Page 13 of The Bright Side of Christmas
When I step outside to get my mail ten minutes later, though, I realize what it is: my nutcracker is missing. I look left and right, trying to see if I moved it and forgot, then look around my porch to see if maybe he fell over, but there’s nothing.
The centerpiece for my Land of Sweets display this year was a stunning online find. He was a bit battered and bruised when I got him, but with some sandpaper and a fresh coat of pastel-colored paint to better fit my vision, he was even better than expected. He’s huge, nearly five feet tall, and heavy since he’s mostly made of wood, and he was standing guard on my porch this morning when I left for work.
And now he’s gone.
I’m coming to terms with either having to make do without or buying a new one when I feel eyes on me. I look to my right and see it for a flash: a pair of broad shoulders, a brooding gaze with an entertained smirk, and eyes that meet my shocked ones right before a curtain is pulled closed.
Somehow, I know.
I know Adam Porter has something to do with my nutcracker going missing.
I guess this is war, isn’t it?he said this morning.
With a slight growl, I turn on my heel and make my way down my front pathway.
My day was absolute garbage. I had one student bite another, and the parent of the biter tried to blame it on the other kid’s parents. Somehow, I agreed to bake all of the items for a bake sale fundraiser that will take place on Sunday at the holiday shopthe school runs for the kids, and on top of that, when my mom called during my lunch, she asked if I could manage to make a quilt for her friend’s granddaughter before Christmas. As seems to be my way, I stupidly agreed, even though it throws any plans of going to bed at a reasonable hour in the next weekcompletelyout the window.
And then, to top things off, as I was leaving work, Jan Klein made a snide remark about how the decorations on Main Street looked a bit lackluster compared to last year and said she hoped I had plans tofinish them up.I bit my tongue and thanked her for her input instead of telling her we put up the same decorations as last year, and if she wanted to add more, she was more than welcome to do so on her owntime, like I secretly wanted to do.
It’s not that I don’t want to help everyone. I love being the person in town everyone can count on, really. But with my new role as head of the decorating committee, I’m finding it challenging to balance my own goal of making my grandmother proud, my desire to make it the most festive year to date, and my need to help everyone who needs it.
The truth is, despite just how much I have to do right now, I would really like to nap for about a week, and the weight of all of these responsibilities is getting to me.
However, the exhaustion I felt in my bones just minutes ago seems to have evaporated as I move down my pathway, across the sidewalk, then up Adam’s walkway. In fact, there’s almost apepin my step as I stomp over there. And even though I’m annoyed as can be, I’m also a bit eager for whatever confrontation we’re about to have.
I only have to knock twice before the front door opens, Adam shifting to lean into the door frame with his arms crossed on his chest. He’s in a long-sleeve shirt that clings to broad shoulders and thick muscles, but I force myself to keep my eyes on his face.
Don’t fall for the hot arms, Wren. You’re here because he stole your nutcracker. You’re supposed to be stern, not swooning.
He smirks down at me before he speaks, not helping my urge to swoon in the least. “Can I help you?”
“Where is my nutcracker?” I ask, setting my hands on my hips and giving him the best glare I can muster. It’s the kind I give my students when they’re doing something they shouldn’t, and I have to stop being the cool young teacher and instead be the disciplinarian. His smile goes wider, and mygod, the man should do it more. I can’t say he isn’t good-looking when he’s all brooding eyes, irritated glares, and annoyed jaw clenches, but this teasing look is absolutely panty-melting material.
His eyes shift to the side, looking expectantly at the window beside his door, and I follow his gaze, then gasp when I see my nutcracker in his window.
“What have you done to him?” I exclaim, noting a T-shirt for the band Atlas Oaks pulled over his head and a black sock on the top of his staff, hanging limply like a sad flag.
“Oh, calm down, it’s a sock and a shirt. I didn’t take a chainsaw to him.”
“This is sacrilege. He’s a symbol of Christmas spirit! Not…whatever that is.” I wave a frantic hand toward the window.
“I think sacrilege is a bit dramatic. But he’s my hostage now; I can do what I want with him.”
I glare at him, my irritation brewing as we bicker on his front step. I have so many things to do, and none of them involve arguing with my neighbor.
The irritation directed at him is new for me. I always have a firm hold on my emotions, especially the negative ones, and can usually tamp them down and greet people with friendliness, no matter how I’m really feeling. Unfortunately, it seems my neighbor knows precisely which buttons to push.
“Come on, Adam. Give me my nutcracker back. He’s the entire centerpiece for my decor!” It sounds like a whine even to my ears.
“Oh no, how will your eighteen million lights and decorations survive without your five-foot nutcracker?” he says, deadpan.
I roll my eyes. I find myself doing that a lot with him.
“Eighteen million is an exaggeration.”
“Is it, though?” he asks as if he doesn’t believe me.
“I can’t give you a total because I’ve never felt the need to count them, but it’s definitely not eighteen million.” I shake my head, realizing I’m focusing on the wrong thing. “But we’re getting off track: are you going to give him back to me?”
