The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

ANABELLE

Wednesday, December 3, 22 days until Christmas

Santas sold today: 5

Santas made or purchased today: TBD, but I’ve seen the photos for this estate sale and fear the worst

I figured I was being kind, inviting Ryan to the estate sale with me. Grandma Edith wanted me to befriend him, and so far he’s been yelled at by my ex-boyfriend, maimed by my cat, and I topped it all off by stealing his sweater. Not an encouraging start. I love estate sales, however, and you’re supposed to share the things you love with people you’re trying to befriend, so I figured I was finally doing right by him.

Now, as Cynthia and I finish loading up the dishwasher with the breakfast dishes, I’m less certain.

Ryan hasn’t come down at all, which feels like a slap in the face to Cynthia, who really is the power performer in our bed and breakfast team. She prepared biscuits and scrambled eggs and bacon, and even though I only eat biscuits out of that list, I must say she outdid herself. But Ryan wouldn’t know, because it’s nine thirty-one, and he still has not come downstairs.

Tardy , I decide, agreeing with my past self.

Of course, there are worse things in life than being tardy, but being off schedule is going to propel my day down the wrong path. I can feel it happening, like little prickles dancing across my skin. Everything’s already off-kilter because I still haven’t talked with Weston after he left yesterday. I texted an apology and an offer to discuss what happened, but he didn’t respond. So even though I feel confident in my choice, it feels like we’ve drifted into a gray area. Not together, not officially broken up.

I’m ready for black-and-white.

Listening to Weston’s proposal was like biting into an apple and only realizing it’s rotten after a piece of it is sitting in your mouth. Our relationship has been rotten for a long time, and it’s only because I’ve been so distracted by Grandma Edith’s illness and death that I didn’t realize it.

Worse, I can’t banish the feeling that he proposed to me that way because he wanted to see me melt down, maybe so he could be the person who puts me back together like he has in the past.

“Tell me more about Edith’s fella,” Cynthia says, jolting me out of my head. She’s been giving me pointed looks all morning, although I have no idea why. Maybe she noticed the circles under my eyes. “He’s handsome, isn’t he?”

“I suppose,” I tell her resentfully, even though there’s no disputing the fact. “He’s very physically fit.”

She waggles her eyebrows. “Did he do push-ups in front of you?”

I close the dishwasher, beyond grateful that one of my least favorite homemaking tasks is done for the morning. I can’t stand the remnants of half-finished meals. It makes me queasy, even when the food’s still mostly fresh.

“Yes, Cynthia,” I say, turning toward her. She’s wearing an old-fashioned blue dress with a frilly apron over it, and her curly brown hair is gathered beneath a bonnet. Her other job is as a historical interpreter, which means she pretends to be a colonial American for tourists. Cynthia is in her late thirties—I’m not entirely sure how late, and I don’t want to risk insulting her by asking. “He told me hello, checked in, and then immediately dropped and gave me twenty. I thought it was a little strange, but it was impressive. Especially when he started doing them one-handed.”

She kisses her fingers and lifts them. “From your lips to God’s ears, honey. What I wouldn’t give to sit on a man’s back while he does push-ups. Someone’s gotta get lucky.”

“Well, it certainly won’t be me.”

Her eyes widen, and she puts a hand on her ample hip. “Anabelle Whitman, does this mean you’re finally going to tell me what in God’s name happened yesterday?”

Oh God. Of course she knows. The trumpeter probably told her. Based on what she’s told me, the historical reenactor community is a hotbed of alcohol, sex, and sin. Shame wraps around me like plastic wrap. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“And I’d rather you did.”

Sighing, I say, “What do you already know?”

“Well…” She lifts her eyebrows dramatically. “I met up with a few friends at the Green Leafe last night, and Jeremy Jacobs said he got paid an obscene amount of money to play the wedding march so some guy with more money than sense could propose to his girl in front of the governor’s mansion.”

“That was Jeremy?” I ask, my voice shaky. She’s spoken about him before, usually to talk about what a dumbass he is, but his name comes up often enough that I guess she must like or at least tolerate him.

“Yeah. His buddy Phil gave up his bell too. But the woman shot him down and took off. The guy tried to shake it off and pretend it was performance art, but we’re paid performers. We know when someone’s pretending.” She pauses, giving me a sympathetic look. “People got it on video, Anabelle. Maybe a lot of people. Jeremy got footage of it, too, because he’d asked his friend to record it for his portfolio.”

“You watched it happen, and this is the first you’re saying anything?” I ask in a shaky voice.

“Well, of course I watched it,” she says, her hand still firmly on her hip. “And I’ve been trying to bring it up all morning, but you treat hints like they’re mosquitos.”

“Subtlety flies right by me,” I say with a sigh. “Next time try writing it on your forehead.”

She snaps her fingers and points at me. “Will do. But don’t worry too much. I made Jeremy delete the video he had as soon as I realized it was you.”

