The Thief Who Saved Christmas

Chapter 40

CHAPTER FORTY

ANABELLE

Monday, December 24, Christmas Eve

It happens quickly after that.

Early this afternoon, Stanley turned himself into the police and confessed to having stolen the Santas and my ornaments. He was hired by Weston, who instructed him to deliver his ill-gotten gains to the house where I grew up. Officer Daniels asked my father for permission to search the house, and my father turned himself in for his part in the burglary.

I know this because my dad used his one phone call to call me. I’m on the phone with him now, listening to him make excuses for himself.

When the phone rang, I was sitting in the parlor with Ryan, Joe, and our two guests, who seem surprisingly delighted by all of the drama that’s unfolded. After I figured out who was calling—and where he was—I left the room and made my way to my desk chair in the front lobby, where I sit now. Ryan and I redecorated this tree too, but the bulb ornaments are no replacement for Joe’s collection, and it’s hard to feel forgiving while I’m sitting here looking at them.

“I did it for your own good,” my father says after he’s explained all the ways he betrayed me.

I know he’s lying. He did it to get his own way. My father had wanted the ornament, and Grandma Edith had refused to give it to him. Then I’d refused to let him search the property for it. So when Weston had approached him and claimed he wanted to “save” me by getting rid of Ryan, and hey, maybe they’d find the ornament, too, he’d been quick to agree.

My father is adamant that he didn’t know the Santas would be taken too until they were stuffed into his garage. But by then it had been impossible to backtrack.

That may be true. Certainly Weston had more motivation to hurt me. Regardless, my father hadn’t cared enough to return them or the ornaments to me.

“Will you call my lawyer?” my father asks when I don’t respond to his non-apology. “I used my one phone call to talk to you.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that, but yes.”

“Will you tell the reporters to leave this mess alone? This is bad for business. For all of us.”

He’s mistaken. It is bad for his business, most assuredly, and worse for Weston’s. It is not, however, bad for The Gingerbread House. We’ve had dozens of bookings since noon, and Ryan insists he’s going to move out of Room B to make it available for guests. I’m inclined to move him directly into Room A with me and Saint Nick, but it would be too much change, too quickly. He agrees, so he’s going to temporarily share an apartment with Jeremy. He’s also decided to take a job with Jeremy’s uncle until he can find something more fitting. It must be said that Ryan also tried to pay me, in cash, for all of the time he's spent at the inn. I refused but have conceded that he can continue to buy supplies for the inn as needed.

“No,” I say to my father. “No, I will not. Weston has been trying to hurt me, and someone needs to hold him accountable. The only thing he cares about is public opinion, so I’m doing what I need to do.”

“Weston made a mistake, but he—”

“This is the last time you and I will be talking for a while.”

Maybe forever, but it’s hard to commit forever to words when the forever is going to part you from the people you’ve tried to love as best as you can.

Tears form in my eyes as I think of the way he lifted me onto his shoulders all those years ago and pointed to the star. That’s you, Anabelle. You’re my star.

But Ryan was right. He hadn’t made me feel that way in years. And my mother barely seems to remember I exist most of the time.

“You’d abandon your own father for a man?” my father huffs.

Ryan steps out of the parlor, his brow puckered as he walks toward the desk. I’m getting better at reading him and can tell without asking that he’s worried. He doesn’t say anything, just circles around my chair, probably crushing himself between it and the tree, and rubs my shoulders. Each pass of his hands seems to pour strength and determination into me.

“No,” I say into the phone. “You’re the one who abandoned me. He never would.”

I hang up, my whole body shaking, and turn the chair toward Ryan. He looks down at me with eyes full of love. “It was your dad.”

I nod, feeling the tremors everywhere—my fingers, my toes. My whole being is buzzing with the feelings I can’t process.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Can I touch you now, or is it too much?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him, my voice small and desperate.

He gently reaches down and takes my hand—and it’s good, it’s needed. “More,” I say. “I need more pressure.”

