Oh, Christmas Night

by Jane Porter

  At nine o’clock, she walked down to the Mercantile on Main Street and bought four of their large red poinsettias, two for each of the big Plateglass windows, along with two boxes of miniature white lights, and two nine foot extension cords. She carried everything back to the bookstore, removed the lights from the packaging and laid them out in a straight line along the base of the window, and then added the flowers and then took the books she’d found, putting three in each side.

  At ten o’clock on the dot, she turned the sign over in the door, switching from Closed to Open for the first time in almost three years. Rachel felt a little frisson of excitement as she stepped behind her counter, eager to see what the day would bring.

  *

  The doorbell jingled as it opened and Rachel looked up from her computer with a smile, ready to greet her first customer. But it wasn’t a customer, it was just Atticus back to torment her some more.

  Her smile faded. “Can I help you?” she asked stiffly.

  “I brought you a celebratory scone from Java Café,” he said, carrying a paper bag and tray with coffees to the counter. “Not sure which you’d prefer so I bought all three varieties, pumpkin, lemon, and cranberry.”

  She refused to be charmed. He’d pretty much ruined yesterday afternoon and she wasn’t ready to forgive him. “That wasn’t necessary.”

  “It’s your first day in business. Of course we need to celebrate.”

  She lifted her chin and squarely met his gaze. “If I celebrated, it would be with a friend. You, Atticus Bowen, have firmly been placed in my nemesis category.”

  “Is that a category on your spreadsheet?”

  “I’m astonished you even have friends. You’re rather unbearable.”

  He grinned lazily and plucked a coffee from the paper tray and placed it in front of her. “Pumpkin spice latte to sweeten you up.”

  “Atticus.”

  “Yes, Rachel?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I can’t possibly be happy for you? Excited to share in your grand reopening?”

  Rachel prided herself on her self-control but she had a sudden vision of herself dumping her pumpkin spice latte over Atticus’s head and watching it drip down his handsome face to collect in his sweater. Just the thought alone gave her immense pleasure. “In that case, have a look around. Maybe there’s a book or two that will catch your eye. And if not, I do hope you’ll have a wonderful day.”

  He reached for the other coffee from the paper tray, lifted the coffee in mock salute and strolled away, carrying his briefcase.

  Rachel watched him for a moment before she forced her attention back to her computer. She had work to do. She wasn’t about to let him distract her, and she reached for another book and began her research all over, only it wasn’t the same as it had been before because Atticus had seated himself in an overstuffed chair near the window and was pulling a small table close to his side. It aggravated her that he’d chosen a spot in her line of sight and she could see him pull out his laptop and open it up and prepare to work.

  He was wearing a blue cashmere sweater and dark trousers, a black leather belt and black leather shoes, and with his hair combed back, he looked annoyingly well put together. And then, just when she thought he couldn’t look more sophisticated, he drew a pair of dark framed glasses from his briefcase and slid them on his nose. She’d never met a man so stylish, or sure of himself, and she wondered what his office in Houston was like, and if the lawyers and administration were as stylish as he.

  And then she didn’t want to think about him anymore, and she lifted one of the boxes of books from the back room and placed it on the counter to block him from her view. It was then, and only then, that she could settle enough to concentrate, and she was finally managing to get some work done when Atticus’s deep voice broke the silence.

  “Rachel, you’re going to need to look into getting internet. Your customers will expect it, and the only way I can get a strong signal on my phone in this building is to step outside.”

  She slid the box over a couple inches so she could see him. “Feel free to step outside,” she said cheerfully. “It’s probably the best place for you anyway.”

  “I won’t take that personally.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “I’m thicker skinned than that, darlin’,” he said with his easy grin as he collected his paperwork and then put away his laptop.

  She felt a prick of guilt when he closed his briefcase, and then her gaze fell on her coffee which she’d sipped when she’d thought he wasn’t paying attention. She hadn’t been very nice to him, and now he was leaving, and some company was better than no company. “Do you need to use my hotspot?” she offered. “I can share if what you’re working on is important.”

  “That’s very generous of you, but I’ll just head back to the Graff. I have a conference call at noon so I should get ready for that.”

  “Thank you for the coffee and scones,” she said, as he headed to the door. “It was a nice gesture. I appreciated it.”

  “My pleasure, Rachel. Hope you have a good first day.”

  *

  It was a quiet first day, so quiet that Rachel found herself hoping Atticus would drop in again, just so she’d hear a voice. But he didn’t return and she stood at the door now, gazing out onto Main Street. Twilight was falling and the tall old-fashioned streetlights were coming on along with the white lights that formed part of the holiday decorations marking the street. At the Mercantile she’d seen flyers about the annual Marietta Stroll, happening on Saturday. She wondered exactly what the stroll was, and where it actually took place. She ought to find out since she’d be here.

  But standing inside her store looking out, she wondered if she was making a mistake. She didn’t feel as if she belonged and she was missing the structure of her job in Irvine. The lack of routine was making her restless, and the long silent afternoon wore on her. She was happiest being busy, happiest doing what she did best—playing with numbers, calculating taxes and deductions, tackling complicated problems. Entering old books into a spreadsheet wasn’t exactly high-level thinking.

