The Christmas Box (The Box Books #2)

9. December 10

December 10

Lexi

T he sign on the shop door says Open , but Main Street is dead.

Why? It’s snowing again. Just when most of what had fallen so far has melted, more’s coming down. I can’t believe it.

But I’m looking on the bright side. Even though I kept an eye out for Travis’s tree lights last night after our heart-to-heart and none came on, I still feel optimistic. Maybe he’ll never love Christmas the way I do, but at least now I understand why. And I still believe in my wish for him. I know he can come to appreciate Christmas again—somehow.

And further looking on the bright side: Maybe it’s actually good—in a way—that the store is empty, because I have a project to do. I’ve put it off and today is the deadline. I need to make a gingerbread house.

I’ve left it until the last minute because I’ve never actually built one before. Most Winterberrians would be shocked to find that out—I’m the Christmas lady, after all. And while I’ve baked some gingerbread men in my past, I’ve just never gotten into the homebuilding aspect of gingerbread. So I’ve bought two kits—allowing room for error—and that’s how I plan to spend this quiet, snowy day.

After I put on a pot of coffee and get the Christmas music going, I step behind the counter and open up the first box, containing gingerbread panels, icing with a piping bag, red and green fondant, colored gum drops, and some candy beads. On a sturdy cardboard base, I begin to build.

Or I try to anyway. It looks sloppy from the start.

But I keep going, attempting to piece together a house with my panels and icing.

Eventually, I take it apart and start again. But it doesn’t go much better. The cookie sheets seem too heavy to use as a roof—the whole thing keeps collapsing. I built sturdier houses of playing cards as a kid.

I’m to the point of frustration by the time the sleighbells announce a visitor and I look up to see Travis. “Coffee ready?”

I nod. “You’ll have to get it yourself, though—I’m up to my elbows in icing here.”

Yet I’d be perfectly happy to set it aside. There’s a gingerbread event this evening, but maybe I won’t go. Or I could show up empty-handed, but again, being the Christmas lady comes with a certain…is mystique too strong of a word?—I’m not sure I’m ready to dispel.

After filling his usual green Santa cup, Travis takes a stool at the bar and begins eyeing my project. He squints. “What is that supposed to be?”

“A gingerbread house,” I answer without looking up from my task.

In my peripheral vision, he squints harder. “After a tornado?”

I toss him a sideways glance, then explain, “I’ve been invited to a little Christmas soirée at the bakery this evening, a gingerbread party. Every business on Main Street is invited to build a gingerbread house to be entered in a friendly contest.”

“That sounds horrible,” he says.

I ignore that, still focused on the problem at hand. “It’s my first year, and I was looking forward to it—but I’m not sure I have the knack for this.”

Standing back up, he walks closer and inspects my gingerbread at length, his gaze skeptical. “Your problem here,” he finally says, “is poor workmanship.”

I blink, drawing my eyes from the gingerbread up to the man across the counter. “Huh?”

“Your icing is your mortar, but you’re not using enough. Look at all these gaps.” He begins pointing. “Even if you get a roof on it, it’s gonna cave in on itself before you ever make it to the bakery. And if this is a contest…well, why aren’t you doing something more original than a common house?”

Now I’m the one squinting. Is he serious? “Like?”

Still studying the disastrous pile of gingerbread, he suggests, “How about a gingerbread version of…this building? Your shop.”

My jaw drops at the wondrous notion. Only…“That’s an amazing idea, but if I can’t build a house, what makes you think I can recreate the Christmas Box?”

He gives his head a pointed tilt and reminds me, “Well, you just happen to know someone who’s pretty good at building things.”

The idea of playing with gingerbread with Travis all day appeals more than I want to admit to myself, or certainly to him. But I still feel obliged to give him an out, in case he just pities me for being so bad at something a child can usually do. “Are you sure you don’t mind? I mean, aren’t you supposed to be building important things like cabinetry instead of silly things like gingerbread shops?”

“Guess I feel the same way about building things as you feel about Christmas—there’s nothing too silly to build. Building stuff is in my blood.”

