major problem for me, no doubt, but I couldn’t accept it. I’d already decided I was going to do something decent, dammit.

She stuck her hand out, her wrinkled chin held high, and I felt powerless to do anything but step forward and take the ornament, careful not to hold on too tightly. She squeezed my hand and then released it, nodding to herself as if she’d come to some conclusion she agreed with.

“I’ll wrap it up for you.”

“You’re going to wrap it up for me?” I asked in shock as my whole world ripped open. This wasn’t what experience had taught me to be true. People didn’t just give you valuable things, ever. You had to take them. You had to trick your way to success.

Her sidelong glance held surprising humor. “I said you could take it, not break it.”

“I can’t possibly go along with this.”

“It’s a Christmas gift, Ryan. But there are strings. I meant what I said. You’ll come back here next December and tell me what you did to turn your life around.” She gave me that same creased-cheek smile as earlier. “And I hope to tell you that I succeeded in vanquishing that hotelier.”

Thank youfelt too small.

Thank youfelt like nothing.

So I nodded, and tried to swallow the blockage in my throat. “I promise you, Edith Whitman, I’ll be back next year.”

“And I’ll hold you to it,” she said. “December 1st.” She said it so assuredly, even though she didn’t know my real name or where I lived, or have any meaningful way of pulling me back except my word. She was treating my promise like it meant something, which made me want it to mean something.

“Merry Christmas, Ryan,” she added.

Then she wrapped up the ornament and sent me off into the night.

Something inside of me was broken and reborn, and I knew I’d be back. Iknewit. Because Edith Whitman had changed my life.

CHAPTER THREE

ANABELLE

Eleven months later

Tuesday, December 2, 23 days until Christmas

Santas sold today: 5

Santas made or purchased today: 7

It’s Tuesday afternoon on December 2nd.

Ryan Reynolds is officially late.

“He’s already one day late,” I whisper to my cat, Saint Nick, as he circles the claw-footed wooden legs of my chair. “I trusted Grandma Edith implicitly, but I don’t think much of a man who can’t be bothered to keep his commitments.”

He meows in agreement, and I glance back at my laptop screen. I’ve gotten carried away at estate sales lately, hence my Santa-overflow problem.

The thing is…after my grandmother died, I’ve had a hard time saying no to elderly dead women.

That probably came out wrong. What I mean is that I feel a gush of emotion whenever I go to an estate sale and see a woman’s holiday treasures collected into plastic bins or falling-apart boxes, unwanted by her survivors.

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