The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ANABELLE

Thursday, December 4, 21 days until Christmas

Santas sold: 2

Santas bought: 0, but it’s early yet

Chatroom conversation with Jo

Jo-Ho-Ho: I need proof of life.

Ana-bell: [Selfie drinking hot chocolate.]

Jo-Ho-Ho: Oh, thank God. I was so worried about you. You didn’t respond to the auction link I sent you. I figured you’d need that Rudolph bell. Did you see the fine detailing?

Ana-bell: I did. My checking account says I don’t need it.

Jo-Ho-Ho: I’m dealing with something personal right now. Do you have time to talk?

Ana-bell: Oh my goodness, me too! That’s why I’ve been away from my phone. I’d love that. Can we catch up this afternoon?

Jo-Ho-Ho: Yes.

Jo-Ho-Ho: There’s something I need to tell you. Something big.

My hand lingers over my phone.

I’m not sure I can handle another “big” thing right now. After Ryan and I got back to the inn yesterday afternoon, I really did have over twenty texts on my phone. Several of them were from Weston, all sent after I encountered my father at the estate sale.

I may not be much of a mind reader, but I can certainly identify the causality between events—my father left the estate sale and immediately phoned my ex-boyfriend.

I’ve agreed to get lunch with Weston today, and I’m certain it will not be a pleasant outing. Because the other texts I received were from my college roommate, my hairdresser, and the owner of one of the stores that stocks my Franken-Santas.

They’d all seen video footage of me refusing Weston’s marriage proposal and running from him.

They’d all recognized me.

Jeremy Jacobs was definitely not the only person who’d gotten footage, and a couple of people had posted the video on social media, where it got tons of views because A) it’s a proposal-gone-wrong video, and B) Jeremy’s pants are too tight, and his sizable attributes (Cynthia’s words) were on display in his costumes tights. When I saw her this morning, she said he wouldn’t shut up about all of the DMs he’s been getting on social media as a result.

I know very few people; Weston is much more socially connected and thus has probably received dozens more messages about the incident. He is a man who abhors being laughed at, and now several strangers on the internet have seen me reject him in front of a horse.

I’m guessing he’s furious.

I’m guessing he wants to say hurtful things to me.

But I still agreed to meet him. I feel like I owe him that much. I’ve already publicly refused his marriage proposal—I can’t also make our breakup official over text message.

Instead, I’m going to do it over a sandwich at The Bread Shop.

I almost laugh at the thought, but I’m too keyed up. It’s eleven forty-five, and I have to leave by eleven fifty to get to The Bread Shop on time. I can’t focus on anything else, so I’ve been pacing the room. Saint Nick is my little orange shadow, following me everywhere.

I pause, peering at the wall separating my room from Ryan’s, and press my palm to it. I imagine I can feel a heartbeat behind it, but it’s only my mind playing games. Making something of nothing. The wall is plaster and cement and wood, nothing more.

Last night, Ryan took care of Hot Chocolate Happy Hour again, then he placed a tray of food outside my door. He knocked and walked away before I could thank him, the same way he did the first night. Dinner was a bowl of delicious vegetable barley soup with a yeasty roll, and I have no idea how he acquired it. As an adult who does not cook, I’m quite familiar with the takeout offerings around the B&B, and I can’t think of a single local place it could be from. Did he make it himself?

Either way, it was kind.

So kind it nearly made me cry, so I wrote a thank-you message and tucked it under his door, even though it felt much too inadequate. Everything he did for me yesterday was so… kind . There really is no better word for it. It’s like he understands me, or wants to, and it made me realize how little of that I’ve gotten from Weston and my parents. And how much I’ve been missing my grandmother.

Ryan is tardy and confusing, and he missed breakfast again this morning, but he’s definitely a caring person.

He is also good-looking.

Very good-looking.

Last night, I stayed up late working on my Franken-Santa only to discover I’d unintentionally made it look like him. As soon as I realized it, I changed its nose and started adding the beard, but it’ll probably always be my Ryan Santa.

I glance at the clock sitting on the nightstand and sigh, then tug on my coat and grab my purse.

“Be good,” I whisper to Saint Nick, whose response is to stalk toward the wall separating me from Ryan and start scratching it. I should probably put him in the bathroom or his pen, but I hate the feeling of being trapped, and I can’t bring myself to do it to him.

I leave the B&B, feeling my dread mount with every step. When I arrive at The Bread Shop, Weston is waiting for me out front, a broody look on his face. He taps his watch officiously, even though I’m two minutes early.

“I already got our food,” he says in an irritated tone when I’m close enough to hear.

“What did I get?” I ask, even though it hardly matters. My stomach is so topsy-turvy I probably won’t be able to eat anything for a week.

“Ham and cheese.”

I’m a vegetarian. Surely he should know that by now.

I look away. “Well, shall we go sit?”

There’s a covered patio in the back with heaters. We walk in strained silence around the side of the restaurant, where there’s an entrance to the patio, marked with a very strict sign saying only food purchased in the restaurant can be consumed in there. We step inside. It’s early, but several tables have already been claimed. Weston chooses an empty one directly by the door and sits first, so I circle around to sit opposite him—and gasp.

Ryan is sitting at a table near the interior door to the restaurant with Cynthia and a few other colonial performers dressed in their “day clothes.” I recognize one of them as none other than Jeremy Jacobs of the sizable penis. They’re a few tables away, behind a group of elderly ladies who look to be having a crossword puzzle party.

Ryan glances up and startles at the sight of me. He opens his mouth to say something, but then his eyes catch on Weston.

“You won’t even look at me?” Weston sneers, snapping his fingers in my face.

