The Christmas Box (The Box Books #2)

3. December 2

December 2

Lexi

D ara is ringing out customers, today’s antler headgear accented by a Rudolph hoodie, while I start a new batch of hot chocolate and put on a fresh pot of coffee. We’ve just had a nice little afternoon rush, and it’s those rushes that help me believe the Christmas Box will survive to see a second holiday season next December. Please, please, please, I whisper inside—to God or whoever else might have a hand in such things.

When I hear the door sleighbells jingle just after four, I glance up to see my cousin Haley and her two adorable toddlers. My mom and her dad were siblings. I saw them just over Thanksgiving at her parents’ house up north in the Cincinnati suburbs, and I invited the whole extended family to visit the shop anytime, but given how busy people are this time of year, I didn’t expect anyone to actually take me up on it.

“Haley!” I wave from the end of the bar, then rush to meet her and the kids, currently in a double stroller that she’s just wrangled through the door.

“Lex, this place!” she exclaims. “It’s everything you said and more. Christmas heaven!”

I look around at my own personal holiday wonderland, pleased with her reaction. “It is pretty dreamy, isn’t it?”

She nods, wide-eyed, then drops a glance to the little ones. “I’m just sorry these two have already conked out. I thought they’d love it. On the other hand, this way I don’t have to worry about tiny hands grabbing at breakable things, and I can actually just, you know, shop . I’ve almost forgotten what that feels like.”

I nod—as if I know. The truth is, I secretly envy my cousin’s lovely little family, along with her wonderful marriage to her architect husband, Ben. Haley and I are near the same age and loved playing together growing up. We would daydream about the future, and I recall her wishing for a glamorous career in fashion design. Instead, she runs a bakery with her sister, Hannah, has a beautiful home, a handsome husband, and these adorable kids. In short, I sometimes feel like Haley got all of my dreams—a small, thriving business and a loving family to come home to at night. But I finally have my shop, and as for the rest, I accepted long ago that not everyone gets the perfect happy ending, and that it doesn’t all have to be perfect to be happy.

That’s when I shift my gaze out the front window, catching sight of enormous snowflakes against the backdrop of a certain red pickup across the street. “Looks like it’s starting to snow.”

Haley turns to see. “Oh, wow, yeah. We had some flurries last night, but this seems like more, doesn’t it? I’d better get shopping in case it keeps coming down and has me racing for home.” It’s a forty-five minute drive in good weather, so I get it.

“If you want to leave the stroller with me, we’re quiet right now.”

Her eyes light up. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Half an hour later, neither child has cracked an eyelid, and Haley has bought several gifts, along with new ornaments for her tree and a cute advent calendar for the wall. The snow has continued to fall, so I make sure the presents for the kids are hidden deep within shopping bags, then help her get everything to her SUV, parked just outside the door.

Cars and awnings are already covered with a layer of snow, and though the streets are only wet, the sidewalk is starting to pick up a thin coating of white, as well.

“Crazy to get such heavy snow this early,” Haley says as we buckle the babies into their car seats.

I nod. It’s not unheard of, but not normal, either. “I didn’t see a thing about this in the forecast.”

As she gets behind the wheel and we say our goodbyes, I tell her to drive carefully and text me when she gets home. By the time I’m back inside, the last shopper is headed out and the store is suddenly still and quiet other than Taylor Swift singing about a Christmas tree farm through the overhead speakers.

And I’m suddenly overcome with an inexplicable sadness.

I can’t put my finger on why—maybe it’s a lot of things.

I can’t call it loneliness—Dara is here, after all, straightening gift bags hanging on the wall. And we’ve had plenty of foot traffic today—this is the first time there hasn’t been at least one or two customers in the shop.

Maybe it’s the unanticipated snow—something I’d normally love this time of year. But Main Street emptied almost entirely in just the short time it took to get Haley on her way. Suddenly, a snowfall I would otherwise find enchanting becomes an enemy—to my business and every small business trying to stay afloat on Main.

But it’s only one afternoon. And maybe it’ll stop anytime now.

I tug my phone from my pocket and pull up a weather app. After which my jaw drops before I announce to Dara, “So the forecast has changed. They’re suddenly calling for three inches before it stops tonight around eight.”

“Oh, crud,” she replies. “I was planning to get groceries after work—I’ve pretty much let us run out of food.”

“You should go now ,” I tell her without a second’s hesitation. Being caregiver for her mother is Dara’s top priority. Her older siblings provide financial support and she provides the care—her work with me is mostly to give her a break and get her out of the house.

“Are you sure? What if it gets busy again?”

With another glance out the window, where the only movement is the snow descending in thick, heavy flakes, I say, “I don’t think it will. In fact, I have a feeling we’re done for the day. You go on. I’m fine here.”

She nods. “You’re probably right.” Shedding her antlers, she bundles up in a tie-dye parka, pulls on a hot pink winter hat, then sets out up the snow-covered sidewalk.

Of course, that leaves the shop even quieter. Sure, holiday music continues to play, but something about it almost depresses me—because who is it playing for, after all?

