The Christmas Box (The Box Books #2)

1. Day After Thanksgiving

Lexi

Lugging my new easel sign out into the cold morning twilight, I prop it on the sidewalk. In green chalk I’ve written: Grand Opening.

“Alexandra Louise Hargrove, is it truly happening? Is today really the day?”

I look up to find dear family friend Helen Brightway—once my grandmother’s bestie—approaching down the sidewalk. A heavyset woman in her sixties, she wears medical scrubs laden with cartoon Santa faces under her open coat.

“Yes, at last!” I call happily back. “Ten long years in the making!”

“A little early, isn’t it?” she asks kiddingly. And rightfully so. It’s not even 7a.m. Which might be when the Black Friday shoppers hit the ground running in cities and suburbs, but for shops in a small Kentucky town, our nine o’clock start time today is about as early as we expect people to be out and about.

Even so…“I’m too excited to wait,” I tell her. “So I’m just getting everything extra ready. And savoring the moment, I suppose.”

With that, I turn to face the building I just exited. Erected on Main Street in Winterberry, Kentucky in 1919, the brick structure was originally a bar, then a five-and-dime, and eventually a beauty parlor. For the last thirty years, though, it’s sat vacant—until I bought it a few months back. Now, the plate-glass storefront windows announce to passersby that it’s become The Christmas Box . In smaller letters underneath: Where Every Day is a Holiday.

Did I go too far having the lettering painted in red-and-white candy cane stripes? I think not. If you’re gonna do something, go all in. The shop display windows are lined with fake snow and an array of small Christmas trees, reindeer, and snowmen. Beyond the window dressing, the building’s original mahogany bar remains, now housing the checkout at one end with coffee and cocoa at the other. The rest of the space is filled with antique tables boasting holiday décor and gift items amidst a forest of decorated artificial trees in all shapes and sizes.

As Helen drapes an arm lovingly around my shoulder, we both take in the splendor of my new business. “It’s magnificent,” she says. “Your mother and grandma would both be very proud.”

Her praise warms my heart as I tell her, “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

The warm little squeeze she gives makes it clear we’re both feeling the loss all over again, just for a minute. Some things never leave you.

“You’re gonna do great, honey.”

“I hope so. Chet Wheeler says I need to have a banner holiday season to stay solvent through the coming year.” Chet is my accountant—Winterberry’s only accountant, as luck would have it. But he’s wisely advised my family on business matters for decades.

The rumble of an engine makes us both turn to see an old red pickup pull to the curb across the street. Old as in vintage-Americana-art old, but it appears well cared for and almost as shiny as new.

“I keep seeing that truck the last few days,” I tell Helen. “Any idea who’s in it?” In small towns, people make it their business to know such things.

So I’m not surprised when she does. “Travis Hutchins. Tom Hutchins’ boy.”

Well, that part’s a surprise. I try not to let it show on my face.

“Didn’t you go to school with him?” she asks.

“Yeah, we graduated together.” And he once hurt and humiliated me, but I keep that tidbit to myself. “I thought he moved away. To Chicago or someplace.” I try to sound very nonchalant, but I was happy when he left town right after high school, glad I’d never have to lay eyes on him again. Or so I thought.

“Indeed he did. Don’t believe he’s been back since. But Tom’s in a bad way. He’s with us at the manor now.” By which she means Bluegrass Manor, the rehab and rest home where Helen puts her nursing skills to use.

That’s another surprise. “I had no idea. What happened to him?” I don’t know Tom Hutchins well, but he’s become a fixture in our community, the guy you call when you need a deck or room addition built.

“At first they thought it was early onset dementia, but turns out the poor man has brain cancer. Wally took him for treatments, but it was too far gone.” Wally Hutchins is Tom’s brother, and the longtime owner of the building the red pickup sits parked in front of. “Wally and Edie had already put their house on the market and closed on their condo in Florida before Tom’s diagnosis, so when the house sold, Tom insisted they go ahead with their move, not wanting to hold them up. But Wally called Travis in Chicago and told him he needed to get his butt down here and take care of family business—you know, look out for his dad and the farm and such, until Tom passes.”

