Chapter 15
Leo holds the door to Timeless Treasures open, and I step inside, thankful for the pocket of warmth. We wipe our feet on the mat, and Leo fixes an amused gaze on me. “Are you humming ‘Eye of the Tiger’?”
I freeze. “Am I?” The regrets roll on like the Polar Express.
I press my lips together for a firm second as punishment for their rebel ways.
“I blame Pap. It’s what happens when one is raised by their grandparents.
” Rocky ’s not from my generation, but Pap watched it religiously, so much that he could quote the whole film.
“That song’s ingrained in my psyche. He’d blare it before every important event.
And for most every tense-filled moment I faced growing up.
The day I took my license exam, he wrote in liquid chalk on my passenger window I’m a girl with a will to drive . ”
“Nice.” Chuckling, Leo adjusts his ball cap. “You expecting something I don’t know, champ? Does it get wild in antique shops?”
“What happens in antique shops stays in antique shops.” I loosen my scarf and square my shoulders.
“Let’s do this.” I focus on my mission, refusing to allow myself to get distracted by the urge to browse the aisles.
I love to visit other shops to get ideas for my own, but now’s not the time.
I approach the counter, Leo hovering near.
A middle-aged man with a bald head and bleached goatee is sitting on a stool and polishing cufflinks. He glances up with the standard, “May I help you?”
“We’re looking for Jeff Reilly.”
He stands and sets the tray of cufflinks on the counter. “That’s me.”
“I’m Greta from The Memory Bank.” I offer a friendly smile. “You called me earlier about having a Vallerton.”
“Ah, I didn’t realize you’d be coming. I thought the piece is for your customer.”
I don’t bother to explain. “May I see it?”
“Give me a second.” He disappears into a back room, and I allow my gaze to roam.
Vintage sports things, like wooden golf clubs, leather football helmets, and a row of ice skates, line the far wall.
My focus snags on a table next to Leo. “Do you want a souvenir with your name on it?” I point to the display of Remington typewriters.
His mouth tips into a flirty smile. “That’s more your style.
Would you like something with my name on it?
You know, to remember our little adventure.
” He moves closer and drops his voice. “Though why buy that old dusty Remington when you can have the real thing cheaper? It’ll move better and run longer. ”
I still. “Did you … just quote Hitchcock’s To Catch a Thief ?” Okay, not an exact quote, considering the character from the film wasn’t discussing typewriters, but Leo’s remark was similar enough that I caught the reference.
His grin gentles around the edges. “It’s what happens when one’s raised by their grandparents.”
He was too? I know he said that he spent summers with them while not at school. It seems they had an influence on him as well. I return his smile, then force myself to focus on the goal at hand. “These typewriters are all in decent shape. He’s got quality merchandise.”
“That’s promising.” Leo pulls out his wallet. “I should’ve stopped by the ATM. Think he’ll take credit?”
Before I can answer, the owner returns, holding a single piece. “Here’s what I got.”
I glance at Leo and back at the owner. “It’s the baby Jesus.”
He places it on the counter. “The most important figure, if you ask me.”
It is, but that’s not the point. “I thought you had the complete set.” When I started running The Memory Bank by myself, most people openly questioned if I had the expertise to oversee it.
I’ve had longtime customers doubt and challenge my antique knowledge, but no one has ever looked at me with so much annoyance mixed with showy superiority as Jeff Reilly.
He leans on the counter, looking down at me. “Do you realize how difficult it is to get a Vallerton?”
Leo widens his stance in true alpha male fashion, but I press a hand to his arm.
“I do, actually.” I lift my chin. “That’s why I was surprised when you said on the phone ‘I got what you’re looking for.’” In this case, air quotes are necessary.
“I’m sorry for the misunderstanding, but this is all I have.”
I gently pick up the figure and study it. The paint colors and glazing seem on point. No dents or scratches, which is amazing for an early twentieth-century piece. I turn it upside-down. “Oh.”
“Oh, what?” The man leans over, getting into my space.
“We have to pass.” I set the figure down rather than handing it to him. I don’t want him intentionally bobbling the piece to make us pay for anything broken. “Thank you for reaching out.”
His face reddens, which, coupled with his slightly oblong, bald head, makes him look like an oversized Christmas bulb.
“Are you passing because I don’t have the full set?
I’ll offer this to you for eight hundred dollars.
The infant figure alone is worth a thousand.
