Page 59 of Mad About Yule

“Where we’re going to put that Christmas tree you found.”

“You know it.”

We lean against the window and eat our turkey and cranberry sandwiches in a hurry, careful not to get anything on the collection. A crash was bad enough without adding mustard stains to our list of infractions.

“What gave you the idea to do this?” he asks between bites. “You said you’re trying to recapture the old magic, but we never had a toy display window like this in town when we were growing up.”

I’d love to entice a toy shop to open up downtown, but that’s a task for another time.

“Don’t laugh.”

“No promises.”

I glare, but he just grins back.

“I won’t laugh, tell me.”

“I love the opening scene inA Christmas Story, when all the kids have their noses pressed against the glass of the toy shop window. I always wanted to see a window like that, and I never have.” When I was little, I wanted tolivein a window like that, but seeing one will be a close second.

“So you’re making one.”

“Pretty much. Is that weird?”

“No, it’s…” He looks like he can’t light on the right word. “I think it’s just like you.”

“I’m not hearing a no toweird.”

“I’m impressed. What you’re making will be better than we ever had.”

Oh. Okay, then.

Finishing the town with its minuscule decorations and inhabitants turns out to be a painstaking process. For every tiny fir tree I add, I knock two more down. I move in slow motion to avoid collisions, filling out the scene piece by agonizing piece. Griffin is less meticulous, and when I look over, he’s nearly finished his side.

“How are you doing that?”

“I’ve got some experience with building neighborhoods in record time.”

He moves closer to help with my side of mini-Sunshine. I’m painfully aware of him, afraid I might bump into him and start a chain reaction. First the little trees will start falling—then I will start falling. That near-kiss is under my skin, and I can’t shake it.

Eventually, we climb out of the completed window and stretch. His work might be fast, but nothing is out of place. He even put the truck hauling the Christmas tree in a prime viewing spot at the front of the window.

“What else do you have planned for the display?”

“I’ll wrap some empty cardboard boxes with Christmas paper and bows to put in the back of the scene, and string lights overhead. I’ve got my eye on some vintage toys from the antiques shop, and a few felt dolls from my shop. I found a couple of room dividers at the thrift store, and I’ll drape them with black fabric so when people look in the window, they’ll only see the wonder of Christmas, not the sad, empty department store behind it.”

“Good idea. Keep the mouse droppings on the down low.”

“Mice are only cute at Christmas when they’re ruining and then fixing singing clocks for Santa.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but sure.”

I shake my head in disappointment, because that cartoon is a classic. “I feel sorry for your childhood.”

He watches me with that odd look again, like he’s trying to add something together and he’s coming up short.

“What?”

“You’re not skipping any details. It’s more than a lot of people would do for a volunteer position.”

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