Page 38 of 5 Golden Flings

“It’s not just a bell,” she argued. “This bell is one of my special wishing ornaments. Take it home, hang it on your Christmas tree, and make your wish.”

“I’m not sure this little bell is going to find me a Santa Claus for the parade.” Alice looked at the bell, dubiously. The wish angle was cute and all, but it was a sparkly bauble, not some magical solution to her problems.

“I happen to know that Santa can’t resist the sound of jingling bells. Make your wish and you’ll be surprised who shows up on your doorstep.”

What the hell, Alice shrugged. What could it hurt? “Wrap me up,” she said, handing the woman over some cash.

The woman slipped the money into the pocket of her dress without counting it and moved to wrap the ornament in tissue paper. She slipped it into a box, then put the box into a plain white gift bag.

“Do you have a card or something? We do some festivals from time to time where we have vendors come into town. I organize those events for the mayor’s office and could call you the next time we schedule something.”

“I don’t,” she said, handing over the bag. “I kind of go where the Christmas spirit leads me.”

Alice didn’t quite know what to say, but she probably had a social media account or something she could look up. Instead of pressing, she thanked her and took her ornament. “Can you at least tell me your name?”

“Sure. It’s Ms. Tinsel, like the Trailer. The only one around, I assure you. Now you hurry home and enjoy your wish, Alice.” She gave her a wink, then turned and went back inside the Airstream.

Alice stood there for a moment, confused by the whole interaction, before finally heading over to her car. As she drove toward her house, it occurred to her that she was absolutely certain she hadn’t told Ms. Tinsel her name was Alice. And she’d paid in cash. About a block from her house, she turned the car around and headed back to the square to ask her how she knew her name.

But when she pulled up outside of Phyllis’s Antiques, Ms. Tinsel and The Tinsel Trailer were gone.

Thirty days in Rosewood.

His father had done the crime, but somehow Foster Robinson was serving the sentence. Really, he was glad his father’s attorney Logan Anthony had intervened on his behalf and convinced Sheriff Todd to give Dad a break. He could’ve hit him with a more serious charge that could lead to jail time. Instead, they’d negotiated a deal with the Robinsons. Either Foster stayed in town and kept his dad sober and out of trouble for thirty days, or he checked him into rehab for a month-longprogram. If he successfully completed either, the charges would get dropped.

Foster was not a fan of Christmas. Hadn’t been since he was a child. But his dad loved it, and the thought of him spending it in a hospital with a bunch of doctors and strangers broke his heart. Like it or not, Foster had the flexibility to stay in Rosewood for as long as he needed to, so the decision was easy to make.

Keeping Lionel Robinson out of trouble for thirty days would be another matter.

Foster brought a cup of black coffee to his father while he sat in his favorite old recliner. “Dad, that woman we ran into outside the jail?”

“Alice Jordan?”

Foster nodded and sat down onto the couch nearby. “Who is she?”

“She works for the Mayor’s Office. She practically runs the town, if you ask anyone who really knows.” Leo took a sip of coffee and sat back in the chair. “She took the assistant job over about four years ago and I’ve worked with her on the Christmas parade ever since then. She’s a nice lady. Very organized. She knows how to keep a guy in line. You could use a woman like that.”

Foster had been having similar thoughts, but with very different reasoning. “I’m not the one that needs someone to keep me in line.”

“Well then, to get you off the damned computer and out into the real world.”

“I’m a writer, Dad. It’s my job to be on the computer.”

“Maybe so. But so was Ernest Hemingway and he was out hunting in Africa, fighting wars, and living life.”

“He was an alcoholic and committed suicide.”

“That’s not my point,” Leo scoffed. “My point is how can you write what you know when you don’t go out and experienceanything the world has to offer? Who was the last woman you really dated? That, uh, that Jessica?”

Foster rolled his eyes. He did not want to talk about this with his Dad. At least not today. They had plenty of time to cover the shortcomings of his life over the next four weeks together. “I have dated since Jessica.”

“You haven’t mentioned anyone.”

“There hasn’t been anyone worth mentioning. And I’m not wanting to date Miss Jordan. I was just curious about her.”

“She’s a redhead,” Leo said with a smile that told Foster he didn’t believe his protests. “I don’t know if you could tell under that knit cap she was wearing, but she has lovely dark auburn hair.”

It was just like a father to point out his son’s weaknesses. His type had been firmly established in the sixth grade when he developed his first crush on Melanie Walsh with her red braids and freckles. “I noticed.” A dark auburn strand of hair had escaped her hat and he’d watched her tuck it behind her ear. It was shoulder-length, a no-nonsense style that flattered the shape of her face. She didn’t have freckles, but she did have dimples when she smiled. That was even better.

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