Any true antique dealer would know this is a steal. ”
I abandoned my store to come here. I’m hangry. And in my left shoe, my sock is slipping down my foot. So no, Jeff the Jerk, I’m not in the mood to coddle your ego. “Any true antique dealer would know your baby Jesus is a fake.” I pivot on my heel, grab Leo’s wrist, and stride toward the door.
“It’s authentic,” Jeff blusters.
“Check the hallmark,” I say without looking back and make my exit with Leo glued to my side.
The second we’re outside, Leo lets out a low whistle. “Nicely done, champ.” He nudges my shoulder. “It’s now confirmed that you do have a payback side.” He threw back my words from the gala. “But I want to know if it’s really a fake or were you pranking him for being an idiot?”
“It’s a phony.”
“Amazing.” The corners of his mouth lift into an incredulous smile. “How could you tell? It looked like the picture I’ve got on my phone.”
“The hallmark was all wrong. The stamped letters on a real Vallerton piece are farther apart.” I shake my head. “It’s a sad, sad world when people make impostor baby Jesuses.”
“You, Greta Carlton, just saved me a thousand bucks. How about I start repaying my debt with dinner? Besides, I still owe you from last night.” He put in his offer smoothly, but my mind’s hung up on the fact that Leo would’ve bought that fake had I not been here.
This brings me back to my initial deal. Will he go for it?
Leo unlocks his truck, but I’m rooted to the sidewalk. A knot puckers between his brows. “You okay?”
“Can we, maybe, walk for a bit?” I gesture toward Haviland’s Main Street. Jeff’s antique store is at the very end of the line of shops.
“Sure.” He pockets his keys and rejoins my side. He takes the outside spot, closest to the street. While there’s hardly any traffic, my romantic soul applauds this little protective gesture.
I brush off the remaining specks of annoyance from my exchange with the jerky shop owner and breathe in the moment, emptying my thoughts of everything but the scene spreading before me.
“This”—I motion to the brightly lit surroundings—“has my heart. There’s something about Christmas and small towns.
” While I’m partial to Silver Creek, this main street is charming.
Speakers, attached to the iron streetlamps, are softly playing instrumental Christmas songs.
The storefronts are aglow with seasonal splendor.
The busyness, so attached to the holidays, doesn’t exist here.
A peace and stillness that whispers of bygone seasons hangs in the air.
“Sometimes I feel like I was born in the wrong era.”
His hand brushes mine. “I like you in this one.”
I glance at him as the interplay of light and shadow flits across his face. “My tastes don’t match my generation’s. Probably because I was raised by my grandparents. I’d rather watch an Audrey Hepburn movie than scroll through social media.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
I shrug, uncertain what to say.
He pauses beside a bench nestled between a barber shop and toy store. “I never got to ask you the other night.” The same intensity that made my chest squeeze in Pap’s kitchen darkens his eyes.
My breath turns shallow. “Yes?”
“At the parade, I overheard your friend apologizing about leaving you alone on the fifteenth.”
Oh. That. “Yeah. She’s going to New York. She felt bad about canceling our plans.” I offer the less-emotional version, but Leo’s not having it.
“She mentioned the fifteenth. Does she know about last Christmas?” His gaze holds mine, then inches slowly over my face. He’s fully focused on me, and I can’t even enjoy his attention because he’s digging into a moment I wish to forget. “The fifteenth was the night of our missed date.”
“It was.” I glance away. “But that’s not what she meant.”
A car goes past. The song over the speakers switches to “Jingle Bells.” And Leo is waiting patiently for me to continue, but I don’t know if I can.
He steps closer. “You can tell me.” A breeze pulls a lock of hair across my cheek, and he knuckles it back.
I nearly slide my eyes closed at his touch. “The fifteenth is the night that Gran died. Tilly was apologizing for missing the first anniversary of her passing.”
Leo pales. “You mean, your Gran passed the same night I didn’t show?”
“Yeah.” My bottom lip trembles, and I sink my teeth into it. This was painful, but maybe I need to voice it. Maybe talking will drain its strength. Or feed it. I don’t know. “She woke from her nap and called for me. But she slipped back into sleep and then was … gone.”
“You didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“No.”
Before I can draw another shaky breath, Leo pulls me to him, wrapping strong arms around me. He buries his face in my hair and murmurs, “I’m sorry, Greta. You missed it all, and then I never showed. I can’t begin to say how awful I feel.”