“Wow. That’s a lot.”

I’m still taking it in, in fact, when the truck’s door finally opens and Travis Hutchins gets out. I’m dazed by the sight of him. Why couldn’t he have gotten ugly over the past twelve years since graduation? Instead—ugh—he appears to have only become better looking. Once upon a time, he was a slightly rough, belligerent, long-haired kid in black clothes and combat boots. Now, his dark hair is much tidier and he looks like more of a rugged, flannel-and-denim-wearing guy.

“Morning,” Helen calls to him as he walks toward the rear of the pickup.

Cringing inside, I instinctively make a move to head back in the shop, but she grabs onto my wrist with catlike reflexes I’ve never noticed before.

Travis glances only briefly in our direction. “Morning.” Okay, one thing hasn’t changed about him—he still sounds a little belligerent. Like he’ll be cordial if he must, but it pains him.

“Someone’s up with the sun,” she says cheerfully.

“Had to pick up a few things out at the farm.” His voice is wooden—he’s clearly being nice because he feels he has to, not because it comes naturally. So it throws me a little when he adds, “You’re out early, too.”

Helen points vaguely north. “I walk up to the bakery and get donuts for work when I have the morning shift.” Then she motions to the east. “Guess I haven’t mentioned that my house sits just around the corner on Grant Street. Will I see you at the manor today?”

He gives a short nod as he lowers the tailgate with a clank . “After I get some work done here.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard,” she says to me, loud enough that she’s clearly trying to make this a group convo, “but Travis’s Uncle Wally just sold the Lucas Building. While he’s here, Travis is remodeling the ground floor for the new tenant and staying in the apartment upstairs.”

Oh brother. I live in the apartment above my shop, too. And Travis Hutchins is not my idea of a good neighbor. “Ah,” I say.

It’s then that he looks up from whatever he’s getting ready to unload from the truck and calls to Helen, “Anywhere I can get a cup of coffee this early?”

Fair question given that old Main Street, while somewhat lively during business hours, is mostly deserted otherwise. So I’m surprised yet again when she answers, “Sure—right here at the Christmas Box.” She points over her shoulder at my shop.

“We’re not really open yet,” I remind her under my breath.

“Sure you are,” she answers quietly.

“He can get coffee at the bakery,” I reply through slightly-clenched teeth. Janie’s Bakery is the only place in town actually open this early.

“Oh, that’s all the way down the block,” she says as if it’s a trek through the Himalayas. “Your place is right here. You said you were excited to open, so open.”

And just like that, she’s off with a “Toodeloo,” toddling her way toward the bakery—as Travis Hutchins abandons his unloading to cross the street toward me. “I’m not sure the coffee’s ready yet,” I tell him. Unfortunately, however, I did put a pot on before walking outside.

“I’m kinda desperate for it,” he answers, “so I can wait.”

And thus in a weird twist of fate, it would seem that Travis Hutchins, the boy who once stood me up on a very special night, is destined to be my very first customer at the Christmas Box.

As he follows me through the door, I feel fifty shades of awkward, not wanting to turn and find myself face-to-face with him.

“So this place is…what?” he asks.

“A Christmas shop,” I answer shortly. I mean, does it not speak for itself? Trees dripping with tinsel and ornaments, stockings hung by the old chimney with care, colored lights, artificial snow, and Michael Buble crooning holiday standards over hidden speakers. What else could it be?

“Is it, like, a pop-up shop? Just open for a month?”

“No,” I say, slightly annoyed. “We’re open all year long.” I’ve led him to the far end of the counter where the drink bar resides, and I check the coffee pot to find it’s still dripping. Rats.

“And…you don’t change it out to sell other stuff after Christmas?”

“Well, the name of the shop is the Christmas Box, so no.” Again, is this a hard concept to grasp?

“Hmm,” he says. It comes out sounding judgmental.

“Hmm?” I repeat to ask what he’s hmming. I finally glance his way, sorry to discover he’s just as handsome close-up as he was across the street.

