Chapter 18 #2
I’m sure Leo’s the king of mixed signals.
He wears a crown forged from romantic energy but held together with friend-zone effort.
And yet, I find myself wanting to pledge my loyalty to his kingdom.
“Yeah.” I’m breathless, and it has nothing to do with our previous snowball fight. “I’m mistletoe-less.”
“That’s too bad.” He lingers for an excruciating second and steps back with a flirty smile. “But it was worth a shot.”
I swat his arm. “Rude!” Mostly because I want him to kiss me. No, no I don’t. He could be leaving. That’s another item on my unending list of things I need to address. I’ll get to it. Soon. Ish.
He drops the snowball and dusts off his hands. “Why are you out here and not at the party?”
“I thought you had to work.”
“I got to leave early. Why are you out here?” he repeats, but this time, a softness threads his voice.
“I needed air.”
“And to let off a little steam?” He nods at St. Nick.
“Something like that.” The wind picks up, and I tug my coat collar closer to my neck. “I’m sorry I hit you with the snowball.”
“No, you’re not. But I’ll accept your lie, anyway.” Holy fruitcake, that smile of his. “I shouldn’t have sneaked up on you.”
“It’s a habit of yours.”
“Yeah.” He tugs me toward the senior center doors. “You’re definitely becoming a habit.”
“Can you video call me?” I type into the chat box to OldSoulSam and tap Send.
I woke this morning with the awareness that I forgot to check PastPort. PastPort is like an eBay for amateur antique dealers. I normally don’t search the site because all I can picture are thousands of Adelaides wanting to make a killing on a faux piece.
But I’m desperate.
So during my morning coffee, I cracked open my laptop and searched PastPort for a Vallerton. After several rounds of using different keywords, I found a hit.
Someone with the handle “OldSoulSam” and a profile picture of a vintage film projector listed a Vallerton.
Though it wasn’t the entire set, only Joseph, Mary, and the baby Jesus.
While the wisemen and shepherds are noticeably missing, it’s the most progress I’ve had, and I’m not about to dismiss the chance to secure the key figures.
The price seems fair, but the pictures are fuzzy. Since I never buy sight unseen and flying to Nebraska to inspect them isn’t going to happen, I request a video call to see the pieces. I go to work, checking the site throughout the day, but receive no response.
What I do get is a text message from Leo inviting me to Ivy Hall tomorrow for dinner.
Since the firefighters’ gala, I haven’t indulged my imagination about what could possibly be inside the legendary estate.
I didn’t want Leo to think I was using him to gain access.
It sounds silly, but after Leo expressed that people are more interested in his possessions than him as a person, my heart did an about-face.
I’m to bring the Silver Creek Secret Santa letters, so I can’t actually call tomorrow night a date.
After last night’s party at the senior center, I can admit to myself that I have a crush.
I don’t know whether to feed it or smother it with a pillow.
Fletcher’s words haunt me like the Ghosts of Christmas.
I can’t entertain the idea of a future with Leo if he’s prone to roaming.
Long-distance relationships can work, but the end game has to be both of us in Silver Creek, and I can’t be certain this is where he wants to settle.
When I return to my apartment to reheat my exciting dinner of leftover casserole from the party, my PastPort mailbox chimes.
“I have pics posted of the items,” is all OldSoulSam reponds.
Really? I waited all day for that ? Anybody can pull internet pictures of the set. I need something more substantial. A virtual call will help determine authenticity, and so I type that.
I wait a few minutes and get another response, including a video-call invite set for five minutes from now.
A knock sounds at my door.
“It’s me!” Tilly calls. “I’m armed with eighty-sixes!”
“Say no more!” Eighty-sixes are the foods the café makes that are not suitable to sell to the customers.
Mostly, it’s a cake that fell flat, a soup that isn’t thick enough, or a salad on its last leg.
It doesn’t matter because Tilly’s leftovers are far better than mine.
I run to open the door. Tilly of course has a key, but she’s burdened with boxes.
“What happened?” I was expecting maybe a couple bags, but Tilly has enough food to last all week.
“One of the businesses booked us for catering, then canceled. So we have fifty finger sandwiches and pastries for dessert.” She smiles. “Which is great because I’m starving.” She places the load onto the counter.
I notice the pastries have a company’s logo on them, no doubt the reason they can’t be sold at the café. “I have to make a video-call first.”
She grabs plates from the cupboard. “To whom?”
“Some guy I just met on the internet.”
“Ha. Ha.” Tilly reaches into a box and grabs some sandwiches. “Who is it, really?”
“Seriously. Some guy who claims he’s got an antique I’m looking for. It’s on PastPort.”
Tilly gasps as if I’ve told her something scandalous. “PastPort?” She hands me a plate full of food. “That hopeless, huh?”
See, she knows my brain. “Yes. I’ll take any lead at present.” I log into the video-call platform and click Enter Meeting.
A man’s face fills the screen, but his phone camera’s tilted up on a table or something. So basically, I have a personal view of OldSoulSam’s nostrils. Grimacing, I put my sandwich down. I might never have an appetite again.
“Hello?” I say. “Can you hear me?”
“Yep. What can I do for you?”
“You claim you have the Vallerton nativity set pieces. I’d like to get a closer look.”
“Hold on.” He picks up the phone and walks with it to another room.
Meanwhile, I’m struggling against motion sickness.
He angles the camera at the pieces, and I can spot the bottom edges of the Mary figure.
Unlike the rip-off piece at Timeless Treasures, this hallmark is legit.
Okay. Promising so far. He shows me the hallmarks of the other two pieces.
“Thank you. Can I see the rest of the figurines?”
“Yeah.” He shows me the bodies, placing them close to the camera.
They look how they’re supposed to. It bothers me that I can’t test the weight.
However, this is the furthest I’ve gotten in this search.
OldSoulSam is holding the tops of the pieces, so I don’t yet have a clear glimpse of their heads. “Can I see their faces?”
“Faces?”
“Yes. What’s underneath your hands.”
He’s quiet for a second, then repositions the camera back to the nostril angle. “You’re about to see something spectacular,” he gushes and adopts a transatlantic accent. “These pieces have transformed from stuffy antiques to interpretational art.” He aims the camera on the full figures.
My mouth drops.
Tilly gasps over my shoulder.
“They have no heads.” I stare at the once beautiful figures.
“Ah, this is where the magic happens. You can imagine the Madonna in your own mind’s eye. See the Christ child with your heart instead of your vision.”
“What I see is a collector’s set that lost all value.” Someone decapitated the figures! The culprit could be a monster with a vendetta against valuable antiques or a kid who found their dad’s hacksaw. Either way, the set is worthless.
“I’m willing to negotiate,” OldSoulSam continues.
“I appreciate your cooperation, but I’m not in the market for headless figurines. Thank you for your time.” I disconnect.
Tilly, who listened to the entire exchange, hands me a scone. “You might need to have dessert first.”
I bite off a chunk. But even a triple-chocolate pastry can’t lift my spirits. I know finding this set is pretty much an impossibility, but I have to try. I just hope Leo didn’t mention this hunt to the dear widow. Because it’s looking like we might need a Christmas miracle.