by Teri Wilson
Table Of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Spiced Walnut Crust Cookie
with Chocolate Ganache and Sea Salt
About the Author
Sneak Peek of Christmas in Bayberry
Christmas Charms
Copyright © 2020 Teri Wilson
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereinafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Print ISBN 978-1-947892-99-6
eBook ISBN: 978-1-952210-00-6
www.hallmarkpublishing.com
In loving memory of Bliss…pure Hallmark magic on four furry legs.
Chapter One
Everyone talks about Christmas magic as if it’s an actual, literal thing. As real as silver tinsel draped lovingly from the stiff pine needles of a blue spruce tree. As real as snow on Christmas morning. As real as the live toy soldiers who flank the entrance to FAO Schwartz, the famous toy store now situated in Rockefeller Plaza, right at the center of the bustling, beating heart of Manhattan.
But here’s the truth—as authentic as those costumed soldiers seem, they’re really just actors killing time until they land a role in an off-Broadway play. I know this because a pair of them stood in line behind me last week at Salads Salads Salads during the lunch rush. Dressed in their tall black hats and red uniforms with glossy gold buttons, they piled their bowls high with lettuce, cucumber slices and shredded carrots while discussing their audition monologues for the upcoming revival of West Side Story. It was all very surreal and not the least bit magical.
Genuinely magical or not, though, New York is undeniably lovely during the holidays. After four Christmases in Manhattan, I still go a little breathless every year when I catch my first glimpse of the grand Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. Every time I stand on the frosty sidewalk in front of Saks Fifth Avenue for the unveiling of their big holiday light show, I feel my heart grow three sizes, just like a certain green you-know-who.
I love this time of year. I always have, but this particular December is special. This Christmas will be my best yet. I just have to make it through my last day at work before taking off on my first real vacation in eight years—to Paris! My boyfriend, Jeremy, has family there, and this year, he’s invited me to spend the holidays with them. Christmas magic, indeed.
Oui, s’il vous plaît.
I pull my coat tighter and more snugly around my frame as I jostle for space on the busy midtown streets. The very second the floats in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade pack up and go home, Christmas shoppers and holiday tourists descend on Manhattan in droves. The switch is kind of jarring. One minute, a sixty-two-foot inflated turkey is looming over Central Park West, and the next, his giant, colorful plumage is nowhere to be seen. Swinging shopping bags are the only thing in sight, all the way from one end of 5th Avenue to the other.
The Christmas crowds are predictably terrible, so I always leave extra time during the holiday season for my walk to the upscale jewelry store where I work, just a few blocks from FAO Schwartz and its not-so-magical toy soldiers. A snowstorm blew in last night—the first of the Christmas season. And even though I’m in serious danger of being swallowed up by the crush of people headed toward the ice-skating rink at Rockefeller Center, I can’t help but marvel at the beauty of the season’s first snowfall.
Manhattan looks almost old-fashioned covered in a gentle layer of white. Frost clings to the cast iron streetlamps, and icicles drip from the stained-glass windows of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Huge Christmas wreaths have been placed around the necks of Patience and Fortitude, the massive stone lions that flank the main branch of the public library like bookends, and when a winter storm is sprinkled on top, the tips of their front paws and noses are the only visible glimpses of pale gray marble beneath a blanket of sparkling snow. I can almost picture them rising up to shake the snowflakes from their manes and prowling through Midtown, leaving a trail of paw prints in the fresh powder.
I smile to myself as I near the toy store. One of the actor soldiers out front pauses from saluting at passersby to pose for a selfie with a little girl bundled up in a bright red snowsuit. It’s an adorable scene, and I let my gaze linger longer than I should. Before I register what’s happening, I plow straight into a man exiting the store.
Oof.
We collide right at the edge of the red carpet stretched out beneath FAO Schwartz’s fancy marquee. Technically, I’m only partly to blame. The man’s arms are piled so high with gift-wrapped packages that I can’t even see his face, so I doubt he can tell where he’s going or who might be in his way. My gaze snags on the sight of his hands in the seconds just before impact. They’re nice hands—strong, capable. The sort of hands that can probably steer a car using only two fingers. Cradle a sleepy puppy in a single palm. Loosen a necktie with one swift tug.
I blink, and then impact occurs and the packages scatter. The rattle of what sounds like airborne Lego bricks and who knows what else snaps me back to attention.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going,” I say. I drop to my knees on the sidewalk to try and collect as many of his gift-wrapped packages as I can before they get stepped on. “Here, let me help you.”
We reach for the same box and when our fingertips collide, I realize there’s something almost familiar about those nice hands of his. Something that makes my stomach do a little flip, even before I look up to meet his gaze. And when I finally stand and get a glimpse of his face, I’m more confused than ever.
Aidan? My arms go slack, and all the presents I’ve just scrambled to pick up tumble to the ground again. Aidan Flynn?