Giving his head a short shake, he answers, “Nothing.”

“Seems like something .”

After a short hesitation, he says, “I’m just not a fan of Christmas, that’s all. So it’s hard for me to understand why anyone would want a never-ending holiday season. It’s bad enough just getting through December. I wouldn’t be able to handle all the fake warmth and fake cheer and fake snow all year long. I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but does anyone really want it to be Christmas all the time?”

I guess I am taking it the wrong way, because just who does this guy think he is? His attitude cuts to the very heart of my business model, a model that believes people want that Christmasy feeling for more than just the month of December. “First of all,” I say, “the snow might be fake, but holiday warmth and cheer are very real. People love Christmas. They plan for it all year long. Christmas is about joy and giving and the holiday spirit—what’s not to love? In case you haven’t heard, it’s the most wonderful time of the year.”

He gives his head an argumentative tilt before shooting back at me, “Nope, the song got it wrong—it’s the most horrible time of the year. Christmas is about commercialism, materialism, obligation, expectation, and being treated like you’re letting the whole world down if you just want to live your life normally and not wear ugly Christmas sweaters all December long.”

First, I take a deep breath—then I give him my point of view. “My family treasured Christmas. My dad died serving in Afghanistan when I was little, but my mom and grandma always made Christmas special for me, even when times were hard and my mother could have turned bitter. The two of them ran the Winterberry Diner that used to be next door, and they turned the place into a winter wonderland when the holidays rolled around. People loved their holiday spirit.”

He squints, looking a little confused as he says, “I think I remember that place, but…”

“It’s gone now,” I confirm for him. “The whole structure. The park just outside, to the north of my building, took its place. I donated the lot to the town with the stipulation that it be made into a park named after my family.”

He tilts his head. “Yeah, I noticed there was a building missing. What happened to it?”

“Mom and Grandma lived upstairs from the diner, and there was a fire about ten years ago. I was away at college. They didn’t get out.”

I can see I’ve thrown him for a loop with my family tragedy. But he asked. “Sorry,” he says. “That’s awful.”

I proceed onward to the point of my story. “Anyway, my mom always dreamed of opening a Christmas shop. She was saving toward it. So after she died, I started saving toward it. And then a few months ago, I quit my admin job working for the mayor, bought this building, and opened the shop. Or I’m about to in a couple of hours. Today is actually our first day.”

His eyes get wider. And his deep voice softer. “Well, okay, I guess now I understand why you’d want a Christmas shop.”

I, on the other hand, do not understand why he seemed so passionately Grinch-like about it. As someone whose livelihood now literally depends on people loving the holidays, I really want to know what his problem with Christmas is. “So why are you such a holiday hater?”

“I already told you.” His reply is so short and blunt that I know there’s more to the story.

But the coffee is done, so I grab a dark green, speckled mug with the words Merry Christmas and an old-fashioned Santa face stamped on the side and pour a cup, setting it on the counter in front of him.

And as he takes a sip, I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake. I should have put it in a paper to-go cup, and instead I’ve made it so he has to stay here to drink it. Rookie coffee bar mistake.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” I hear myself ask, unplanned. I’m not sure why; maybe because I’m tired of hearing him diss Christmas, an important aspect of my life, past, present, and—hopefully—future. Maybe because the longer we talk, the weirder it seems that it hasn’t come up. Maybe because we’re going to be neighbors, at least temporarily, and are we never going to acknowledge that we sat in the same homeroom for twelve entire school years?

As I look into his deep brown eyes and he looks back, I’m still trying to ignore how hot he is. He, on the other hand, is clearly trying to figure out the answer since I’ve put him on the spot. Finally he asks, “Were we in school together?”

“Yes.” He’s still puzzling it through, though, so I throw him a bone. “Think homeroom.”

I should probably just tell him my name at this point—I hate when people I once knew make me play that terrible guessing game—but I suppose I’m still holding his Grinchiness against him.

That’s when recognition dawns in his gaze. “Are you…Lexi? Lexi Hargrove?”

I raise my eyebrows—no smile—and say, “Bingo.”