I don’t point out that he pretty much just said he got the skill he most cherishes from his father. Nor do I touch on the fact that he’s just offered to help me with a full-on Christmas craft. Instead I say, “Well, in that case, I’ll take you up on the offer.”

By six o’clock, several inches of fresh snow have accumulated on the sidewalk outside, I’ve had exactly zero customers, and we’ve built a truly exquisite gingerbread replica of the Christmas Box. With a red-icing ribbon that circles the building, tiny squares of tin foil for windows (on which we’ve written The Christmas Box in red felt-tip pen), and gum drops lining the roof, it’s truly a work of confectionary art.

Of course, when I say we built it, I mostly mean him. He’s a master with the piping bag, and indeed has pieced together a structure so sturdy that perhaps it could withstand a tornado. I ran upstairs and made us chicken salad sandwiches for lunch, and I occasionally held a piece of gingerbread while he iced, but mostly I enjoyed watching the artiste at work.

“It’s incredible, Travis,” I declare as we both step back to take in the finished product.

“Yeah, turned out good,” he says easily, his casualness telling me he creates wonderful things all the time and this is just one more. Then he glances outside. “You might be the only entry, though. It’s still snowing like crazy out there.”

“They’re all coming from Main Street,” I remind him, “so I suspect they’ll still show.”

“Well, have fun,” he says, reaching for the coat and winter scarf he dropped over a stool hours ago.

Then I’m the one peering out the window, reminded that the weather outside is indeed frightful. “Wait,” I say as he starts for the door. “What if I drop it?”

He turns to look back. “Huh?”

“I know it’s less than a block away, but it suddenly feels like a long hike to the bakery on a snowy sidewalk. Could you help me get it there?”

He flashes a suspicious look, as if he thinks I’m trying to trick him into attending a holiday party. And maybe that’s true. But I really am worried about dropping his gingerbread masterpiece, too.

“Tell you what,” he concedes. “I’ll carry it and you hold the doors. But once it’s inside, I’m outta there.” He hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “Deal?”

I give a short nod. “Deal.”

And so after I lace my snowboots and we both wrap up in coats, scarves, hats, and gloves, we set out in the cold for Janie’s. We stick close to the buildings, using awnings as partial protection where they exist. At the end of the block, we tromp through slushy snow to cross the street and reach the bakery.

It’s cheery and bright inside, already filled with friends and fellow shop-owners I’m looking forward to socializing with. A Christmas tree glows in the front window and a live wreath hangs on the door. When I hold the door open and Travis steps inside, the greetings begin.

“Well, as I live and breathe, is that Travis Hutchins?” asks Andrea Pike, Janie’s mother, who must have known Travis as a boy.

“Hey Travis, what’s up?” comes from Dara, who then introduces him to her mother, Judy. I’m impressed Dara rolled her here in the wheelchair, but I know Judy was excited about the outing, so I guess Dara refused to let a few inches of snow stop her.

“Well, hello there, Travis,” says Helen. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Neither did I,” he answers, “but I got tapped for delivery duty.” He lowers the gingerbread shop to the long table where other sweet creations reside, then turns to go. “You ladies have fun now.”

“You don’t think you’re actually allowed to leave,” says Mrs. Burch, literally rolling her chair into his path.

And before he can even open his mouth to answer, Mrs. Pike adds, “Of course he’s not. The more the merrier and I want to hear what you’ve been up to since you left.” She hooks her arm through his. “Come on over to the refreshment table.”

As he’s led away, I say hello to always-energetic Janie, her sandy hair up in a messy bun as usual, and hold the door open for another gingerbread entry being carried in by Gail from Winterburger.

After which a gasp is let out, and I turn to look as Helen declares, “Oh my. I’m so glad I decided to walk over after getting off work or I’d have missed this glorious sensation of sugar!” She’s looking at my entry, of course. Or our entry. Well, okay, Travis’s entry. “This is brilliant!”

“Lexi, you did not make that,” Dara announces loud enough for a few of the other party-goers to hear.

Great. My buddy betrays me. “How do you know what I made and what I didn’t?”

“Because I’ve seen you decorate cookies. You’re good at the rolling and the cutting and the baking, but the decorating is…well, not your forte.”