No. It can’t be. Absolutely not.
One of his packages must have conked me on the head or something and made my vision go wonky, because there’s no way my high school sweetheart just walked out of FAO Schwartz. The Aidan Flynn I used to know wouldn’t be caught dead in New York City. He was a hometown boy, through and through—as much a part of Owl Lake as the snow-swept landscape. Hence, our awkward breakup.
“Ashley,” Aidan says, and it’s more a statement than a question. After all, he shouldn’t be as surprised to see me. I’m the one who belongs here. This is my city, my home—the very same city I left him for all those years ago.
Still, he seems to be almost as stunned as I am, because he makes no immediate move to pick up the remaining gifts scattered at our feet.
“Aidan, what are you...” I clear my throat. Why is it so difficult to form words all of a sudden? “What are you doing here?”
This can’t be real. It’s definitely some sort
of Christmas hallucination. Not magic, definitely not that. Even though I can’t exactly deny that there’s a pleasant zing coursing through me as we stare at each other through a swirl of snowflakes.
I shake my head. Get ahold of yourself. I’ve moved on since Aidan and I dated, obviously. Eight years have passed, and now I’m practically engaged…sort of.
In any case, I shouldn’t be wondering why Aidan looks as if he’s just bought out an entire toy store. Is he a father now? Is he married? Is he a married to a New Yorker? All of these possibilities leave me feeling a little squeamish. I wish I could blame my sudden discomfort on something gone off at Salads Salads Salads, but alas, I can’t.
“I’m working,” he says, which tells me absolutely nothing. He could be one of Santa’s elves for all I know. Or a professional gift wrapper. Or a personal shopper for a wealthy Upper West Sider who has a dozen small children.
Somehow none of those seem like realistic possibilities. Against my better judgment, I sneak a glance at his ring finger.
No wedding ring. My gaze flits back to his face—his handsome, handsome face. Goodness, has his jaw always been that square?
“Oh,” I say. Ordinarily, I’m a much better conversationalist. Truly. But I’m so befuddled at the moment that I can’t think of anything else to say.
Plus, I’m pretty sure Aidan noticed my subtle perusal of his most important finger, because the corner of his mouth quirks into a tiny half smile.
My face goes instantly warm. If a snow flurry lands on my cheek, it will probably sizzle. When Aidan bends down to scoop up the packages I dropped, I take advantage of the moment to fan my face with my mittens. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice one of the toy soldiers smirk in my direction. As if I need this surprise encounter with my Christmas past to get any more awkward than it already is.
Aidan straightens, and I jam my mittens back into my coat pocket. I really should get going. My shift starts in less than ten minutes, and Windsor Fine Jewelry is still a good eight-minute walk this time of year.
But something keeps me rooted to the spot, and as much as I want to blame it on simple nostalgia, I’m not sure I can. Aidan is more than my high school sweetheart. He’s the personification of another place and time. And every now and then, the memories sneak up on me when I least expect them—now, for instance. Whenever it happens, I feel strangely empty, like one of those chocolate Santas you don’t realize are hollow until you bite into them and they break into a million pieces.
That’s silly, though. I’m fine, and my life here in Manhattan is great. I’m certainly not on the verge of breaking.
I square my shoulders as if to prove it, but when I meet Aidan’s soft blue gaze, my throat grows so thick that I can’t speak. Not even to say goodbye.
“It was good to see you, Ashley,” he says.
And then he’s gone just as quickly as he appeared, and I’m once again standing alone in a crowd.
Chapter Two
“It’s magical!”
The little girl stands tippy-toe on the opposite side of the glass display case, beaming at me as she wiggles her hand to and fro. Six whimsical silver charms dangle from the bracelet on her wrist, glittering beneath the twinkle lights of the towering white Christmas trees that Windsor Fine Jewelry is famous for at this time of year.
I grin back at her. “I can’t promise it’s magical, but it’s a beautiful bracelet. Perfect for Christmas in New York.”
It’s been hours since I ran into Aidan Flynn on the sidewalk, and I’ve just spent the past thirty minutes helping this sweet child and her father select half a dozen custom charms from Windsor’s new holiday collection. I’m back in my element on the fourth floor of Manhattan’s finest jewelry store, and I almost feel like myself again. Aidan is part of my past. Period.
After much deliberation, my young customer has settled on a silver candy cane with stripes in our store’s signature blue, a Santa hat, a reindeer with a petite ruby nose, a gingerbread man with three Windsor-blue buttons and a snowflake sparkling with tiny diamonds. Upon my recommendation, they’ve also added a shiny silver apple charm to represent their holiday shopping trip to the Big Apple.
All in all, quite an extravagant Christmas gift for such a young shopper. But luxury is Windsor’s specialty and the primary reason tourists flock to the store’s flagship location on the corner of Madison Avenue and 57th Street, especially during the holidays. Everyone hopes to find one of Windsor’s coveted royal blue boxes under their tree on Christmas morning. Locals and tourists alike.