Without missing a beat, he tugs me up from the chair and puts his arms around me, hugging me tightly to his body. It feels so good, so comforting, and tears begin tracking down my cheeks.

“Oh, Anabelle,” he murmurs, holding me tighter.

“It’s okay,” I say, wanting to mean it.

“It’s going to be okay,” he whispers into my ear, and that’s so much closer to being true. He kisses the top of my head, and I feel it everywhere. “Will they give you back your Santas?” he asks.

“They’re evidence, I guess. We’ll get everything back, but not before Christmas.”

“We’ll have a party to welcome them home.” He must see the aghast look on my face because he smiles softly and adds, “A private party. I’ll make cookies.”

“Just don’t let Cynthia help.” I smile at him, but I can feel it slipping from my face as sadness floods me. “It hurts, Ryan,” I say, gripping his shirt and feeling the hard, reassuringly strong chest beneath. “It hurts so much. It sounds stupid, but I hate to think of my Santas being alone on Christmas, in some police station evidence locker. It’s not right.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid at all.” He glances at the front door. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” I ask, thrown. It’s late afternoon on Christmas Eve. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere. We may only have two guests, but they said they were definitely going to be at Hot Chocolate Happy Hour.

I tell him as much.

“Cynthia and Jeremy said they’d host Hot Chocolate Happy Hour. We have somewhere to be.”

“I don’t think I can bear any more surprises right now,” I warn him, feeling a tremor at the thought. “I have to call my father’s lawyer for him. I won’t bail him out—my mother can do that—but I will do this.”

“Okay,” he says, his brow furrowed. “And then we’re going to go see your grandmother.”

I haven’t been to the graveyard for a few weeks, and tears pool in my eyes when I see there’s a small potted Christmas tree next to the last, frozen bouquet I brought.

“You’ve been here,” I say, glancing at Ryan in wonder. He’s never once mentioned it.

He squeezes my hand. “I found out where she was buried from the funeral notice. Some mornings I stop by after going to the gym. I never had a grandmother, so I like to borrow yours sometimes.”

“Do you talk to her?” I ask.

“I do. I tell her about you, mostly.” He tucks my hair behind my ears. “I know she’d be so proud of you. Not so much of your dad, but she already told me she thought he was stupid.”

“She didn’t,” I gasp, delighted despite myself.

“She did. And she told me that her granddaughter was smart and beautiful, and much too good for her deadbeat boyfriend. I’ve got to say I agree with her. About Weston and about me.”

I nudge his shoulder. “Weston’s not a deadbeat. He’s rich and successful.”

He grins. “There you are, with your truth bombs.”

“But his soul is rotten. Yours is beautiful. You may not have the job you want right now, but you’re going to find it, because that special light in you creates light in other people. However rich and successful Weston becomes, he will never have that. Ever.” I brace myself, preparing to say something I’m not sure how he’ll receive. “You know, I hope you’re going to reach out to your brother soon, because I don’t have any brothers or sisters, and I might want to borrow yours sometimes.”

He traces the side of my face, his gaze distant. “You might like him better than me. He’s less scattered.”

“It would be impossible for me to like anyone better than you. I like everything about you.”

“Even my lack of order?”

“It allows me to impose my own order.”

He smiles at me and leans in to brush his forehead against mine. “I’ll reach out to him. After Christmas.”

“You don’t need a fancy job to impress him, either.”

“I know…and I’m going to call him. I even wrote it into that planner you gave me last week. I just have to think about what to say.”

I’m not going to push him harder, not tonight.

Swallowing through a tight throat, I look down at my grandmother’s grave and try to remember her as the titan from my childhood, not the woman with bones so brittle it felt like you could snap them by shaking her hand. “I love you, Grandma Edith. Thank you for bringing Ryan to me.”

