by Liz Johnson
An hour later the men had pulled more than a dozen large boxes from the shelves in the garage and dumped their contents across the cement floor. Fluorescent lights overhead cast everything in a terrible yellow hue, and Andrew hoped they appeared more festive covering the house. Warner stood over them, rubbing his chin and squinting at the plastic candy canes and animatronic penguins. His phone chirped from his pocket, and Warner’s smile as he pressed it to his ear was enough to divulge who was on the other end of the line. Ginger.
Andrew picked up a mangled string of lights and motioned that he would get started on them. Warner nodded, stepping toward the corner of the garage and keeping his voice low. But in the confined space, his words carried.
“What? Slow down. I can’t—” Warner paused, shoving his hand through his short blond hair, leaving it a wild mess. “Are they okay? No, of course. Are you okay?” His volume rose with each question, his voice trembling just a little on the end.
Andrew tried to keep his head down, but his fingers stumbled on the lights and his gaze darted to where Warner had begun pacing, one hand in his hair about ready to pull it out by the roots.
“You’re sure you’re all right? Yes, I wouldn’t . . . Mass General? Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Warner spun around, his eyes wide, the creases between his eyebrows more pronounced than Andrew had ever seen them. “Ginger and her parents were in a car accident in Boston.”
“Are they injured?” The question popped out before Andrew realized how stupid it was. Of course, they were. Otherwise they wouldn’t be in the hospital and Warner wouldn’t need to go there.
“Ginger has a broken arm, but her mom has some internal bleeding.” Warner walked in a strange circle, his gaze not quite focused. “I mean, I need to go. But I hate to leave you here by yourself.”
Andrew let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you have to go. I’ll be fine. I’ll take care of . . .” He swept his hand over all the things they’d unloaded but paused midway. He’d never actually decorated a house before. He’d never even decorated a Christmas tree. The 20-foot tree in the grand foyer miraculously appeared every year the Friday after Thanksgiving, wearing its finest red bows and baubles. But how hard could it be? People did it every day, and he was people. “I can handle it.”
Warner chewed on his lip and gave a short shake of his head. “There’s a lot to do. But I’ll be back in a few days. If you want to get started, I’ll help as soon as I’m back.”
“Of course.” Andrew nodded.
Warner stepped in for a quick hug, thumping him on the back. “And you’re going to be okay? Alone?”
“I’m a grown man. I’ll be just fine.” His words had an edge that he wished they hadn’t, but how did one explain that he didn’t need a handler just because he’d always had one.
“There’s some pizza in the freezer and the bakery by the hardware store is really good. And there are lots of books and movies in the den downstairs. I’ll be back soon. I’m sure.” Warner was already halfway inside, racing to pack his bag.
Andrew was left with a garage floor filled with decorations in every imaginable color scheme and more extension cords than any one house had plug-ins. Pressing his hands to his waist, he surveyed his duty and shook his head.
Mrs. Hillstone might have to settle for second place this year.
Chapter 3
“Do you have ladders?”
There was no greeting or preamble when Charlie picked up the phone, but she recognized that ambiguous accent—even with a touch of mild panic woven through it.
“Andrew?”
“Yes. I need to buy a ladder. An easy one.”
“An easy ladder?” She’d seen her fair share of ladders, but she wasn’t quite sure what type met his qualification. And what exactly was a hard ladder?
“Yes. Uncomplicated. Simplistic. Basic.” He sighed heavily. “I just need a ladder that leans against the house. Do you have one of those?”
As a matter of fact, she did, but surely the Hillstones had one. “Is there a reason you can’t use Warner’s?”
He sighed. “It’s hard. It folds and bends and every time I step on it, it falls apart.”
She snorted a quick laugh. Fair enough. “When do you need it?”
“I’ll come get it right away.”
He sounded eager to end the call, and she blurted out her question before he could. “Do you have a truck?”
Silence. She could almost picture him looking around the garage. Maybe Warner had a truck, but both times she’d seen Andrew, he’d been on foot.
Then he let out a low, “No.”
“I’ll drop it off for you today.” She stared at the couple looking at paint swatches in the corner. They’d been parked there for nearly an hour with no sign that they were moving toward a decision. “Give me a little while. I’ll swing by on my lunch break.”
“Thank you.”
She hung up, not quite sure why she’d offered—except half the town had borrowed her ladder at one point or another. And despite her suspicions, Andrew was a guest of the Hillstones, which made him part of Tinsel. Which meant she’d loan him her ladder. It did not mean there would be no questions asked.
In fact, she intended to ask a lot of questions. If the Finnolos ever decided on a color for their nursery.
Charlie puttered around the store, dusting fixtures, straightening merchandise. She righted a crooked sale sign over the hammers and picked screws out of a bin of nails. And still the couple in the corner waffled. Christmas red for their Christmas baby? Or traditional pink for their little girl? What if she didn’t like pink? How would they know?
Their questions made her head whirl until Charlie approached, a soft smile in place. “Why don’t you take a sample of each, roll it on the wall and decide which you like better? I bet your little one will love whatever you do.”