  But it’s only the first day. She left her vigil at the door to walk around the store, going through the travel section to the local history section, where she paused to examine a shelf of books on Butte, and the history of copper mining in Montana. She pulled out a book on the Pleasure Gardens of Butte before sliding it back between other old books, and moved to another shelf featuring early Montana emigrants, cattle drives, and one room schoolhouses. Lesley had collected a lot of interesting books. Did people even know what she had?

  Finally at six she returned to the front door and locked it, before turning the sign to Closed. She turned off the overhead lights, leaving on the little white lights in the windows, before going upstairs where she turned off all but one, and continued up to the apartment to make a simple pasta dinner.

  She ate as she scrolled through the Wall Street Journal on her phone, and was studying the Dow Jones when a big bang came from downstairs.

  Rachel straightened, and went still, listening intently. What was that?

  The loud bang seemed to come from the floor directly below her, but what would make a sound like that?

  The front door was locked—she’d made sure of that—and she should be the only one in the building.

  Heart thudding, she crept halfway down the attic stairs and crouched on the steps, peeking through the bannister. From where she stood, nothing looked out of order. Night had fallen and the darkness pressed against the windows, a contrast to the sole light she’d left on.

  She couldn’t see anything out of order, either. Everything looked tidy, and the woodwork glowed, still smelling of the citrus-scented polish she’d used earlier.

  She crept down another couple of stairs, and that was when she spotted the big, thick hardback on the ground, lying in front of one of the narrow bookshelves. The book was most definitely not on the floor when she’d been clea
ning earlier. So how did it get there? Her glance swept the room, looking to see if anything else appeared out of place, but there was no other noise, or movement. The rest of the second floor was just as she’d left it.

  She told herself it was nothing, but she was spooked and she suddenly didn’t want to go back upstairs, either, not on her own. Rachel hurried downstairs, grabbed her coat from the coatrack, unlocked the front door and ran out onto the curb.

  Her pulse was racing as she tugged on her coat and zipped it closed. Stepping off the curb and into the street, she warily eyed the windows on the second floor. What made the book fall? And it was just a book, so why was she so scared?

  It was silly, really, to be afraid because she didn’t believe in ghosts and there was no way Paradise Books was haunted. For one, Lesley would never gift her a building that was haunted, and for another, Rachel was too pragmatic to think all those TV shows about paranormal activity was real.

  And then it crossed her mind—what if someone was upstairs?

  What if someone had somehow entered the bookstore and was hiding on the second floor, or maybe was now in the attic space? There was access to the store through the door to the alley, as well as the front door, and she’d thought she locked both, but someone could have entered when she wasn’t paying attention.

  She was still trying to decide what to do when she heard Atticus call her name, and she turned around to see him in his SUV, window rolled down. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Why are you in in the middle of the street?”

  “I got spooked, so I ran out. I’m trying to decide what to do.”

  “What happened?”

  She opened her mouth to try to explain and then realized it would sound foolish. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

  He parked the car in one of the angled spots in front of the store before rolling up his window and stepping out. He was wearing a dark brown sheepskin coat, dark denim jeans, and what looked like a pair of pointed cowboy boots.

  “You’re all dressed up,” she said, not adding that his coat didn’t appear to be the practical rancher variety, but the kind worn by Hollywood celebs when they went to the Sundance Film Festival.

  “Is that a compliment?” he asked, smiling.

  “Just an observation.”

  His gaze swept over her. “So what are you going to handle?”

  She frowned, not sure how to explain without sounding slightly unhinged. “Something weird just happened.”

  “What?”

  “I was up in the attic apartment when I heard a loud bang a floor below.” She watched his face, waiting for a change of expression. “When I went down to see what it was, a book was lying in the middle of the second floor, and there’s no way a book that big just fell off the shelf on its own. I’d cleaned the room earlier, too, and there were no books left in precarious positions.”

  “You said you were above?”

  “Yes, in the apartment one floor up.”

  “A heavy vibration might have knocked the book from the shelf.”

  She made a face. “I’m not that heavy.”

  “I’m not talking about you. It could have been just about anything—a door slamming, or a truck driving by—”

  “The books are crammed in next to each other. How would the vibration of a truck make one book wiggle its way out and slam to the ground?”

  “What do you think it was?”

  “I don’t know. But it was unnerving.”

  “Do you watch a lot of paranormal shows?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think your building is haunted?” he asked, a little too cheerfully.

  “No.” She was no longer quite so happy to see him. “But I would like an explanation for the book. It was loud when it fell, and a little bit scary. I’m not easily scared.”

  “Would you like me to go up and check it out for you?”

  Relief swept through her. “Would you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll stand in the front door, just in case.”

  “Just in case the ghost swoops down to steal me?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I don’t believe in ghosts, and even if ghosts exist, I don’t think they steal people. I’m just staying close in case you need backup.”

  “I appreciate that. Lead the way.”