Sure, but after they’d shown how many people? What if it found its way onto social media? The thought of all those people watching me, making speculations about me, feels like ants crawling across my skin.

Over a year, and Weston never knew me at all…

It feels like a cautionary tale, but I’m not sure what it’s cautioning me against. Opening up to people? Letting them in?

Still, there’s a voice in my head that says I never let him in, that I always felt like I needed to be on my best behavior with him. Putting on an act.

I clear my throat, trying for a reset. “So everyone’s gossiping about it?”

She shakes her head so adamantly her bonnet nearly comes off. “No, only the performers and probably some tourists. No one else knows.”

“So just dozens of people and a couple of horses,” I deadpan, feeling the truth choking me.

“Exactly. But now that we’re putting it all out there, can I be honest and tell you that I’m relieved ?”

“You didn’t like Weston?” I ask, marveling. Most people do like him—it’s as if it’s written into their DNA that they have to.

She gives me a sympathetic smile. “If you take him back, I hope you’ll forgive me for saying that I think he’s a sanctimonious prick who doesn’t respect you the way you deserve.”

For a second, it feels like she just peeled a Band-Aid off my soul and shoved her fist inside. Then confusing feelings burst inside of me—I’m happy that Cynthia’s my friend and is taking my side, but what does it say about me that I dated someone like him for so long?

“Sorry,” she says, touching my arm lightly. “But you know me. I can’t keep my mouth shut.”

“I like that about you.” Too many people lie or demur or pretend. I value her honesty, even if it hurts.

There’s a knock on the kitchen door.

Cynthia turns toward it, cinching her apron so it better showcases her very ample breasts. “Come in,” she says in a sultry voice she usually reserves for rich-looking businessmen.

I guess she likes what I told her about Ryan.

I feel a blip of annoyance toward her, but it passes as Ryan steps into the room. He’s wearing a dark green thermal shirt that accentuates his muscles and the green flecks in his irises. His hair is damp from a shower.

“Oh, damn,” he says, sniffing the air, “that smells divine. I’m guessing this lovely lady must be Cynthia.” He gestures toward her, and she grins.

“It is,” I say curtly.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Anabelle,” he tells me, his eyes like a shamed puppy’s, “and even sorrier that I missed breakfast. I figured I could get in an early run and still have time, but I didn’t factor in the sweat. I thought I’d do everyone a favor and shower.”

“Not to worry.” Cynthia beams at him. “I’ll make you a breakfast sandwich, hon. We have leftover biscuits.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you out,” Ryan insists, shaking his head. His hair looks longer when it’s wet. Wavier, too. “If you have the ingredients, I’ll do it myself.”

I fully expect Cynthia to object. If it were me, I certainly would. Jobs that are mine must be done by me. But Cynthia’s smile spreads even wider. “Be my guest.”

She shows him where everything is, then stands back against the cabinets while he expertly cracks eggs into a bowl, stirs them, then adds a little cream. He catches me watching and winks. I immediately look away, but he asks, “Want one, Anabelle?”

“No, thank you. I already ate,” I say stiffly. Probably because it feels a little untoward, seeing a man wink at me after he poured cream into a bowl.

“Cynthia, what about you? Are you up for round two?”

Now, that definitely sounded like innuendo. I scowl at him, and then scowl harder when I see the hint of amusement in his grin. He’s teasing us. People are constantly teasing me, because, Weston has told me, I’m too literal and earnest.

“Oh, I’m happy just to watch you, sugar,” Cynthia says.

I’ll admit, neither of us can look away as he prepares the pan with butter and then pours the eggs in with a sizzle that fills the kitchen. He flips them at the perfect moment, then splits a biscuit—the motion of his hands as they part the two halves impossible to look away from—and slides the egg on, before topping it with a slice of cheese.

Cynthia gives me a wicked look and fans herself with one hand. “It’s hot in here. I think I’d better go get myself a cool drink. You kids have fun.”

I watch, mouth agape, as she walks away.

Ryan doesn’t seem to notice. He wraps up his sandwich in a piece of tinfoil, then puts the dirty dishes in the dishwasher.

I swallow against the dryness in my mouth. “There’s coffee in the parlor, if you need some to feel human.”

“I do indeed,” he says, his eyes twinkling.

We head into the parlor, and he pours himself some coffee and grabs a few of the creamers. Sweet ones. I like the thought of such a strong, manly man enjoying sweet things.

“Would you like me to drive?” he asks. “I’d be happy to.”

“You’re going to drive while you eat your sandwich and drink your coffee?”

“That sounds an awful lot like a challenge, Anabelle,” he says with amusement. “I’m not a man who backs down from challenges.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurt quickly, embarrassed without fully knowing why. “I’m being prickly. It’s…I guess I’m still feeling off after what happened yesterday, but that’s no excuse.”

“Speaking of…” He bites his knuckle, hesitating, then says, “I know you have no reason to tell me, but what did happen yesterday? What did that asshole do to upset you?”

I laugh, and his brow furrows, which makes me laugh harder. It feels shockingly good. “You mean you didn’t see the video? Cynthia informed me that I’m famous.”