It’s one of the things that makes working at Windsor so exciting. Sometimes I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. Manhattan is only a six-hour train ride away from the small lakeside town where I grew up, but glamour-wise, it may as well be on another planet.
“Thank you, Daddy,” the little girl says, turning wide blue eyes toward the man towering beside her. Adorable. My heart gives a little clench.
So do my feet, for less sentimental reasons. I’ve been positioned behind the charms counter for six hours straight with no opportunity to sit. As much as I love my job, the holiday hours are brutal, and with the crush of Christmas shoppers, sometimes it feels like there’s no end in sight.
Except there is one in sight—the most dazzling, glamorous ending imaginable. And it’s headed my way in less than twenty-four hours.
This time tomorrow, I’ll be on a plane to the most gorgeous city in the world!
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from squealing out loud.
Across from me, the little girl’s father rests an affectionate hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “You’re welcome, pumpkin.”
“Shall I wrap it for you, or would you like to go ahead and wear it?” I shift my weight from one throbbing foot to the other.
“I’d like it wrapped, please. In one of those pretty blue boxes tied with white ribbon?” The sweet child bounces up and down as she offers me her wrist so I can unfasten the bracelet.
“Of course.” I wink at her as I release the tiny silver clasp. “I’ll be right back. Have some hot cocoa while you wait.”
I nod toward the wall of big picture windows overlooking snow-dusted Manhattan, where a gloved coworker dressed in a dark suit and blue silk tie serves hot chocolate from a silver tea service to waiting customers.
We have a dress code here at work—black or the darkest charcoal gray only, with small touches of the store’s signature royal blue. The rule applies even during December, which explains both my black turtleneck and the fact that the colorful, hand-knitted Christmas sweater my mom sent me a few days ago is currently tucked away in my bottom dresser drawer. Though in all honesty, the sweater is a better fit for my old life rather than my new one. Novelty Christmas sweaters are all the rage back in Owl Lake, where everyone wears them in a completely non-ironic way. I have an entire photo roll full of texts from my family to prove it. Wearing one in Manhattan, though? That would be a whole different story.
My cute little customer skips toward the hot chocolate stand, and her father follows. I’d be lying if I said watching them together didn’t make me feel the tiniest bit wistful about not making the trip home for the holidays. Again. But working retail isn’t for the faint of heart, and if I ever hope to get promoted to manager, this is where I need to be until I step onto that flight to Paris. I’ve spent the past three Christmas Eves right here, behind the charms counter. Before that, I was always stuck in Boston working at my college internship. And this year…
Well, this year will be a complete dream come true. My family totally understands. Who could pass up a romantic trip to France during the holidays?
I pick up the charm bracelet and head toward the wrapping station as shoppers mill about, holding steaming blue paper cups while lacy snowflakes dance against the surrounding windows. The air smells like peppermint, warm chocolate and the fine Windsor perfume
we sell in engraved silver bottles. Four stories below, pedestrians fill the sidewalks to view the elaborate Christmas windows lining Madison and 5th Avenues while yellow taxicabs crawl slowly past, their bumpers piled high with snow.
One more day. I feel a secret smile tugging at the corners of my mouth while I go over each silver charm with a polishing cloth so the bracelet will look perfect when it’s unwrapped. For weeks, Jeremy has been telling me about all the wonderful things we’ll see and do once we get to Paris—the Christmas market at the Eiffel Tower, midnight carols at Sainte Chapelle, holiday cocktails at the Ritz. It all sounds like something out of a dream. Mostly, anyway.
I just never quite expected Aidan Flynn to have a surprise walk-on role in my holiday plans.
“Ashley!”
At the sound of my name, I drag myself back to reality and see Maya Sanchez dashing across the sales floor at a speed to rival Rudolph’s on Christmas Eve. Maya works on the floor directly below me, selling engagement rings in the lavish Windsor I Do boutique, and she’s also been my roommate and closest friend in New York since the day I started working the charms counter.
I stifle a laugh as she skids to a halt beside me. “What are you doing up here? Isn’t I Do the busiest section of the entire store right now?”
Every year, the marketing team at Windsor designs a holiday ad campaign for its engagement rings that is so whimsically romantic that it rivals a full-length Christmas rom-com movie. A snowy winter proposal just isn’t the same without a diamond from Windsor—that’s what our marketing wizards would have you believe, anyway. I have to admit, the ad featuring a tuxedoed man hiding a little blue box behind his back as the unsuspecting love of his life hangs a perfect blue ornament on a Christmas tree hits me right in the feels every single time.
The ad even includes a floppy-eared puppy romping at their feet. It’s all picture-perfect—though not exactly realistic. I’m just not sure why the man’s fiancée-to-be is wearing a beaded evening gown to decorate the tree. I’m all for glamour, but that seems like an impractical fashion choice. Just saying.