I let my eyes go wide. “Um, wow, traitor much?”

Though she just laughs. “I’m sorry, but you know it’s true. And really, it’s not that you’re so bad with icing—it’s just that this is so good .”

“Fine, fine,” I confess when I realize everyone is looking at me. “I tried to make it myself, but when it wasn’t going very well, Travis leaped in to help and a piece of cookie art was born. It’s still the official entry from the Christmas Box, though.”

“Well, don’t anybody touch it,” says Jim from the Winterberry Gazette, pulling out his phone. “I need to get some pictures for the paper.”

“Just be sure to put Travis’s name on it, even if it is from the Christmas Box,” Carl from the Country Creamery insists. The middle-aged man looks down over his glasses as he speaks, reminding me that he’s a no-nonsense stickler about everything, even gingerbread contests.

“Um, that’s really not necessary,” Travis is quick to interject. I’m pretty sure tough guy Travis Hutchins doesn’t want it advertised that he’s been playing with gingerbread.

“No,” Janie insists, “fair is fair. The people of Winterberry deserve the truth.”

He doesn’t argue, probably already realizing it’s a lost cause. And when our eyes meet across the bakery, he mouths: I’m going to kill you . But I just smile. Because he’s cute. And I don’t really think he’s going to kill me. In fact, I almost think he’s starting to like me back.

Not that it matters. He’s made it extremely clear that his time in Winterberry is temporary. And we’re still just as much opposites today as when I opened my shop a couple of weeks ago, or as we were back in high school for that matter.

But for now…I’ll just enjoy his company. Turns out, once I worked my way to letting bygones be bygones, that he was right—he’s not such a bad guy anymore.

As people socialize over snacks, my first thought is to go rescue him from whoever’s got him cornered, but he looks perfectly comfortable talking to Jordan from the pizza place, and then Dara and her mom. So I leave him on his own and chat with other people—everyone is buzzing about all the snow, whether their shopping is done, and the Winterberry Christmas Festival coming up this Friday night. I find out Janie will be there selling cookies and add that I’ll be running the hot chocolate stand. “With her trusty sidekick, me,” Dara comes sliding up at just that moment to add.

After refreshments, Janie announces it’s time to vote. We all circle the long table set up in the middle of the bakery for the contest and a secret casting of ballots commences. In addition to entries from Winterburger, Thoroughbred Pizza, the Country Creamery, and Janie’s, I see gingerbread creations from Kentucky Korner, Uptown Vintage, the Winterberry Antique Mall, the Winterglow boutique, the Cutting Crew Hair Salon, and the Bank of Winterberry. Some of the gingerbread houses are quite elaborate, including one designed to look like a Swiss chalet and another possessing a large, detailed lawn, complete with fondant pine trees and a candy cane fence.

But when Janie counts the votes from the Santa hat she passed around, the resounding winner is the one that looks like my lovely little Christmas shop.

“And so our grand prize—a fifty-dollar gift card for the bakery—goes to…Travis,” she announces, holding it out to him with a smile. Then she looks to me. “Sorry, Lexi, but maybe he’ll share with you.” She ends on a wink and a laugh.

I’m perfectly happy with the outcome, though. Don’t look now, Travis, but you just went to a Christmas party, with a Christmas craft you created in a Christmas shop today, and you don’t even look miserable. As far as Operation Wish Upon a Star goes, today feels—however unexpectedly—like a big step in the right direction.

Travis

The first thing I do after collecting my gift card? Say my goodbyes and get the hell out of there.

But while trudging back up the street through the deepening snow, I see that, to my surprise, the lights are still on at Winterburger. All I’ve had since lunch is a cookie and a cup of punch at the bakery, so I don’t hesitate to duck in from the cold.

“Travis.” The deep, cheerful voice comes from the kitchen—it’s the owner and cook, a guy named Nick, who spotted me through the window behind the counter.

I lift my hand in a wave. “Thought you guys might be closed in this weather.”

He shrugs. “Got a few customers due to the bakery party, so we stayed open.”

I guess the men I see sitting at tables nibbling on fries must have driven their wives to the event.