He pulls me into his side. “Thanks, Grandma Edith,” he says. “I have trouble believing you wanted us together, but I’ll be damned if I’m not grateful. I…if you wouldn’t mind too much, I’d love it if you could give us a sign that you’re with us.” His eyes dart to me before he continues. “And that you approve.”

My lips part, fresh wonder unfurling inside of me. “Ryan, I love you.”

He draws me in for a soft kiss, his lips cold but his mouth so warm I don’t want it to ever end. When he pulls away, he’s smiling, but I can feel his uncertainty—about my grandmother, about Jake. About not being good enough. I’ll spend the rest of my life wiping that away if I have to.

I glance down at my grandmother’s grave. The remains buried beneath the stone are not my grandmother in any real sense, but this place still feels important. “Please, Grandma. Give us a sign.”

Once we get into the car, Ryan turns toward me, his hands fussing with the wheel. “I thought maybe we’d go see the Christmas tree in Market Square. What do you say?”

It may be crowded, and I’m not sure I can stomach a crowd right now, but I don’t want to disappoint Ryan. He has such a sweet look on his face, and his hair, which was in need of a trim when he arrived, is now always messy—in a tempting way that makes me want to bury my hands in it.

“Okay,” I say.

On the way there, he turns on Christmas carols, and it’s impossible not to smile when he starts singing along. I join him, and by the time we park the car and get out, the holiday spirit is reasserting itself inside of me.

“Now, the first order of business is to get you hot chocolate.”

“I think I drink too much hot chocolate.”

“No such thing.”

He swings our joined hands back and forth, and giddiness fills my chest. We’re together, Ryan’s staying in Williamsburg indefinitely , and in a few hours it’ll be Christmas.

A few minutes later, we’re standing with a dozen other people around the tree. Carolers stroll past, and lanterns have been set out, and it feels incredibly merry.

“Can you put your hot chocolate down for a second?” Ryan asks, giving me a sidelong glance.

“Why?”

“Because you’re getting on my shoulders.”

“What?” I ask, half-laughing, even as my heart lurches in my chest.

“We’re making new memories, Anabelle. I’m going to lift you onto my shoulders every year so you can see the star, because you deserve it every year.”

“Ryan, I can see it anyway,” I object, laughing harder even though my eyes are suddenly hot. “I’m more than three feet tall now.”

“I don’t care.” He swears under his breath and looks around, taking in the presence of other people. “Or…if you don’t want to, it’s okay. I wasn’t really thinking. I—”

“I do want to,” I say, and he gets down for me.

Someone gasps and says, “Look, that man’s proposing,” in a whisper that can probably be heard in the North Pole.

I feel a prickling of awareness and discomfort, but Ryan says, “Nah, that’s next year. I don’t want to freak her out. I’m just giving her a better view.”

“Ryan?” I ask, my heart pounding. Next year. “You’re really staying forever?”

He’s already told me so. Assured me of it. Whispered it to me while kissing his way up and down my body. But I don’t think I can hear it enough. And this…

I stoop down to kiss his mouth and the side of his nose and his eyebrows, and he laughs and tells me to hurry up and get onto his shoulders. The people around us probably think we’re nuts, but I do just that, and he lifts me up. With the wind tousling my hair and Ryan supporting me with his powerful shoulders and arms, the star seems almost reachable.

I really do feel like a Christmas witch.

“You’re my star,” he says, lifting an arm back to touch me.

The very instant he says it, the golden star winks out and comes back a glowing green. A gasp escapes me and Ryan at the same time, and even though I know it was almost certainly an intended effect, it feels like Grandma Edith heard us and gave Ryan his sign.

“Ryan,” I say, my voice breaking, and he lowers me down, turning me to face him. “It was Grandma Edith.”

“I think maybe you’re right,” he says with a smile and then leans in to kiss me right there, in front of the tree.

