Chapter 6
From the moment he pulled into town, Ben loved Columbus, Georgia. Like his heart had belonged here way before he parked his
truck near the Chattahoochee RiverWalk. Christmas trees stood outside storefronts, decorating the coffeehouses and festive
boutiques that marked the main road into Old Town, and American flags flew from half the houses.
The sense of military pride, patriotism, and Americana felt woven into the fabric of the buildings and people.
Columbus was bigger than Marietta, but something about it felt small. Like home. Vanessa had told him all the city’s traditions:
the annual lighting of the city Christmas tree in Old Town Square, dazzling light displays, and the Gingerbread Village where
locals displayed original gingerbread houses to a growing crowd of visitors.
Then there was the RiverWalk Christmas Bazaar happening this weekend. Between this display of crafts and old heirlooms and
the antique stores in town, there couldn’t be a better time to search Columbus for unforgettable vintage Christmas goods.
His father had agreed, but he had also known Vanessa Mayfield lived here. “Take your time, son,” he had told Ben when he left the store earlier today. “Treasures are rare and never easy to find.”
Ben loved that his dad was a poet at heart. The two longed for the deeper things, and in fact his dad had first taught him
about Walt Whitman. Ben played down his interest in Vanessa to his dad—and sometimes even to himself. In case nothing came
of it. The two were only friends, after all. But there was no way he would be here looking for antiques in December except
for one thing.
Vanessa lived here.
He breathed in deep, savoring the cool air off the river. Vanessa Mayfield had worked her way into his heart from the beginning.
After losing Laura, he had never really expected to find love again. Most people didn’t find a heart connection like that
ever, let alone twice. But his conversations with Vanessa had been marked with familiarity from the beginning.
The other day he told the guys in his Bible study group about Vanessa and the trip to Columbus. Their consensus was the same.
With God, to love again was possible. One of them put it succinctly: “It’s about time, Ben.”
He thought about her in the woodshop behind his house, the place where he processed his feelings and made rocking chairs that
sold in the shop—the only non-antiques. She was on his mind when he worked out and when he drove to work and every Sunday
when he fixed dinner for his dad and Gary and himself. Also, when the three of them played cornhole after eating.
The truth was, after just five months, Ben couldn’t stop thinking about her. And now as he walked along the waterside, he could practically feel Vanessa’s warm and beautiful heart in the very air he was breathing.
He moseyed along the RiverWalk, eyeing the cold water and looking at one booth after another until he saw her. The wind played
in her chestnut hair, and her amber eyes locked on his. In a single heartbeat her smile lit up the afternoon. Ben walked toward
her as she made her way through the meandering crowd.
No matter what they called this connection they’d found, Ben was sure of one thing. He did not see her as merely a friend.
But how did she feel about him? And was she ready for something that—with every passing week—felt like much more than friendship?
When they reached each other, they shared a quick hug. Vanessa was always careful not to linger, another reason Ben wasn’t
sure how she felt about him. But if her smile counted for anything, the possibility of something more certainly existed.
“So what do you think?” She wore a lightweight coat and a scarf and so did he. The weather was colder than usual, and the
breeze off the river made it chillier.
“About Columbus? I love it.” He broke away from her eyes to study the winding pathway and the river beyond it. “A Christmas
bazaar along the RiverWalk? Brilliant.”
They took their time, the breeze on their faces. The next booth held a table full of Christmas antiques. Exactly what Ben
was looking for—workwise, anyway. They stopped and Ben sorted through the items. His eye caught a gold-plated bell. “I like
it.”
“So pretty.” Vanessa ran her finger over the year engraved across the front. “Seventeen twelve.”
“Okay. So here’s the game.” Ben could feel his eyes light up. He turned to Vanessa. “You hold the antique and get a feel for
it. Then you let the story come to life.”
“The story, huh.” She leaned in, studying the bell. “Tell me.”
Ben turned the bell over in his hands. “In the summer of 1718, a ship set sail from London headed to New York City. The vessel
survived the journey, where many did not.”
“Gripping.” Vanessa faced him, hanging on every word. She was clearly having fun with the process.
“The reason?” Ben held up the antique. “One sailor held on to this very bell. When storms came, he would ring the bell. Sailors
and passengers would take shelter . . . and survive. All because of the sound of the bell.”