I flinch, shifting my gaze to him. His blue eyes are icy as he watches me, his mouth curled slightly at the corner but not in a smile. He’s still wearing his peacoat. “Sorry. I just saw—”

“I was waiting for an apology,” Weston snaps. “But I guess I’ll be waiting for the rest of my life.”

He takes the two sandwiches out of the bag he’s been carrying and plunks the ham and cheese one in front of me. I push it two inches away.

“What, my sandwich isn’t good enough for you either?”

“I’m a vegetarian,” I say hotly, anger burning through some of my nerves. “I’ve been a vegetarian since I was five years old.”

“You like making trouble for other people, that’s all.”

I gape at him. I’d expected him to be ugly, but he’s never spoken to me like this before.

“You made a public spectacle of us,” he says, sliding his chair in closer and leaning across the table so he doesn’t need to raise his voice. “Several clients emailed me about it yesterday, and even more this morning. I heard from my high school girlfriend. Do you know how embarrassing that is, Belle?”

I sit back. “Then you shouldn’t have made a public proposal.” My throat tightens. “We hadn’t even talked about moving in together, let alone getting married, and you know I hate being the center of attention. This has been a nightmare for me too.”

“Always about you,” he says, shaking his head. “Always about poor little Anabelle. So sensitive. So delicate.”

“You’re being mean.”

He snorts. “And you’re a child.”

“You’re the one who wanted to marry me.”

He narrows his gaze at me. “I’ll give you one chance to fix your mistake, Belle. If you apologize to me, I’ll consider taking you back. But you’re going to need to sell me the B&B.”

“ Excuse me?” I say, getting up.

“You heard me.” He doesn’t rise to his feet, doesn’t move. Just looks at me like I’m a misbehaving child and he’s the parent who’s unlucky enough to have to deal with me.

He’s never been this cruel, but he’s looked at me this way before. Every time I can’t do something he thinks I should be able to.

“No,” I say. “Absolutely not.”

I don’t understand why he wants it—it’s like a fixation for him. He’s asked me dozens of times over the past few weeks. At first, I figured it was because he didn’t think I can handle it by myself. Now, I know he thinks that. But that doesn’t explain why he’s so doggedly interested. He told me Comfort Zone is trying to buy up smaller properties to compete with B&Bs like mine, but why does my one little inn matter?

“Why do you want my B&B so badly?” I ask. “You don’t even like it.”

He finally gets to his feet and shoves his sandwich back into the bag. Then he makes a show of grabbing the ham and cheese one and throwing it into the trash can next to him.

“Because you’re mishandling it,” he says tightly. “It looks like a damn tag sale in there. I’ve been trying to tell you nicely that it’s time to clear out your junk.”

I think of my Santa collection, and tears finally begin to well behind my eyes. I wanted to take ownership of the inn, but maybe I was wrong to try. Grandma Edith knew what she was doing, and even though Weston’s a jerk, he’s also right—I don’t.

I’m so focused on not-crying that it takes me a second to see them—Ryan and Cynthia and Jeremy Jacobs approaching Weston.

“Fancy seeing you again,” Ryan says tightly. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

Weston flinches and swivels around, his face flushing as soon as he sees Ryan. To me, he says, “You invited your fucking boyfriend to our lunch? Classy, Anabelle.”

“I’m not her boyfriend,” Ryan says, then winks at him. “But thanks for clearing out of the way and giving me a shot.”

A gasp escapes me. I know he probably doesn’t mean it, though. He’s trying to be supportive.

More people have filtered into the patio, and they’re all watching us, even the crossword puzzle ladies. I hear a low murmuring, and my skin prickles from the feeling of their eyes on me. Maybe they’ve seen the video. Maybe they think I’m an awful person…

I take a step toward the door, but Weston grabs my arm. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s deeply, bone-achingly uncomfortable to feel his hand on me after everything he’s done and said.

“If you don’t let me take over that inn, I’m going to help you destroy it,” he hisses.

Ryan firmly pries his hand from me—the relief so profound I almost stagger—and says, “ Get out. ”

Cynthia, who has been whispering to Jeremy Jacobs, gives me an encouraging smile as Weston sneers, “Gladly,” before he stomps out through the door.

As soon as it closes behind him, Jeremy grins at me and says, “Duty calls,” then dashes over to the table where they left their friends and grabs a carrying case from the floor under the table. My mouth parts in surprise as he pulls out his trumpet and runs out after Weston. Seconds later, I hear “Revenge of the Sith” being trumpeted in the street. The sound isn’t quite as overbearing from a distance.

“We’ve got to see this,” Cynthia says, her eyes shining. She opens the door, gesturing for us to follow. I can feel Ryan’s eyes on me as I numbly do as I’m told. Maybe he can tell that I’m not really there, that I’ve dissociated because this is all too much.

Sure enough, Jeremy Jacobs is following Weston at a short distance, playing “Revenge of the Sith.” A few people start laughing and filming the performance, probably assuming it’s some kind of skit.

“Look at Jeremy getting too big for his britches,” Cynthia says with a laugh. “He won’t stop until Broadway producers are knocking on his door.”

Weston halts in his tracks, swiveling around. But Jeremy steps behind a tree, stowing his trumpet behind his back.

“ Who’s doing that? ” Weston bellows.

More chuckles break out from all around him.

The second he turns back around and starts walking, Jeremy resumes his dirge.

I glance at Ryan, biting my lip. “Weston’s going to be even more upset after this.”

He takes my hand and gives it a light squeeze, his thumb pressing into a pressure point on my palm, before dropping it.

“We won’t let him hurt you or the B&B,” he vows with purpose. The way people have made sweeping declarations for hundreds or thousands of years.

I want to believe him.

I want to let myself trust him and accept his help.

I also want to take care of the inn myself.

But if I’ve been doing it all wrong, how do I do it right?