Delighted, they took her offer, and she sent them on their way with sample pints in hand.
Just in time.
Charlie looked up as Mayor Hayden marched down the street. He paused just long enough to straighten a wreath on one of the wrought iron light posts. Just long enough for her to flip the sign to Closed and lock the door. He jiggled the handle and glared at her through the glass pane when it wouldn’t open.
“Sorry.” She mouthed the word and tapped her empty wrist.
“I need to speak with you, Charlotte.” His voice rose as he pointed at her still undecorated windows.
She tapped her ear as though she couldn’t hear him, waved a quick goodbye, and scurried past the long counter toward the stock room. She could sneak out the through the loading door, but she had a sinking feeling that the mayor probably had the same idea. And she could do without another scolding about her lack of holiday spirit.
So she waited a few more minutes before pulling on her coat. She lifted her voice to call out to her grandma before remembering she wasn’t upstairs. After her knee replacement, Gram decided she couldn’t stay in the apartment above the store. And no matter how much Charlie had argued, Gram had made up her mind. She’d moved into a small assisted living home on the edge of town a little more than a month before.
And the store had never felt quite so empty.
Charlie fumbled as she tried to tie her scarf, her fingers suddenly stiff. The backs of her eyes burned, and she blinked hard against the sensation. True, she was alone. But she also had people who relied on her.
And at least one person, who needed an easy ladder.
When she was almost certain that the mayor had given up standing in the cold, she peeked out from behind the storeroom door. The only people she should see through the windows were tourists, probably on their way to the post office to get the official Tinsel stamp on their Christmas cards. No sign of the good mayor, so she ducked out through the front door and ran around the corner where she’d parked her truck, the ladder always hooked on the side.
The green monster rumbled to life, choking and coughing it
s protest of the cold. She patted the steering wheel in commiseration. “I know what you mean,” she said as she eased it into gear and pulled it around the block. Turning on the heater would do nothing but shoot out cold air, and she wasn’t driving far enough for the engine to warm up. So she let her trembling hand rest on the also shaking gear shift.
Before Parkinson’s had taken him, her dad had often joked that he loved this truck because it rattled so much no one could tell if he was rattling too. She squeezed the knob on the shifter as though she could feel her dad’s hand there. And she almost could. Even after all these years.
She barreled around a corner but had to slam on her breaks as a flatbed trailer meandered down the middle of the road in front of her. Of course this year’s parade participants were already putting their floats together. Because it was supposed to be a festive time of year. So where was her festive spirit? She and Gram had always filled the store with the Christmas songs of Burl Ives and Nat King Cole as they decorated a Christmas tree in the store window.
Charlie just couldn’t make herself do it this year.
By the time she got to Warner’s house, the hodge podge of lights and decorations hadn’t done much to put a smile on her face. Until she pulled into his driveway and stepped out of her truck, that is. Christmas had thrown up all over the front lawn. Elves and giant, colorful snowflakes sat in the far corner, while a half-inflated penguin jerked and jumped right in the middle. Candy canes were staked in the yard, reindeer haphazardly placed between them.
There was no order to the mayhem, no rhyme or reason to be found.
And she burst out laughing just as Andrew stepped onto the front porch.
His regal nose wrinkled as he crossed his arms. “What?”
“Nothing . . . I mean . . . It’s just . . .” Her own laughter interrupted her, and she could barely manage to wave at the mess that was the front yard.
“I haven’t finished setting everything up yet,” he said as though adding more would help.
The lawn needed more, all right. It needed more planning, more strategy, and more simplicity. And Warner should know better. He would know better. Suddenly her stomach gave a less-than-pleasant lurch. “Where’s Warner?”
Andrew stepped down the three brick stairs, his feet crunching the frozen grass. He picked up an overturned plastic reindeer, set it upright, and grimaced. “That didn’t help, did it?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
He made a motion like he wanted to stab his fingers through his hair, but he dropped his hand and clapped it to the back of his neck. His head never bowed. “Ginger called. She was in a car accident. Her mother is badly injured, and Warner went to the hospital. In Boston.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Andrew nodded, seeming to feel no need to fill the space between them. But his silence only allowed for the questions in her mind to whirl around faster and faster until one popped out. “And he just left you here?”
He looked around as though she might be speaking to someone else. When he appeared to have decided she did mean him, he frowned. “Yes. Why? What do you know?”
“What do I know?” She stepped toward him, all those suspicions from their first meeting—the ones Warner had put mostly to rest—jumped into the spotlight. “What is there to know? Are you a reporter?”
His eyes flew open wide, his mouth a thin line. “Me? I’m the one being followed by a reporter.” Gaze darting up and down the street, he scowled, the smooth lines of his face suddenly turning sour. “Warner promised me that no one would pay any attention to me here, but when I left your store the other day—well, someone followed me all the way back.”
Charlie snorted out a burst of laughter. She couldn’t help it. Not when she realized who he meant. And there was no point in trying to hide it. “That was me.”
“You? Why were you following me? What do you know?” He crossed his arms again, but she wasn’t sure if it was from his suspicion or the cold.