I glance around, taking it all in, and yes, it’s a winter wonderland, and yes, business is good—but…is something missing?

Maybe this is the first time since we opened that I’ve had the chance to stand here alone and take in the Christmas Box, without the customers, without Dara, without rushing to restock shelves or wash coffee cups.

And I’m slightly horrified to look around at the sparkling trees, twinkling lights, Santa mugs, and smiling snowmen and realize: it’s just a shop.

Somehow, I wanted this to be more than just a small town store, more than just a tribute to my mother, more than just a way to make a living doing what I feel passionate about. I wanted it to feel truly magical . I wanted it to spread the love of Christmas I shared with Mom and Grandma. I wanted it to hold charm and warmth and a feeling that all is right in the world.

A tall order, I know. And perhaps an unrealistic expectation. But also a thing I thought would just naturally, organically happen when I put all the pieces together.

I wanted people to walk through the door and feel the same way I felt last night placing that star on top of the tree and making that wish for the Grinchy hottie across the street: Filled with hope. Filled with possibility. Filled with belief.

And instead…it’s just a shop.

And maybe it’s silly to have expected it to be anything more than that. Christmas is in the heart, after all—not hanging on the branches of an evergreen or tucked into a glittery gift bag.

And yet, even so, what if there was a way to make people who come to the Christmas Box feel the same as I did putting that star on the tree? What if there was a way to fill every person who walked through the door with that same sense of hope and anticipation? What would that look like?

A box. I don’t know where the words come from. It’s almost like they’re whispered in my ear. But I know instantly what they mean.

The next question is: Where do I get the perfect box? Because it can’t be just any box. It has to be unique and special—a box that gives off the same sense of magic I want to create with it.

I’m kind of excited as I start thinking about it—my heart begins to race. But where, where, where do I find this perfect box?

I let my eyes drift from floor to ceiling, from back wall to front windows, as if the answer lies hidden somewhere inside the store. Which is when my gaze falls on the shiny red pickup across the street, now covered in a layer of snow. It’s the only vehicle still left outside, and lo and behold, Scrooge McHottie himself has just come outside to get something from the truck bed.

What bizarre impulse compels me to rush out and across the empty street without even first grabbing a coat? I’m not completely sure, but…he builds things. And time is short. And he’s right in front of me. So it makes sense, right?

I approach as he hoists slats of wood up onto his shoulder to carry inside, noticing he was smart enough to put on a coat.

“Could you build me a wishing box?”

He squints at me through the snow like I have reindeer antlers sprouting from my head—and not the fake kind. “A whatting box?”

“A wishing box.”

“Can you close the tailgate?” he asks, occupied with balancing the wood.

I slam it shut, then follow him to the Lucas Building, holding the door for him.

“It should be about this big,” I go on once we’re inside, holding my hands about eighteen inches apart, “and have a unique style that looks a little magical and like maybe it came straight out of Santa’s workshop. It should make people ooh and ahh when they see it—the very sight should draw them closer. Can you do that?”

He plunks the bundle of wood in his arms onto the old counter at the rear of the space and turns to face me. “So you’re saying you want me to make you a magic box.” He’s still squinting, as if checking to make sure he hasn’t misunderstood.

“Well, it doesn’t really have to be magic,” I explain. “It just needs to look magic.”

“A magic- looking box,” he repeats. Then murmurs sarcastically, “Sure, nothing odd about that.”

“I figure if you can make pretty cabinetry out of wood, you can make a pretty box, too, right?”

He shrugs, now appearing a smidge smug. “Well, right.” Then he gives his head a pointed tilt. “And you need this magic-looking box for…?”

“For the shop,” I say. “For the wishes.” I’m speaking excitedly, wanting him to get this and unsure why he doesn’t.

But now he’s shaking his head. “What wishes? What are you talking about, woman?”

“I told you, it’s a wishing box. For people to put their Christmas wishes in.”

He’s still looking at me like I’m crazy.

And I can’t make it any simpler, so I move on. “I’ll pay you whatever you want. Price is no object.” Though then I backtrack. This is what comes of rushing ahead with an idea before thinking it through. “Within reason, I mean. I am trying to get a small business off the ground here, after all.”

He lets out a laugh. And ugh, it makes him so much more attractive when he’s not scowling or acting all serious and grim. “Look,” he says, “I can make you a box, no charge. Or…coffee on the house maybe?”

“That’s great,” I tell him. “Coffee for life.” Though, again, perhaps I should think more carefully before blurting things out from sheer enthusiasm.

Now, though, his brow knits again. “Just…explain to me a little more what the purpose is. Wishing?”

I nod. “It needs a slot on the top where you can slide a slip of paper in. Christmas is a time for wishing, and if people can come into the Christmas Box and make a wish, it will give them the sense that miracles can happen if you just believe. You know?”

He pushes out a long sigh, eyeing me through a narrowed gaze. “What I know is…you’re a little loopy when it comes to all the Christmas stuff— but like I said, I’ll make your box. And I’ll be collecting on that coffee arrangement.” He ends with a wink that A) I didn’t expect, and B) makes me feel a little fluttery inside.

