CHAPTER SIXTEEN #2
“Oh my. Yes, I would love to wear it.” A tear slid down her cheek. “Just knowing he’d meant to get that to me. That he didn’t just leave me there. I’ve lived without the locket all these years, the information is most precious. I’d appreciate you getting it fixed.”
“Then that’s exactly what we’ll do. Ruthie, it has been such a pleasure getting to meet you,” Hannah Leigh said.
Nate couldn’t take his eyes off the old woman, wondering how lonely she must get here with no family nearby. He raised a hand. “Pardon me, if I may, Ruthie, can I ask if you drive?”
“Oh no.” She shook her head vehemently. “Haven’t in years.”
“I was wondering. Would you like us to take you to see the dogwood tree one day? It’s beautiful, and you know it’s the oldest dogwood in Virginia now. South Hill is pretty proud of it. Once the weather breaks, I’d love to take you on a tour of South Hill and to see the tree once again.”
Her face seemed to brighten. “Really? I haven’t been there in years. Why would you do that?”
“Why wouldn’t we?” he said, hoping she’d accept the offer.
“And you can see where I found your locket!” Hannah Leigh’s eyes brightened.
“Thank you for taking the time to bring this to me.”
The locket opened with a soft click. She looked inside only a moment before shutting it again, her touch lingering, as if the memories might scatter if she let go too soon.
When Nate and Hannah Leigh stepped outside, the cold met them head-on, sharp enough to sting their cheeks. Neither spoke at first. The weight of Ruthie’s story hung between them, fragile and aching.
He exhaled, watching his breath fog in the air. “Hard not to think about how long she’s carried that kind of love.”
Hannah Leigh nodded. “It’s heartbreaking. All those years thinking she wasn’t enough.”
“She was,” he said after a moment. “Maybe sometimes people simply run out of time.”
“We’re never guaranteed a tomorrow.” She looked at him then, really looked, and something unspoken flickered in her eyes. He glanced away first, pretending to adjust his scarf.
“We should visit her again,” she breathed. “Gloria mentioned she doesn’t get many visitors.”
“I was thinking the same thing. We will,” he promised. “I think she’d like that.”
They walked toward his truck, boots crunching on the frosted gravel.
Hannah Leigh broke the silence. “Let’s go harvest the Love Left Behind board and see what we can find about that other note.
The one in block letters. I don’t think it’s connected to Ruthie, but something about it keeps bugging me. ”
Nate shot her a curious look. “Bugging you how?”
She hesitated, frowning a little. “I can’t explain it. Just a feeling like whoever wrote it wasn’t leaving a memory. They were trying to be found.”
Back in South Hill, they were reading letters on the Love Left Behind board when Birdie appeared, wearing a Santa hat that had seen better days and clutching a bag of pralines to sell.
“Well, don’t y’all look like you’ve just seen the Ghost of Christmas Past,” she said cheerfully.
“If he’s headed to the Colonial tonight, he’d better have tickets, because it’s a sell-out! ”
Nate let out a quick, amused huff. “We’ll let him know.”
Hannah Leigh nudged him. “Don’t you go inviting ghosts.”
He lifted his arms in another over-the-top ghostly shiver, the sound of her laugh exactly what he’d been aiming for.
Nate pulled into the lot beside her car and shifted into park. “Well,” he said, glancing her way, “guess this is you.”
“Guess so.” She smiled, that tired-but-happy kind that always tugged at him.
He walked her to her car, watching her fumble for her keys. “You sure you’re good to drive?”
“Promise.” She opened the door, the cold air curling around them.
“Alright then.” He hesitated, not wanting the night to end. “Goodnight, Hannah Leigh.”
“Goodnight, Nate.” She hurried toward the shop door, her determined stride as familiar as it was endearing.
He stood there a moment longer, hands in his pockets, before climbing back into his truck. He started the engine, but didn’t pull out right away—just watched the light flick on inside as she disappeared through the door, and thought maybe heading home could wait a minute.
Ruthie’s story had settled deep in him. It stuck with him. Echoing like a song you thought you’d forgotten but somehow still knew every word to.
He parked on Main Street. The December air carried the faint scent of popcorn, where they were probably popping it by the bucketful to prepare for the movie tonight.
South Hill still carried a certain amount of small-town charm that he hoped would never change.
He strolled down the street, taking the time to really look at all the decorations the merchants had worked so hard on.
The judging would happen right after the Christmas tree lighting.
Last year’s People’s Choice Winner was still his favorite though.