“I still know nothing—except that you’re going to freeze if we stand out here much longer. How about a cup of coffee?”
His gaze narrowed, his green eyes piercing straight through her. Whether it was the cold or her smile that made him decide, she’d never know. But with a nod toward the door, he led the way, getting her settled on a stool at the kitchen counter before turning toward the coffee maker. Then he crossed his arms and stared at it.
“Hoping it’ll make the coffee on its own?”
“Perhaps.”
Another bubble of laughter broke free. “It doesn’t work that way.”
What a strange man. How could anyone make it through life without ever learning to use a coffeemaker? Sure those single-cup dojobbers were all the rage when she’d been in New York. Of course, Gram detested them, so Charlie had gone back to the tried and true. Even after Gram had moved out, she hadn’t been able to make anything but Gram’s favorite every morning. And her customers seemed to appreciate a hot cup to hold while they wandered through the store too.
But a man who didn’t know how to make coffee and ran from reporters? Maybe she should know who he was.
The truth didn’t matter much to her either way, so she set about filling the carafe with water and pouring it into the old machine. Charlie reached into the cabinet beside the sink for the filters and found them without even looking. Mrs. Hillstone hadn’t moved anything in this kitchen in twenty years.
When the grounds were in place, she flipped the machine on, and water began to pop and snap just before the rich aroma of the dark roast filled the entire kitchen.
Andrew took a deep breath, leaned against the counter, and gave a subtle sigh of pleasure.
With a sharp look out of the side of her eye, Charlie nudged him with her elbow.
He jumped as though her touch burned, but his gaze never left the dark trickle filling the glass carafe. In fact, he seemed to stare harder.
“I could not find the coffee this morning,” he finally revealed.
“You could have gone to the bakery, you know? Meg makes a pretty good cup of coffee.”
“I’m not . . . It was too cold to go out.”
Whatever he’d been about to say was probably much more interesting than what he’d actually said, but she couldn’t press the point. Not when the stream of coffee slowed to a drip, and she reached for two mugs, one wearing an ugly Christmas sweater and the other in the shape of a reindeer. She handed him the ugly sweater, and he looked down into its emptiness. So she nudged him toward the counter. With a half-smile, he filled his mug and then motioned with the pot as if to see if he could fill hers too. She held out the reindeer, eager for the jolt of warmth and energy.
The coffee did not disappoint. She pressed it to her lips and sipped, the warmth flowing down her throat and through her whole chest until she nearly forgot that she’d ever been cold. Then again, she’d had a coat on. Andrew held his mug like he’d just invented the thick brew, his hands wrapped protectively around his treasure. He blew into it, holding his face over the steam.
Only then—staring so closely at him—did she realize he hadn’t shaved recently. A subtle shadow of dark hair covered his cheeks and chin, and it made him look rugged, natural, handsome.
She cleared her throat and hugged her mug to her chin. “So why did you think you were being followed?”
His gaze met hers, that partial grin working its way back into place. “I was being followed. You admitted it.”
“Fair enough. But why would you be worried that someone was after you?”
He tipped his chin in her direction. “You first.”
“I don’t think anyone was following me.”
“But why were you trailing me? What were you looking for?”
She shrugged and stared into her coffee for a long second. It held no answers, so she finally looked up to meet his gaze. “Tinsel is a small town, and I’ve lived here practically my whole life. I know everyone—everyone knows everyone. We know e
ach other’s business, and we like it that way. And when we get a stranger, well, they usually stay at The Melody Inn or Snowflake Cottage, the bed and breakfast. We guard those visitors pretty carefully. And I knew you weren’t here just to help Warner.”
He choked on a sip of joe. “You did? How?”
“Well, first, you didn’t know a thing about tools.”
He frowned but nodded his agreement.
“And second, your fingernails.”
“What’s wrong with my fingernails?” His hand flew up in front of his face, and he squinted at the perfectly kept nailbeds.
“Nothing,” she chuckled. “They’re just too pristine to belong to a handyman or a carpenter.” Her smile faltered, but she had to ask the difficult question. “Are you a reporter?”
He looked directly into her eyes then, something electric zinging between them. But when he spoke, she knew it was true. “No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I met Warner at university.” He motioned over his shoulder to indicate the past. “He was my first true friend, so we’ve stayed in touch. When he heard I needed a quiet place to spend the holiday, he offered to let me stay here. With him.”
His first friend? Okay, that was almost as strange as not knowing how to make coffee. Who was this guy? And what was he hiding from?
But something inside her wouldn’t let her ask those questions. She knew what it was like to be the stranger. And she knew what it was like to run to Tinsel to hide. Maybe she was still hiding.
Rather than dwell on the past, she decided to focus on the present. The man before her, and his very real problem.
“So Warner’s left you here to decorate his home for Christmas Eve all by yourself.”
“Pretty much. I mean, I think he’ll be back before then, but . . .” A strange strain on his accent made him sound uncertain for the first time since she’d met him.
“But visitors and locals alike are already driving down Candy Cane Lane looking for a taste of Christmas magic.”
Eyes large, he took another gulp of his drink. “They are?”