She went over to the window and stared out at the Christmas lights. They’d talked a lot about his missing uncle. Maybe it had put him in too much of a melancholy mood to see her tonight. But what if that wasn’t the reason?
She could feel herself starting to spiral into her comfortable home of doubt and insecurity. What if he decided there was no point in moving forward when she was only there for a few more days? What if he simply didn’t want to get involved again? Why had she allowed herself to feel something for him? She was such an idiot. And now she was stuck in a ridiculously happy town. I should pack up and go.
She grabbed her suitcase and threw it up the bed. But I don’t have my story. I can’t leave now. She clenched her hands and let out a frustrated shriek. She was there to debunk a stupid legend, and she wasn’t going to leave until she did.
Reluctantly, she put her suitcase away. She thought about reaching out to her readers to let them know that love was a scam—something she was in the process of proving—but she knew that wasn’t an option either, not if she wanted to keep her job. No, the thing she needed to do was throw herself into work.
She set up at the table in her room and retrieved her computer out of her bag. She would fact-check an article due in after Christmas. It was about tropical island getaways. She had almost forgotten about her favorite type of vacation. She loved going anyplace where warm weather, sparkling beaches, and delicious tropical drinks were on the menu. Diving into the article would be the perfect distraction.
She opened the document on her laptop and read the title: “Love in Paradise.” She grumbled, pushing back in her chair. On impulse, she pulled up her blog and noticed a few more comments on her Christmas post. One was from a new reader named Reality Check and it had just been posted.
Dear Miss Scrooge,
I enjoy your blog, except for your last post disrespecting Christmas. Maybe it’s not Christmas you’re upset with but an unpleasant circumstance surrounding it. Might I suggest focusing on a past Christmas you loved when you were a child or a teenager. Rekindle the love you felt way back when, and you’ll find the Christmas spirit once again.
“Oh, Jack. For someone who’s a detective, you aren’t very subtle.”
But what was he doing? Charley scooped her hair up in a ponytail and reread the comment. It seemed familiar. Especially the rhyme. And then she gasped. She was suddenly reminded of a poem the entire student body created in high school. During her junior year, the school was having a real problem with graffiti, so the principal challenged his students to add to a poem he began. The only rule was there couldn’t be any vulgarity. He wrote, “Open your eyes and you will see, everything that’s meant to be.”
Some students had thought that meant they were to write about things from the past, and some said it should be about the future. She’d thought it was a little bit of both. It was amazing how it developed into a beautiful, unifying work of art. When Charley contributed to it, she kept the flow of the poem, but she also put a secret message in it for Jack. She never said anything to him about it, but when it was his turn to contribute, he understood the message and replied with one of his own. No one knew except the two of them.
He remembers the poem? She couldn’t believe it. How very clever of you, Jack. He actually took a little of what she’d originally written: “Remember that fire way back when, through the ashes, we live and love once again.”
She assumed he hadn’t remembered exactly what she’d written but he remembered what needed to rhyme. Way back when and once again. And, of course, mentioning love definitely got her attention.
Now it was her turn. Not only did she need to rhyme with what Jack had written, but she needed to answer the comment and give him a place to meet her. Ugh. His poem contribution had been “Love, come find me. I’m at the place on the hill. When life moves too fast, it’s best to keep still.” She scooted her chair up to the table. “What rhymes with hill and still?” Uncle Bill. No, she didn’t want to make it about him.
“Oh!” She started typing.
Dear Reality Check,
Reading your comment gave me such a thrill. Come find me at the diner, if that is your will.
She hit Post, grabbed her coat, handbag, and key, and hurried out the door. She debated whether or not to go directly to Jack’s room, but then decided against it, thinking she might ruin whatever surprise he had planned. She ran down the stairs, needing to find Mary. She poked her head into the living room and found her sitting with coffee and a book.
“Evening, Mary,” Charley called. “Is anyone going into town?”
Mary glanced up from her book. “Not that I know of, but you’re welcome to use my car. The key’s right there on the hook.”
“Thank you so much.” Charley snatched the key off the hook and flew out the door.
Five minutes later, she stepped into the diner and immediately searched for Jack in case he had somehow beat her there. Not seeing him, she asked to be seated at a booth by the window. She quickly ran through the menu, then glanced out the window, expecting to see him any minute.
“Hello again.” Angel greeted her with a warm smile. “Just you tonight?”
She took another peek out the window. “Hopefully not. I’m Charley, by the way.”
“Nice to formally meet you, Charley. Are you enjoying your stay in St. Nicholas?”
And if by that you mean coming here for work but reuniting with my high school sweetheart, then yes. “Best vacation I’ve had in years.”
“I’m so happy to hear that,” Angel said with a sigh, placing her hands over her heart. “It seems like people only want to go somewhere tropical nowadays. But there’s something to be said for small towns, especially ones like St. Nicholas.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“Well now, can I get you something to drink while you wait?”