Then I watch his face fall as he remembers why this is relevant. I’m pleased it comes back to him instantly, pleased he’s not going to pretend nothing bad ever happened between us. “We were supposed to…” He’s wagging a finger back and forth between us now. “…Um, go to a thing together.”

“Yes.” I keep it short because maybe I suddenly regret reminding him of a time when he had the power to hurt me. Funny how quickly those youthful feelings can come rushing back.

Now his face is a little scrunched up—and I realize he’s still struggling to piece together the memory. “Why…didn’t we?”

Well, I’m glad it made such an impact on him. He knows something went wrong between us, but he didn’t bother to remember what. “You never showed.”

He clenches his teeth and makes an “oops, ya got me” face. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

Maybe he’s stood up a lot of girls in his day. Or maybe standing me up just wasn’t a noteworthy entry on his list of high school sins. Either way, it adds insult to an old injury.

“I was kind of a punk back then,” he goes on.

“Not a newsflash,” I tell him. And if that was an apology, it’s as weak as his memory.

“I’m not anymore,” he claims.

I once again arch my eyebrows in his direction, this time to ask, “Are you sure?”

The question elicits a light laugh. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile, even if it fades quickly. “Well, I try not to be. Maybe I don’t always get there. Got a lot on my mind lately.”

“Helen told me about your dad. About why you’re here.”

“They say he doesn’t have long.”

“That must be hard.” I don’t really want to be nice to him, but a dying parent supersedes a lot, especially for me.

To my surprise, though, he just shrugs it off and resumes looking as sullen as he did getting out of his truck. “We aren’t close. Never have been. I’m here more for my uncle’s sake than my dad’s. As soon as he’s in the ground, I’m gone, back to Chicago.”

Whoa—what a cold thing to say. But then I remember something from high school that I’d totally forgotten until this moment. It seemed like he had a bad home life. His mother left when we were just kids, maybe fourteen or fifteen. And that’s when he started the black-clothes-and-combat-boots things. I would have thought perhaps that kind of shared loss would make him closer with his father, but maybe not. And this is none of my business. So I change the subject. “I didn’t know your uncle sold the building.” His aunt and uncle ran a toy store in the old Lucas building for the last five years or so, until recently closing up shop.

“He and Aunt Edie are retiring down south.” If I’m not mistaken, he’s relieved by the change in topic. “But he put me in touch with the woman who bought it—she’s opening a soap shop and hired me to build and install some custom shelving and cabinetry. That’s what I do up in Chicago—along with other custom building.”

“Like your dad,” I say.

He blinks, looking oddly taken aback by the obvious. “Sort of, I guess.”

Well, what started out as an awkward meeting has, unfortunately, stayed that way the entire time. I still wish he wasn’t so nice to look at, with broad, flannel-covered shoulders, a day’s dark stubble dusting a strong jawline, and those brown, brown eyes. Even though they’re hard, his eyes, a reminder that he doesn’t want to be here. In his hometown; at his dying father’s bedside; in a Christmas shop. He seems like a very unhappy guy.

So I can’t deny breathing a sigh of relief when he drains the last of the coffee from his mug and lowers it back to the old bar top with a plunk of finality. When he gets out his wallet and drops a bill next to the cup, I say, “I’ll get your change.”

“No need,” he answers.

“It was a good cup of coffee.”

“Well, okay. But only because I just remembered I don’t actually have my cash drawer in place yet. We don’t really open until nine.”

“Then I appreciate you letting me in.” And as he starts toward the door, he glances over his shoulder. “Good luck with your opening today.” Then he slants me a grin. “But I still hate Christmas.”

It’s a nice grin. The kind it’s hard not to grin back at. But I don’t, instead suggesting, “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

“Nope,” he shuts me down quickly. “I’m here for one reason, a different kind of obligation than the ones that come with Christmas, and that’s pretty much all I’m thinking about right now. So even if I get my coffee here, don’t think you’re gonna convert me into some kind of a Santaphile.”