It would be hard to beat. The local State Farm agency decorated a pole in sparkly garland, then tilted a kids’ plastic ride-on car against it as if it had crashed.
Sort of a playful public service announcement with a reminder not to let the pretty lights distract you.
Across the street, the lampposts glimmered under their garlands, each one part of the annual decorating contest. Stockings, grinches, and angels decorated the scene.
In front of the fire station, they’d arranged a red fire hose into a Christmas tree shape, topped with the Company 7 South Hill Volunteer Fire Department logo.
These folks had really upped their game since last year.
He couldn’t help but grin as he passed Graham Hardware’s entry.
A wreath made from coiled extension cords and copper wire, above an artificial tree zip-tied to the lamppost that had paint brushes, tape measures and nuts and bolts all sparkling with glitter for ornaments. Half hardware, half-holiday magic.
Lundy Lane sponsored one lamppost too. Farmhouse garland made entirely out of vintage flannel shirts. Now that’s clever. He tugged on his own flannel collar with a quiet chuckle, thinking he could’ve donated a few old ones for the cause.
Harper’s Jewelry trimmed the lamppost in front of their storefront in white and gold to match their display window which always shimmered with real gems and jewels.
But for the holidays, a single velvet box with an heirloom ring shone beneath a halo of twinkle lights.
Inside, a framed photo of Sandra and her granddaughter, Victoria, stood side by side wearing Santa hats.
It reminded him what family legacy really looked like.
Their lamppost was tastefully simple and elegant.
Victoria walked out just as he passed by.
“If there’s any justice this Christmas,” he murmured, “that lamppost’s takin’ home the blue ribbon.”
Victoria waved, grinning. “It’s not about winning, Coach. We just hope to out-sparkle them all!”
“In that case, mission accomplished.” He gave her a thumbs up.
For a moment, he stood there, breathing in the town's life.
The sound of the carolers warming up over in the pavilion, the faint jingle of the coffee shop bell, the sound of a train horn off in the distance.
It was all so ordinary, and yet something about it felt like a reminder.
That life, even in its quietest hours, had a way of circling back to unfinished business.
Later that night, sitting at his kitchen table, Nate spread out his notes and the photocopy of the letter they’d found in the post office. His laptop screen lit brightly against the dark, a half-empty mug of coffee cooling beside him.
Ruthie’s words echoed in his head. I sang O Holy Night three times.
He couldn’t shake that image. Something about that night, about Henry Bell not showing up, didn’t sit right.
He dug deeper, emailing an old buddy who had the technical skills and access to search old archives that might result in something helpful. He hated waiting for answers he could almost see.
By midnight, his friend had come through, and Nate had three new pieces of the puzzle:
1. An article from the New York Times, confirming Henry Bell’s byline and listing him as a staff reporter in 1964, and the clipping of the railroad story he’d been writing when he met Ruthie that ran on December 22nd.
2. A scan of an unclaimed personal effects list for Henry Bell from the La Crosse Hotel six-week stay in the registry dated December 27, 1964, including a receipt from Harper’s Jewelry and some articles of clothing.
3. The Police Blotter recap printed the week of December 27 in the South Hill Enterprise 1964, noting the number of accidents during the storm, and one entry that had to be Henry Bell.
Nate continued to scan the police blotter recap until one held his attention. He blinked and re-read it twice.
Unidentified Man Found Near La Crosse Hotel: Early Sunday morning, Officer J.T.
Collins responded to a call regarding an unconscious man discovered along the rail line behind the La Crosse Hotel.
The man, believed to be in his early thirties, was suffering from exposure and transported by ambulance to Richmond General Hospital.
He carried no identification, only a pocket notebook and a gold pen.
Anyone with information is asked to contact the Sheriff’s Office.
Nate sat back, the air in the room suddenly heavier. “Son of a gun,” he murmured.
If Henry went to the hospital and then was sent home, this would at least prove he hadn’t intentionally avoided meeting up with Ruthie that night. Nate rubbed a hand over his jaw, the realization hitting hard. Ruthie had waited under the dogwood, believing he’d left her behind.
But Henry had tried to keep his promise.
He opened his phone and typed a message before he could overthink it:
NATE: Got some new dots worth connecting. Meet tomorrow after cookie judging?
Within seconds, his screen lit up. Tension eased in him just enough for a grin.
Outside, South Hill glittered under the winter sky, the lamppost lights reflecting off snow-dusted roofs. From the outside, it looked like any other small town in December. Peaceful, and picture-perfect.
But under all that sparkle, Nate knew better. This town was full of tangled cords, half-buried secrets, and the kind of hope that refused to die quietly.