“I’ll take an iced tea when you have a chance.”
“Be right back.”
Charley continually switched her focus between the sidewalk outside and the entrance to the diner. A family of four came in, followed by an older man who looked so much like the classical picture of Santa that she almost asked him where he left his Santa suit. At least he was wearing a red flannel shirt, so she gave him credit for that. The man smiled at her, and she at him, as he sat at a table behind her.
Angel dropped off her tea, and Charley was beginning to wonder if she’d been wrong about the comment left on her blog. Maybe it wasn’t from Jack. She pulled it up on her phone and reread it. Even if she hadn’t been reminded about the collective high school poem, the comment was so specific. The moniker Reality Check also seemed like a perfect username for sensible Detective Jack Brody.
She stared out the window, feeling her high spirits slipping away. She’d been waiting for over twenty minutes. The bed-and-breakfast was only five minutes away. Had he not seen her reply?
Angel returned to the table. “Men,” she groused. “They love wristwatches yet they never seem to know the time.”
Charley mustered a small laugh. “You are so right. I think the problem has become an epidemic.”
Angel squeaked as she laughed, which made Charley genuinely laugh.
“Looks like the party has started without me,” Jack said, walking up to the table.
“Well, look who finally decided to show.” Angel threw a hand on her hip.
Jack stiffened, shifting his gaze between the two. “I didn’t know I was late.”
“That’s another good one.” Angel winked at Charley before she shooed him into the booth. “What can I get you to drink?”
“I’ll take an iced tea.”
“I’d grab you a menu, but just take Charley’s. Lord knows she’s had enough time to memorize it.” Angel left without waiting for a reply.
“What did I do?” He gawked at her with wide eyes.
&
nbsp; “My fault.” She put her hands up in defense. “I gave her the impression that someone was joining me twenty minutes ago.”
He looked at her, confused. “I’m sorry if my text wasn’t clear. I—”
“It was, but then I saw the comment you left on my blog, so I assumed you got my reply.”
Angel came back with Jack’s iced tea. “Ready to order?”
Charley had no desire for a diet plate now. “I’ll try your grilled cheese and tomato soup combo.”
“Good choice.” Angel looked to Jack. “And for you?”
“The combo works for me.”
“Easy-peasy.” Angel picked up the menu and hurried off.
Jack immediately dove back into their conversation. “I didn’t send you a message through your blog.”
Was he serious? “Then how did you know I’d be here?”
“Mary told me you went into town, so I just assumed. I finished up my work early and had stopped by your room.”
He was working after all? To think that she almost tumbled down the insecurity rabbit hole for nothing. If it hadn’t been for that comment on her blog, she would have. “Seriously? You didn’t leave a comment on my blog?”
He shook his head. “With my job, I try to keep a very small digital footprint.”
Charley was deflated, and then embarrassed. “Reality Check is going to think I left a very strange reply.” She pulled up the comment on her phone and handed it to Jack.
As he read it, his smile grew. “I love this last line, ‘Rekindle the love you felt way back when, and you’ll find the Christmas spirit once again.’ I wish I’d written it, but I can’t take credit.”
“Now I feel really stupid. I thought you remembered the high school poem.”
He gave her a puzzled look, then examined both the comment and her response. “The poem! I forgot all about that.” He handed back her phone. “That poem turned out far better than I ever expected, and your contribution was so much better than mine. You talked about a fire—figuratively our romance, and literally the car on fire in the school parking lot.”
She smiled, ecstatic he remembered. “The fire not only represented our sizzling high school romance, but it also referred to our initial spark. That was the first day we met.”
“When I saw you through the smoldering ashes, I dramatically said to my buddy, ‘I might live to love once again.’” He closed a fist and placed it on his chest, reenacting the moment.
She laughed. “You were charming with your over-the-top acting.”
“I had to be because I wasn’t very subtle, especially with my poem contribution.” He shook his head in embarrassment. “I asked you to the new football field so I could kiss you.”
“But you wrote it so eloquently. No one knew what you were really saying but me.” That crisp November afternoon had been one of the best days of her life. “Those were good times.”
“Yes, they were.”
They sat in silence with identical lingering grins on their faces.
“Here you go.” Angel set down their grilled cheese combo plates. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, everything looks great. Thanks, Angel.” Charley was even more curious as to why he broke up with her. She had always assumed that he never really loved her, but maybe she had misjudged him. “It’s been ages since I’ve had a grilled cheese,” she said, staring at beautifully grilled crispy sourdough bread with white cheese oozing out of its side. “It almost looks too good to eat.”
“Almost.” He picked up half of his sandwich and the gooey cheese strings parted. “That’s awesome.” He waited for her to do the same, and then together they took a bite. He moaned, as if he’d just tasted pure goodness, and gaveled his fisted hand on the table. “Dang!”
“Oh, wow,” she said with her mouth full. “Best. Ever.” She swallowed and pulled her sandwich apart, inspecting it. “I think there’s at least three cheeses in here.”