We stay for another hour or two, walking up and down DoG street. Ryan checks his phone a few times, probably for updates from the B&B, but I don’t ask about it. It feels good to take time off with him. After a while, the pedestrians on the street thin out, everyone heading home so they can lie snug in their beds, and we stroll back toward the B&B. Part of me dreads going inside. The safety of my home has been taken away from me, and by a person who was supposed to protect me. But I also want to celebrate the holiday with Ryan and our friends.

Ryan seems a little agitated, and when I ask him what’s wrong, he pulls me to a stop outside the front door.

“I know you don’t like surprises, sweetheart, so I’m warning you, there’s a surprise in there.”

“Is it a good one?” I ask, lifting my hand to my throat.

“I hope so, and either way, I owe Cynthia and Jeremy big. Do you want me to tell you what it is?”

I consider the offer and his earnest expression. Once again, the butterflies in my stomach overpower the snakes. They’re getting stronger. “No, let’s go in.”

So I open the door, and gasp.

At least fifty Santa Clauses have been arranged all around the foyer.

“Ta-da!” Cynthia says as she finishes arranging two of them on my desk. They’re in an unspeakable position, which is so Cynthia I almost laugh. I would if my emotions weren’t crushing me from the inside.

“Oh, goodness,” I say, stopping in my tracks. Jeremy’s next to Cynthia, and Joe, my sweet Joe, has already stepped in to fix Cynthia’s Santa scene.

They’re not my Santas, but a few of them are antiques—similar to the ones who are sitting in an evidence locker.

“You all…” My gaze finds Ryan. “How?”

He nods to Jeremy. “There were lots of comments about It’s Christmas Again on Jeremy’s video. People wanted to see your Franken-Santas, and a bunch of them volunteered to donate their old Christmas stuff to you. It’s amazing how much of it stays in boxes.” He must see my expression, because his face softens. “And by amazing, I meant heartbreaking. So we did the humane thing and took some of that shit off their hands. We’ve been messaging people all day, and Cynthia and Jeremy did some pickups while we were gone.”

“We found a few of these guys at secondhand stores,” she says, pointing to a resin Santa smoking what looks like a blunt. Not exactly an antique, but I know I’m going to treasure it forever. Because it will always remind me of this.

“And I held down the fort,” Joe says. “It was very important. Hank and Rachel came downstairs twice, and both times, I asked them if they needed anything.”

I grin at him, and suddenly I don’t feel so heavy anymore. My Santas may be in lockup, but the one Santa that really matters is here with me, doing everything within his power to ensure I have a good Christmas. And I am . I can already feel it changing.

“Thank you, everyone. This is…I’m speechless.”

I take a few steps inside, holding Ryan’s hand as if it’s my lifeline. Part of me fears it’s all going to disappear if I blink enough times. Ryan. Our friends. The Santa Clauses. When I reach the desk, I run my finger over a stuffed Santa that looks like it’s from the 1970s, then pick up a wooden one with a worn belly. My gaze meets Ryan’s, and I know we’re both thinking about the estate sale we went to together and my nail-polish-makeover Santa.

He settles his hand on my lower back. “You’ll get the other ones back, and when you do, they’ll have more friends.”

It feels like someone just stuffed a stocking into my throat. “I don’t know how you managed to do all of this without me realizing it.”

“Your tunnel vision occasionally works to our advantage,” Cynthia says with a smile. “We’d do a whole lot more for you, you know.” She nods behind me. “And for Ryan.”

This is the real magic of Christmas. It can bring out the best in us. It’s a reminder that we’re meant to appreciate and love each other. And right now, standing in the lobby of the B&B I had no idea how to run when it became mine, I feel peaceful and whole in a way I never have before.

“Thank you,” I tell my friends. Then I turn to Ryan. “ Thank you. ”

“I know your Santas are still in jail, but I can tell you from experience that jail’s not so bad if a guy gets to come home to you.”

“ Oh, Ryan .”