  She entered the store, and turned on the lights, skin prickling with awareness as Atticus stood close behind her. She didn’t want to feel this strange tingly sensation when she saw him, and she definitely didn’t want to feel anything tingly when he spoke to her, but she felt tingly now, and she told herself it was relief, because he was helping her out, not because she was ridiculously attracted to him.

  They’d taken two steps in when Rachel heard a faint, scrabbling sound above and froze. “There,” she said breathlessly, “did you hear that?”

  Atticus stepped around her and entered the store. She watched his face as he listened closely. “I think it’s just a mouse,” he said after a moment. “Which doesn’t surprise me as it’s a one hundred-and-twenty-year-old building with two floors of books.”

  Rachel wasn’t reassured. “Can mice knock a big leather-bound book off a shelf?”

  “Maybe not a mouse, but a rat could, or a raccoon.” He paused, before shrugging. “Or a possum.”

  “A possum?”

  “This is Montana.”

  “I know it’s Montana,” she retorted, unable to hide her irritation. “You just took me on a scenic drive through Paradise Valley.” She glanced to the wooden staircase leading up to the second floor. “But what if it’s not a mouse, or a raccoon, or a possum? What if someone’s up there? What if someone snuck in when I was working and is hiding upstairs now? Maybe we should call the sheriff.”

  “We’re not going to call the sheriff.”

  “All right, fine. I’ll call the sheriff.”

  “You don’t need the sheriff. That’s embarrassing.”

  “Not to me. That’s what law enforcement is for.”

  “I will check it out.”

  She glanced toward the staircase. “What if there’s someone hiding up there?”

  “Then I’ll have to take care of him.”

  “What if he has a gun?”

  “What if I do?”

  She blinked, surprised. “Do you?”

  He shrugged. “The point is, I’m not worried.”

  “Fine. Be the hero. But if something bad happens to you, I’m calling 911, I’m not coming up.”

  “Not even partway up the stairs, just to see how bad it is?”

  Her lips twitched. He was so exasperating and yet he made her want to laugh, and no one ever made her laugh. She’d been told over and over that she had no sense of humor, that she wasn’t fun, that she didn’t know how to enjoy anything. “No. You’re on your own.”

  “Some backup you are, Rachel Mills.”

  *

  Atticus wasn’t worried. The scrabbling sound above was definitely a small animal, and there was probably a nest somewhere which needed removing.

  “If you need me, yell,” Rachel shouted up at him.

  He turned around at the top of the stairs and looked down at her, where she was hovering nervously at the bottom of the stairs, blonde hair piled on top of her head, secured with a yellow pencil, the kind he had used in school. “I appreciate that. But if things turn weird up here, save yourself.”

  She giggled as if she found the idea vastly entertaining. “And if things get weirder and you die up there, I’ll rename the store after you.”

  “Put that on my headstone. Atticus Bowen didn’t get the restaurant, but he did get a bookstore.”

  “Something is better than nothing,” she answered, hands on her hips.

  He choked on a muffled laugh and glanced around the second floor, looking for the light switch. He found it on the wall, and switched it on. The overhead chandelier cast sparkles of light on the dark wood floor, while everything smelled of old leather, books, and bright fresh le
mon. It was an old-fashioned scent and he felt a wash of nostalgia. There weren’t many places like Paradise Books left in America. It had once been a much-loved bookstore, but he knew from Troy and Taylor that the bookstore had struggled for the past few years before Lesley had gone to see her sister in Australia.

  Atticus had to duck his head as he did a quick but thorough search of the second floor. He found nothing amiss, except for a thick dark green book lying in the middle of the floor. He crossed to pick it up, and turned the hardback with the gilt lettering on the spine, The Works of Charles Dickens: Christmas Stories. It was a big book, a very thick book, and still carrying the anthology, he headed up the stairs to inspect the third floor and was pleasantly surprised by the apartment carved from under the steeply sloped ceiling.

  Again he checked all areas, from the small living room with a miniature kitchen, to the closets lining the halls, to the tiny bedroom and bathroom at the opposite end. The walls in the living room and kitchen were exposed red brick, while the brick in the bedroom had been covered with a green and silvery-blue botanical paper. The staircase formed a natural divider between the two spaces and a thick door could be shut at the bottom of the stairs, making the apartment secure.

  After a search through the final closet, Atticus was confident there was no one lurking anywhere upstairs, and he headed back down to give Rachel the news that there was nothing for her to be afraid of. “Whatever it was that knocked the book off the shelf is gone, but I did bring the book down. It looks like it wants to be read.” He set the book on the counter and looked at her. “Or maybe bought by someone who loves a good Dickens Christmas story.”

  She opened the book and flipped to the copyright date, 1882. The book was square and tight and clean. It was in remarkable shape really. Rachel glanced up at Atticus. “Maybe it wants to be part of my Christmas display.”

  Atticus didn’t contradict her, but she sensed from his pursed lips he wanted to. “What?” she said suspiciously.

  His broad shoulders lifted and fell. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Exactly. You always have something to say.”