“Pretty upscale for a twenty-four-hour diner.”
“I’ve got to ask Angel.” She swiveled her head and spotted Angel talking to the guy who looked like Santa. The man suddenly bellowed with a big belly laugh that carried throughout the restaurant.
“Whoa. That guy should be making a living as Santa.”
“That’s what I thought when I saw him walk in.”
The man pushed back from the table and got up. He said something to Angel, then handed her money for the bill. She gazed at it, appearing shocked, and hugged him. As he made his way toward the exit, she called out, “Drive safely, R.C. Merry Christmas.”
Angel dried her eyes and began bussing his table when she noticed Charley and Jack watching her. “How are you two doing over here?” she asked, wandering over. “Can I get you anything?”
“You were right, Angel. This sandwich is excellent.” Jack shoved the rest in his mouth.
“Best in town,” she said proudly.
“That man you were just talking to, is he the town’s official Santa?” Charley asked.
“R.C.? No. He just retired from the trucking business. Though, who knows? Maybe one day he’ll want to be our Santa in our Christmas Day Parade.”
“R.C. should change his name to S.C. for Santa Claus,” Charley suggested.
“I don’t know if he’d agree. His trucker handle is too perfect for him. Ever since I’ve known R.C., he’s given great advice on every subject imaginable. The other truckers tell me it’s sometimes a little harsh, but then they don’t call him Reality Check for nothing.”
“Did you say Reality Check?” Charley craned her head forward, certain she must have misheard.
“Yes. Isn’t that a great name?”
Charley shot Jack a look with wide eyes.
“Does R.C. come in a lot?” he asked, and Charley already knew what he was thinking—that he was the guy who left the comment on her blog.
“Only when he’s passing through town. And now that he’s officially retired, I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again.” Angel put her hand over her heart. “He’s such a sweet man. I sure will miss him.”
“Maybe he lives closer than you think,” Charley said brightly.
“I don’t think so.” Angel took a big breath in and let it out on a sigh. “You know, I asked him where he lived once and he was very vague about it. All I got out of him was that he lived north of St. Nicholas. ‘Very, very far north’ were his exact words. But what am I doing jabbering on and on? Your soup’s getting cold. Can I warm that up for you?”
“No need,” Jack said.
“Don’t trouble yourself.” Charley put a hand over her bowl. “Mine’s still pretty hot.”
“Okay. Well, holler if you change your mind.”
Once Angel left, she stared at Jack in disbelief. “Do you think he’s the same Reality Check on my blog?”
“You bet I do.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned back with a troubled look on his face. “I think it goes deeper than a blog comment. What if that guy isn’t just a trucker? What if he’s connected to the Scrooge Legend?”
“How?”
“Think about it. You’re considered a Scrooge, so he makes a comment on your blog to lure you out in public where he can sit behind you and eavesdrop.” He cupped his hand to the window in order to survey the outside.
Is he being cautious or paranoid? “I understand what you’re saying, but if he really is what you suspect, why did he leave? What important information could he have possibly overheard? We were raving about our sandwiches.”
“I’ll tell you what he knows,” he said sharply, as if he’d already condemned the guy. “He heard enough to know you suspected the comment was from me, he knows we were high school sweethearts, and now he knows I really care about you.”
She let out a tiny gasp. The shock registering in his eyes told her he hadn’t meant to
express his feelings, but she was oh, so happy he did. A smile spread across her face, which triggered one on his—only his smile was that of embarrassment.
“Well said.” She held his gaze.
“You think so?” He tossed his head back.
“I particularly liked the last part.”
“Good,” he said with finality, as if she wasn’t allowed to change her mind. “Now you can understand why I’m all the more determined to figure out the identity of R.C.”
“I understand that now.” If he wants to be my protector, who am I to stand in his way?
“When we get back to the inn tonight, I’ll trace Reality Check’s IP address. I guarantee it comes right back here to St. Nicholas, and maybe right into the mayor’s office.”
“You lost me. How does the mayor fit into this?”
“I think this is an elaborate PR stunt. He knows you work at a popular magazine and can promote the town.”
“You think they’re having money trouble?”
“Money is often the biggest motivator. Here’s how I see it. They targeted you by insisting you’re a Scrooge. Now they have your attention, and because it’s personal, you can’t ignore them. They get paid actors to help promote the legend for you, and they also have spies, including R.C., who can report back on your opinions of the town in case they need to throw something else in your path. The goal is for you to have such a wonderful time up here that you write about how magical the place is, and then the town will be flooded with tourists.”
There it was, her logical answer, laid out right in front of her. Like Jack, she had also assumed the legend was used for tourist intrigue, but she hadn’t figured out why she received an invitation. Jack thought she was targeted because of her blog at the magazine. It made absolute sense. She should have been elated, but she wasn’t. It would mean that all those interviews were lies, and everything in St. Nicholas was contrived.
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