“Deal,” I say, holding out my hand for a handshake.

He takes it, his touch shockingly warm given that we’ve both just been out in the cold. “Deal.” And that makes me even more fluttery. I cringe inside at my own response.

Though quick as that, the touching is over, and now he’s moved on to looking puzzled about something else. “Was it supposed to snow?”

I shake my head. “But now they say it’ll keep coming down until well after dark.”

He offers a slight grimace in reply. “Maybe I should start over to the manor before it gets any deeper out there.”

I’m secretly amused that he’s already referring to the nursing home as “the manor,” same as the locals. “Is it safe in your truck?” I ask. “My grandpa had a ’56 Ford when I was little and it was no good in the snow.”

“Mine’ll plow through anything,” he claims, and I think it’s just masculine bravado at first, until he goes on—maybe because I look skeptical. “It belonged to my great-grandfather and got passed down. My dad gave it to me when I turned sixteen. Since then, I’ve overhauled it from top to bottom. Automobile purists don’t like it, but I wanted to drive the thing—not leave it sitting in a garage. I outfitted it to be reliable in the snow, for Chicago winters.”

“Well then,” I say, “sounds like I don’t have to worry about you making it there alive.”

He tilts me a sly half-grin I didn’t see coming. “You would worry about me? And here I didn’t think you liked me much.”

I just roll my eyes. “We just made a deal for a box. I want to be sure I get it.” Then I find myself flashing a slightly combative look. “Though I hope you’ll do better getting me the box than you did that Christmas laurel back in school.”

“Touché,” he answers with an arch of one brow. “And just FYI, I’m a lot more reliable these days.”

“Fingers crossed that’s true,” I tell him, holding up two intertwined fingers, still not fully convinced. Then I start toward the front door.

“Think Winterburger stayed open through this?” he asks behind me.

I stop, look back, then hold my hand out level, tipping it back and forth. “Iffy.”

“Dad loves their burgers. Can’t get enough of ’em.”

Maybe this is nosy, but since he was honest with me about this before, I decide to ask. “Are things…better than you expected? Between you and him?” I almost add that it seems like he spends a lot of time at Bluegrass Manor, but I don’t want to let on that I notice his comings and goings.

He releases a tired-sounding sigh to answer, “They’re…okay. I barely recognize the guy, actually. But being a nice guy now doesn’t make up for being a shitty dad then .”

I just nod. I could argue the point, but I don’t know if I’d be right. I had loving parents, so I haven’t walked in his shoes.

Together, we head toward the shop’s front door and both glance down at the same time to see a couple of dark eyes peering back through the glass. I quickly realize they’re attached to a scruffy white dog who almost blends into the backdrop of snow. He looks like a cross between a Jack Russell terrier and…something else, so kind of a mutt. But a pretty cute one.

“Somebody lose their dog?” Travis asks, looking annoyed. Doesn’t take much to annoy this guy, and I’m actually pretty stunned he agreed to make the box, even if he did act like it was weird.

“I don’t recognize it,” I tell him. “And no collar—might be a stray.”

“Rough weather to be lost in.” The words sound more like observation than compassion, though.

“At least the overhang might keep him dry if he stays here until the snow stops.” The building’s entryway is recessed, with an antique mosaic penny tile design between the door and the sidewalk. Even without a star to put on a tree, I send up a silent wish for the dog to be kept warm and safe. Season of miracles, after all.

We both ease out the door in a way that keeps the poor dog from getting in. Then, as the three of us stand there on the old tile, snow still falling an arm’s length away, Travis asks, “You think if I let him in here while I’m gone, he’d go to the bathroom on the floor?”

Of course I think he would, but given the weather, I hear myself tell a tiny white lie. “Maybe he’ll be so grateful that he’ll just curl up and go to sleep.”

Travis looks as doubtful about this as I feel, but he reopens the plate-glass door and shoos the dog inside. “It’s your lucky night,” he calls behind it as it goes rushing in. “Don’t poop on my stuff!”

After he locks the door, he glances back at me to notice, “You’re not wearing a coat.” Like with the dog, it’s more observation than concern.

“When I got the idea about the box and saw you outside,” I explain, “I got excited and rushed over to ask you.”

At this, another teasing, half grin makes its way onto his handsome face. “I think you and I have different ideas about what’s exciting. You’d better get inside before you freeze to death.”

“And you’d better get to Winterburger before they shut down for the day.” A glance up the street reveals their lights are still on.

As we both start in different directions in the snow, he calls, “You have a nice night, Lexi Hargrove.”

I already suspect the night I’m going to have, however, will be filled with the questions already dancing like sugar plums in my head: Will I really get that box? Will it somehow be the missing ingredient in my recipe for holiday magic at the Christmas Box? And…did Travis Hutchins’ just flirt with me? Then again, calling me loopy isn’t exactly a wooing move, so maybe I misread some of that.

And the most troubling question: Why did I get all fluttery at the mere touch of his hand? Yes, I would like for him to find holiday joy—but that does not mean I want mystery flutterings from the guy. Those are two different things entirely, and one of them is not on my Christmas menu.