This almost makes me laugh, but I hold it in. And I’m tempted to tell him he can actually get early morning coffee up the street at the bakery—yet for some reason I don’t.

As the sleighbells hanging on the door jingle behind his departure, I’m still wondering what happened with his family—to make his mother leave, to make his father someone he doesn’t seem to care about, to make him hate Christmas so much. Reminded that we all have our losses, I suddenly feel a little more understanding about him being a punk back in school.

But the jury’s still out on what he is now.

An hour and a half later, the sleighbells announce the next arrival and I look up to see Dara Burch, my friend and part-time employee. The fact that her long, black hair, streaked with strands of hot pink, is held back by a festive pair of fabric reindeer antlers, makes me smile. “Happy grand opening!” she greets me. “Are you excited?”

From behind the counter, I glance from side to side at all the stuff I’ve crammed into this shop. “Yes?” I don’t intend it to come out like a question, but it’s too late.

Her eyes widen with concern. “What’s wrong? I mean, it’s dream-come-true day. The lights are lit, the music is playing, every snowflake and gingerbread man is in place. Why do you look like a reindeer in headlights?”

The answer is something that’s been weighing on me, but maybe I didn’t let myself realize just how much until this morning. “What if we fail? What if the Christmas Box doesn’t make it?”

I can see she gets it; she knows this isn’t a sure thing. But that’s when she points to a rustic painted wooden sign, currently hanging over the antique mantelpiece, which says: Believe . “You wouldn’t have come this far if you didn’t believe in the place.”

“But what if I’m being na?ve? What if I think we’ll make it just because I want to honor my mom’s wishes?”

“Look, every small business has to do what that sign says. And we have Christmas on our side—the season of believing.”

“Of course. You’re right.” That’s when I come back to myself, my usual self, the woman who looks at the world through hopeful eyes, despite everything, because that’s what’s gotten me through the dark times in my life.

Dara appears relieved. “Okay, that’s better. There for a minute, I didn’t even recognize you. But there’s my glass-half-full friend, my ‘everything will be okay’ pal, my believer-in-miracles buddy.”

“Opening day jitters,” I tell her. “Because of course I believe. I believe in holiday magic, and I believe in the Christmas Box.”

“Good—now we can get down to business. Want me to start the hot chocolate?”

“Go for it,” I tell her, then reach beneath the bar for the Santa hat I’ve stashed there, pulling it onto my head. Glancing in a mirror, I flop the white, furry ball into just the right position.

“By the way, did you know there’s a hottie working in the old toy store across the street?”

Yikes, did I ever. “That would be one Travis Hutchins.”

From where she’s measuring cocoa powder into the hot chocolate machine, she tilts her antlers. “Should I know him? Is he related to Wally and Tom?”

“No. And yes. He’s Tom’s son and he left Winterberry right after he high school—we graduated in the same class.” I explain what I’ve learned about Tom’s imminent passing and why his son has returned home.

“That’s really sad,” she says, now filling a water pitcher at an old sink we left installed near the bar. “But on the up side, he looks like he could make your Christmas merry.”

I balk. “ My Christmas? No thank you.”

She’s taken aback at my vehemence. “Sheesh—what did he ever do to you ? Stand you up for a date in high school or something?”

I turn to face her. “Yes.”

She flinches, her green gaze widening, the little diamond in her nose glittering beneath the lights. “I was kidding.” She turns off the faucet just before the pitcher overflows.

“Well, I’m not. Though it wasn’t exactly a date. But it was…an obligation on his part.” As the word leaves me, I’m reminded how much he seems to resent obligations. “One that left me humiliated.”

“Spill the tea, girl,” she demands.

I let out a sigh at having to remember this twice in the same morning when I haven’t thought about it in years. “In senior year, we were elected to represent our homeroom at the Winterberry Christmas Ball.”

“Wow,” she says. “I was never elected for anything like that.”

“Neither was I, until then. I was just that quiet girl no one usually noticed,” I explain since she was five years behind me in school, our friendship starting later. “So it came as a shock, and a nice one. It was a big deal to me. My grandma worked so hard making me a gorgeous emerald green gown.”