“Here by myself, though,” Nick says, stepping up front to the register, “so what can I get you? Couple of burgers and fries?”

“Just one tonight,” I tell him, then add a soft drink. He probably thinks I’m skipping the manor this evening due to the snow, and that’s fine with me. I’m not sure why I assume he knows my business, but the small town grapevine usually keeps up on such things.

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in a booth enjoying a burger, happy to be by myself for the first time since I crossed the street for coffee this morning. I never expected to end up building a gingerbread shop or going to a party. But maybe the most surprising part is: It wasn’t awful. And hanging out with Lexi was…well, not a bad way to spend a snowy day. Even if I probably should have been working if I want to get the soap shop done any time soon.

In a way, it reminded me of snow days as a kid—the kind when my friend, Dakota, who lived up the road, would walk down and play board games with me, or we’d put together a big puzzle on the kitchen table. I can still smell the warm chocolate chip cookies my mom would bake for us. There was something nice about having nothing to do but watch the snow fall from a spot where I felt safe and comfortable.

And maybe that’s what I needed after yesterday’s nursing home visit. Something that felt safe and comfortable and easy. Well, maybe it’s not easy when she’s beating me over the head with Christmas cheer or pressuring me to adopt a dog or sneaking trees in to my apartment. So easy is the wrong word. Maybe what I feel when I’m with her isn’t that simple to define. All I know is that for some reason, no matter what ridiculousness the woman throws at me, I keep going back for more.

“Well, hello there.”

I look up from my burger to see that Helen has wandered down from the bakery.

“Hi, Helen. Care to join?” I motion to the cushioned seat across from me.

“Thanks, but I’m grabbing mine to go. It’s been a fun little gathering, but I’m ready to get home to my cats and my Christmas tree.” And with that, she makes her way to the counter to give Nick her order.

While she’s waiting, though, she comes back to my table, reaching down to touch my shoulder. “It’s none of my business, Travis, but…I noticed you weren’t at the manor today.”

Something inside me stiffens as the last bite of my burger turns tasteless in my mouth. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt anything but affection and appreciation for the woman standing beside me. “Took the day off,” I tell her shortly, wiping a napkin across my face.

“Listen, I know what happened yesterday shook you, and I understand. It’s hard, what he’s going through. But he was back to his normal self today, just so you know.”

I nod, thinking things through. I guess I’ve gotten to know Helen well enough, even if just by accident, that I don’t mind being honest with her. “Yeah, it shook me. But it also...brought back some bad memories.”

Her brow knits. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Did he notice?” I ask. “That I didn’t come?”

She nods. “He asked if I’d heard from you.”

I didn’t expect to feel bad about anything while I was here, but suddenly I do. Even though I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve been trying pretty hard, in fact, to do everything right. Just in case I was wrong before— staying away all those years. “Sorry, Helen,” I murmur.

“Nothing to apologize for, Travis,” she tells me. “You’re doing the best you can with this, I know. It’s a lot.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

This time her nod comes with a gentle smile. “He’ll be glad to see you.”

“In the meantime,” I say, pushing to my feet, “I gotta get home. I took in a stray dog and she’s doing better with her puppy pad training, but it’s anybody’s guess what I’m gonna find when I walk in the door.”

“Aw, kind of you to take her in, poor thing. I’ll have to come meet her.” Then she gives her head a thoughtful tilt. “Sometimes your dad talks about a dog he used to have.”

“Blinker,” I say.

“That’s right,” she replies with a sad sort of smile. “A lot of the residents miss their pets, even when it’s been a long time.”

Damn. I came back to Winterberry feeling—if I’m honest with myself—kind of dead inside. Or maybe that’s how I made myself feel in order to deal with being home. But lately I can’t seem to outrun my emotions, and right now the idea of all these people missing their dogs and cats rips into me deep.

“Burger’s ready, Helen,” Nick calls and she starts toward the counter—yet now I’m the one touching her shoulder.

“Listen,” I say, “I don’t know if this is a crazy idea, but…” In fact, it’s only half-formed in my head.

“But what?”

Then I tell her what’s on my mind.