“I haven’t had that pleasure.”

“Sorry. I have a weird sense of humor. He…it’s just…he proposed to me. That’s the awful thing that ran me off.”

“Oh,” Ryan says, surprised. His mouth curling, he shifts his weight and says, “That asshole .”

I laugh harder this time, and once I’ve laughed myself dry, I say, “Most people would say I’m the asshole. He’d gathered a crowd of people, hired a trumpeter, and I said no to him in front of all of them. People captured it on film. Hence my potential infamy.”

His grin hitches higher, displaying a profound lack of symmetry that’s more appealing rather than less. “There was his mistake. Never ask a yes-or-no question if you can’t handle ‘no.’ And definitely don’t do it in front of a crowd.”

He pauses, studying me, and I’m struck by his physical presence. He’s tall but not overly so and very strong, with thick, muscular arms and legs. Usually, people who are strong are intimidating, but I don’t feel nervous around him. Possibly because he blocked my door to protect me yesterday. His stare lingers for a moment before he says, “You don’t strike me as a woman who likes to be on display.”

“I’m not,” I agree. “After I said no, I ran away.” I release a groan and rub my forehead. “Literally. It wasn’t the least bit dignified.”

His forehead furrows slightly. My gaze drifts down his face, taking in his nose, his nicely formed lips, that scar… When he speaks, it almost makes me flinch. “Did you step in horse manure? Or trip? I saw a video once of a woman who tripped while she was running away from the altar.”

“No,” I say, laughing. Then I feel bad for laughing, because there’s nothing funny about the worst day of someone’s life. “That’s awful.”

“Agreed. Which means your situation could have been much worse. And I’m guessing this guy knows you don’t like being on display?”

“Oh, he definitely does. Crowds have always made my skin itch. Loud noises too. The trumpet made me feel like my head was splitting in half. Still…I didn’t handle it well.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s the asshole. I’m officially clearing you of wrongdoing.” He watches me for a second before adding, “Do you want to make up with him?”

I must reflexively make a face, because he laughs. But an unintentional grimace is not an answer, and for some reason, I want to give him one. “No. It doesn’t feel right anymore. It hasn’t for a while now.” I draw in a slow, calming breath and let it seep out. “But I still feel awful for running off on him like that. I just…had to. And I’m sorry if I’ve been unpleasant to you.”

He puffs out a breath. “I’m probably going to do something stupid within the next half hour, so let’s agree to let our apologies cancel each other out.”

I give him a sidelong look, smiling as I lead the way to the door. “Does that mean I get to revoke my apology?”

“Revoke away,” he says with a grin as we exit the inn together.

“I hereby un-apologize to you, Ryan Reynolds,” I say, tapping his hand as if mine were turned into a magical wand.

He grabs his heart with his egg sandwich hand, acting as if he’s been mortally wounded, and I laugh so hard my eyes start watering as I lead the way to my car. It’s parked behind the inn because there’s no driving on this part of Duke of Gloucester Street.

I’m both horrified and fascinated when Ryan eats his sandwich on the way there, then tosses the wrapper into the public trashcan closest to the car.

Once we’re loaded up, I check my phone and find a message from Cynthia:

Please make this your rebound. I’m asking you kindly.

I ignore it, but a blush burns my cheeks as I plug the address into the maps app.

“Do you go to estate sales a lot?” Ryan asks.

“Oh, I love them,” I say, immediately warming to the subject as I maneuver the car out of Colonial Williamsburg. The estate sale we’re going to is in Newport News, and the listing mentioned four boxes of vintage Christmas decorations. “You never know what you’re going to find, but I can always tell when something was loved by someone. It’s like in that book The Velveteen Rabbit —sometimes the nose is worn off, or there’s damage, but the object has been loved real in a way that changes it.” I shrug self-consciously, aware that I’ve let myself sink into the conversation in a way that might feel like too much to him. “Anyway…it feels good to give things like that a new life. A new purpose. It’s like I’m honoring the person who loved them.”

“Will you show me?” he asks, turning a bit so he has a direct view of me. “I want to know how you can tell.”

My heart warms to him, because I can tell he means it. He wants to understand my silly fancies and walk into my imagination with me. I should warn him that it’s a place where I get lost. Instead, I swallow and say, “I will.”

“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I never really had anything like that. Any belongings that were special to me, but I’ve known other people who’ve felt that way.”

“Didn’t you have a teddy bear or something when you were a kid?”

He smiles and looks off. “There was one. Only one. My brother and I shared it, but it meant more to him than it did to me, so I let him keep it.”

I feel a grasping sensation in my chest, like a spectral hand trying to reach out to him in comfort. My parents are cold and usually disappointed in me— grow up, Anabelle —but they always provided for me. I had plenty of stuffed animals, an abundance of them. “Well…maybe we’ll find something special for you today.”

I promise myself it’s true. Grandma Edith would have wanted me to do at least that much for him.