I kiss him, in front of all of our friends, and they don’t seem to mind terribly much. We laugh and position and re-position the Santas, and then we watch Die Hard , Jeremy’s favorite Christmas movie, in the parlor.

It is not a true Christmas movie, but I won’t be telling him that tonight.

It’s late, we’re all tipsy, and the only guests in the inn are currently Hank and Rachel, who declined to watch Die Hard , opting instead to go upstairs and have intercourse that made the floor creak. Cynthia and Jeremy have agreed to stay the night, and we all go to bed in our respective rooms, although I grab Ryan by the bottom of his shirt and lead him into mine.

“Seeing all those red bows around town has given me ideas,” he says, giving me a wicked look.

I like that look, when it comes from him. It makes me feel a little wicked too, and wanton. “Would you like me to tie your hair up in a bow?” I ask as he shuts the door and backs me into the wall, the proximity to him making my whole body hum from pleasure.

He gathers my hands in his, easily encircling my wrists, and says, “I had a different idea.”

“Show me.”

And he does, thoroughly, making me come twice, the second time as the hour turns over at midnight—a fact confirmed by my digital clock on the bedside table.

“It’s Christmas,” I say, once I’m able to form words again. Using his teeth, he grabs the end of the bow he used to tie my hands to the headboard and pulls it loose.

“That could have come off at any time.”

“I may have exaggerated about being a good boy scout. I just…I really want you to open one of your presents.”

“You didn’t need to get me more presents! You got me fifty-two Santas.”

He waves a hand, giving me a flash of his tattoo. “That came later. I’d already finished my shopping. Come on. This is one you have to open now.”

He opens my closet, then grabs a present wrapped in green paper from behind the hanging dresses.

“You hid it behind my clothes?”

“If we have kids, you’ll obviously be in charge of hiding the presents. Your super secret place is much better.”

I smile at him, imagining a little Ryan. “Deal.”

He brings the wrapped present over to the bed, and I run my fingers over it, then shake it, all while he watches me, practically bouncing on his feet.

I open the wrapping paper, smiling to myself, and find a beautiful green sweater. When I run my fingers across the fabric, I know.

“You found one that has the same fiber blend as your blue sweater,” I say through that same stocking-in-throat feeling. No one’s ever taken such notice of my sensory preferences.

“I washed it so you can put it on now, if you’d like to,” he says, his eyes flashing with excitement.

I do, then go to the closet and pull on a pair of underwear and my favorite snowflake pajama pants.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“For what?”

“I assume you’re about to play Santa Claus, and I figured maybe you’d let a former Grinch be your sidekick. I got something for everyone too.”

“Even Hank and Rachel?”

“It would have been rude not to,” he says, pulling on his clothes. I’m still in the closet, so I throw him his Santa jacket, now laundered.

He grins at me and tugs it on. “You ready?”

I glance at him as I pop the hidden button in the closet, and the secret compartment, built by an ancestor who didn’t think much of Prohibition, pops open. I’m grateful for their love of alcohol, because this space is what saved the sunburst ornament, allowing it to be used in my plan. “Absolutely.”

He steps close, his bare feet padding against the wooden floor. Saint Nick, who left the bed in a huff earlier, when we decided we’d like to use it, follows him, his tail twitching.

Ryan crouches to peer inside of the secret compartment and then stands up straight and grins at me. “Can we take them down in a big red sack?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” I say. “It would look impressive, certainly, but we don’t want to damage the presents.”

Then he kisses me as if I’d just said something sexy. “How about we do it my way next Christmas?”

I’d rather not, and yet….he’s promising that we’ll be together next Christmas. “Only if we get to do it my way again the following year.”

“We’ll probably both agree your way is best by then,” he says, grinning at me. “So the fourth year, we can just call it our way.”

I only have so much self-restraint, so I kiss him. I have a feeling that will be happening a lot as we put the presents under the tree and hang the stockings by the chimney with care.

And even though it’s not a very orderly way to carry on, I’m much too happy to care.