Page 37 of On the Way to Christmas
As I move in, he grins widely and hands me mine.
“Just about time for thebig arrival,” he says, and his eyes positively dance. “Shall we?”
He takes the handle of one of the suitcases, which allows me to hold the second in one hand and my coffee in the other. And so, together, we move.
Like an adorable couple.
Bing Crosby’s “Silver Bells” is playing over the speakers, and as we walk along, just two elves in a sea of black coats, I can’t help glancing at him out of the corner of my eye. We’ve shared about our hobbies and habits, but I still am a bit afraid to bring up exactly how he ended up on this train like me. Alone. Or if there’s not some elf girlfriend straggling behind.
After all, this is aromanticholiday getaway for two. And I can’t help noticing, he isn’t carrying any luggage.
And while he’s been chummy and nothing short of delightful, at the same time, it’d be terribly embarrassing to assume what he’s thinking. He did buy me coffee, yes. But that could just have been a friendly gesture with a fellow passenger. Ithinkhe pulled a chair out for me at the little coffee shop, but then there’s a halfway decent chance he actually tripped on the leg of the chair and recovered with a little dance step after. He attentively listened and nodded almost nonstop with his ruddy cheeks and twinkling eyes, but itcouldbe that he’s just the friendliest elf alive.
Dash it. I’m going for it.
“So,” I say, as we move underneath the sign directing us toward our train and follow its arrow toward the opening with its descending stairs, “I can’t help but notice you’re going stag on this little excursion for two.”
“You know? I can’t help but notice the same for you.” He adjusts his grip on the suitcase, lifts it, and, together, we take our first step down.
Butterflies flutter in my stomach at his tone.
“Actually,” he continues, slower now, “I was... wondering... as we’re both going alone... maybe wecould partner up on this trip. Traveling is always so much nicer when you have someone to enjoy it with.”
“Yes,”I say immediately. Elodie’s fists are pounding somewhere in the back of my cranium.
But this isn’t a big decision. I’m just saying yes to partnering up for the next two weeks. Just two weeks. What’s the alternative anyway? Doing everything alone? I smile up at Ian. “Yes. That’d be really nice. I’ve never been to...”
But as the platform comes into sight below, my words fade. Because standing there, smoke curling around its chimney, is our train.
I don’t know what I had expected it to look like before; something akin to all the other mud-dusted silver bullets that have come in and out of the station. Butthis.This is something entirely different. Gleaming candy-apple red paint across the body, trimmed throughout in gold and green. A colossal wreath hangs on the front of the engine, the scent of pine needles already waging and winning the fight against the typical greasy air. And through the cab window sits a conductor in a dark-green coat and wide-crowned pershing hat, pulling a golden rope that leads to a large brass bell. The walls echo with its chime.
If there was still any question, letters fall across the body of the train in gold script.
The Christmas Express.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Ian breathes with a sigh of near reverence. He looks practically giddy as his pace quickens down the stairs. “C’mon”—he turns behind him and, with my own heart momentarily faltering, winks—“partner.”
Chapter3
Polar Express
A short, stout man in a red nutcracker suit stands at the opening to the train, taking tickets with one black-gloved hand while tipping his tall black hat in welcome with the other. Elves scurry this way and that at the nutcracker’s command, relieving patrons of luggage and laptop bags and, in the case of one passenger, at least twenty gift bags overflowing with red and green tissue paper.
Ian ushers me forward with a gentle press on my lower back, I notice with flushing cheeks, and before I know it, I’m handing Mr.Nutcracker my ticket.
He slides it onto the top of the stack in his hand, and while he does so both he, and I, seem to notice mine is different than the others. Thicker. Whereas the others are coal black with a dignified red script, mine looks more like Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.
Huh.
It clearly means something, because the man raises his bushy brows to give me a proper look, and next thing I know he’s nodding over his shoulder—where an older man, dressed in what I’m fairly certain could only have come from a vintage shop full of old English butler’s suits, materializes out of thin air.
“Welcome aboard The Christmas Express, MissFairbanks.” The ticket taker takes my hand in his gloved one and glides me over the small opening between platform and train. He inclines his head toward the man. “Jenkins here will guide you to your suite and see to any needs. Would you like MissLacey, one of our lovely elves, to partake in your complimentary unpacking service while we bring you a beverage?”
“I—” I’m momentarily stumped for a response and cling tighter to the paper coffee cup in my hand. I don’t know how much Jonas paid for our tickets, but it’squiteclear he upgraded.
But of course he did. An old East Egg money boy, Jonas always upgraded whenever there was an option. Made amends for offenses the way his parents and grandparents and great-grandparents did—through gift giving. The greater the offense, the greater the reparation. And if I recall correctly, the particular evening he’d bought our tickets was after the funeral of a dear woman I took care of exclusively for two years.
When Jonas, hands on the steering wheel as we drove slowly in the procession line through the rain, mistook my grieving tears for tears of anxiety over my job loss, he said, “This is exactly why I said you shouldn’t have taken this job,Willow. You put all your eggs in one basket and now, look. The basket’s dead.Diversification.If you are going to tryand eke out a living at this, please start listening to me andat leastpractice diversification.”
