Page 76 of Embers in Autumn
Dad moved with purpose, stepping toward a case along the side. His gloved hand tapped gently on the glass, his sharp eye landing on a tray of slender bracelets.
“What are you buying?” I asked looking around.
“Something for Sophie and Lana,” he said quietly. “They’re still girls, but they’re not children anymore. Something delicate, but not too much.”
The jeweller, a woman with quick hands and a practiced smile, laid a tray out before us. Among the choices, two silver bracelets stood out: each one fine and light, with butterfly charms no bigger than a fingernail. One was brushed with a pale blue enamel, the other a soft lavender.
Dad studied them for a moment before nodding.
“Yes. These will do.”
I pictured Lana’s grin, how she’d try to keep it cool and fail, Sophie smoothing her hair back while pretending not to care as much as she did. Dad was right. They were perfect.
While he arranged for them to be boxed, I found myself wandering toward another display. The necklaces here were simple, refined—chains like spun thread, pendants shaped into hearts, stars, circles. My eyes caught on one piece and refused to move: a white gold chain with a snowflake pendant, delicate and sharp at once, each curve set with tiny points of light.
My mind could only think of one person:Amber.
I could see it already, resting against her skin, her fingers brushing it absentmindedly while she read. She would probably blush when she unwrapped it, laugh softly, say it was too much. But she’d wear it. Year after year, she’d wear it, and I’d know she carried a piece of me with her.
“May I see that one?” I asked.
The jeweller placed it in my palm. The pendant was cool and bright, scattering light like frost on glass. It felt right, even more beautiful up front.
“I’ll take it,” I said.
Dad turned from the counter where the bracelets were being wrapped in white paper and tied with twine. His brow rose.
“I never knew you to be so careless with money, son.”
I smiled, slipping my card from my wallet. “Remember when Mom was alive, and you bought her that ridiculously expensive bag? I said the same thing to you.”
His mouth curved, and he gave a small laugh, his voice softer. “I remember.”
I met his gaze, closing my hand around the little velvet box the jeweller handed me.
“Good, cause I remember your answer like it was yesterday. You told me never to feel sorry for spending money on a woman who brings joy to your heart.”
For a moment, the sparkle of diamonds and silver in the cases around us blurred. It was just me, Dad, and the weight of what I felt pressing sharp and certain in my chest.
“Then this Amber girl,” Dad said, his voice full of quiet pride, “must be very special.”
“She is,” I admitted, my throat tight. “More than I can put into words.”
And as I tucked the box into my coat pocket, I knew: Amber was worth every bit of it.
Dad slipped the little velvet box into his coat pocket as we stepped back out into the cold. Snowflakes had begun to fall again, lazy and drifting, sticking to the dark fabric of his sleeve. The air had that crisp, clean bite that only December seemed to bring.
“Speaking of Amber,” he said, tugging his gloves back on. “Should we pay her a visit? See if she wants to join us for breakfast in town?”
I huffed out a laugh, watching my breath cloud the air. “Sure, but I doubt she’ll have time. This week’s been madness for her. Christmas shoppers piling in. You know how it is—everybody remembers their loved ones read once the holidays roll around.”
He grinned. “Then let’s go find out.”
The bookstore windows glowed warm against the gray street as we approached, the glass fogged faintly with condensation. Inside, the place was alive. Every corner seemed crammed with people, coats dusted with snow, hands full of books and trinkets. The decorations made it feel less like a store and more like a little slice of Christmas itself.
Amber had gone all out. Garlands of pine and holly framed the door and shelves, tiny golden lights winking between the branches. Snowflake ornaments hung from strings above the displays, swaying gently as customers moved through. The Christmas tree dominated the back corner, tall and full, dressed in red and gold ribbons with glass baubles catching the light. I knew that tree well. I’d set it up for her last week, wrestling with the damn stand while she teased me about looking like Clark Griswold. Now it stood proud, glowing like something out of a postcard.
And there she was, behind the counter, cheeks pink from the warmth and her hair slipping loose as she rang up another sale. She looked radiant, caught between flurries of customers,smiling that smile that had knocked the breath out of me from day one.