Ben rang the bell. The timbre was something no one could manufacture today. “This very bell.”
The seller at the booth was eating a sandwich. He rolled his eyes. Antiques were apparently not his thing. Vanessa didn’t
seem to notice.
“Hmm.” She pointed to a few scratches on the bell. “What about this? A lot of history here.”
“Yes. I forgot that part.” He shot Vanessa a smile and turned to the bell again. “At times, the sailor would fall across the
slippery deck, just slide right across it. And the bell would fly from his hand. Terrible, really.” Ben dropped his voice.
“Hence the scratches.”
Vanessa released a quiet laugh. “The sailor was a hero.”
“And by default, so was the bell.” Ben turned to the seller. “How much for this fine antique, my man?”
“Ten bucks.” The guy had no sense of humor. “Firm.”
“Very well.” Ben pulled a ten from his wallet and handed it over. “The bell of the bazaar is mine.”
The guy looked like he was maybe doing someone a favor working the booth. He wrapped the bell in a page of newspaper and slipped
it into a bag. “Here you go.” He handed the bag to Ben. “Unless you have another story in you.”
Ben smiled at the guy. “You from Columbus?”
“Atlanta.”
“I had a feeling.” Ben saluted the seller. “Merry Christmas.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The man returned to his sandwich.
When they were out of earshot, Ben took a deep breath. “No way the guy was from Columbus.”
Vanessa grinned. “No way.”
An army convoy passed by, each of the trucks bearing a wreath on the front grill. Ben chuckled. “Tell me I’m not in a movie.”
“You’re not in a movie.” Her arm brushed against his. “Columbus is always like this.”
“All this time?” He met her eyes. “Look at what I’ve been missing.”
They kept walking and Ben told her about December back in Marietta. “Christmas brings out the character in my hometown.” He
slid his hands into his pockets. “For instance . . . the mayor stopped by the other day.”
“The mayor?” Vanessa looked confused.
“Yes. He walked through the door, his face covered entirely with gold paint.”
“Gold?” Vanessa covered a laugh. “Is that . . . normal for your mayor?”
“Not exactly.” Ben explained how the mayor shopped like that until he caught his reflection in the mirror. “Immediately he gasped. I thought he might faint right there on the floor of Millers’ Antiques.”
“So why was he out like that?” Vanessa slowed her pace, hanging on every word of the story.
“Turns out he was on a break from choir rehearsal at the church down the street. They’re doing a Living Christmas Tree performance.
And . . . the mayor is the star.”
Vanessa couldn’t contain her laugh this time. “Of course he’s the star. He’s the mayor.”
“Next . . . six guys dressed like branches walked in. The first one came up to me and asked if we had any antique Christmas
trees.” Ben took a deep breath. “I told them maybe if they stood a little closer together they could—”
“Be the tree?”
“Just . . . you know.” He motioned like he was bunching the branches together. “Be the tree. Exactly.”
They started walking again and she narrowed her eyes. “Did that really happen?”
“Okay, no. I made that one up.”
She laughed again and Ben found another funny story from the past week and then another and another.
Toward the end of the RiverWalk, Vanessa told him about Isaac Baker, the antique dealer who had called about her ring. “I
doubt anything will come from it.”
“I don’t know.” Ben stopped and faced her. “He has the picture, so this time the ring might really be yours.”
She explained that the guy had a lot of tracing to do to even find the store where he’d sold the ring.
If indeed it was her ring. “I’ll see what he comes up with.
I’m still praying I’ll find it. Like Sadie and I would say back when I lost the ring, God knows where it is.
He’ll bring it back to me in His timing. If that’s His will.”
Ben searched her face, her eyes. “Great attitude.” He sauntered beside her. “We both know that God doesn’t always answer our
prayers with a yes.”
“He doesn’t.”
“But that was true for Jesus, too. His greatest prayer in the garden of Gethsemane was met with a ‘no.’”
“Wow.” Vanessa looked straight ahead for a moment. “I never thought of that.”
They kept walking. The next table of vintage objects had a large gold star at the center. Ben picked it up and held it over
his head. “For the mayor?”
More laughter. When they finished at the bazaar, they left her car and drove in his truck to pick up donations for the dance.
Ben loved having her in his truck, riding shotgun next to him. Like the two had known each other for years.
She told him how the dance had helped fifty families survive Christmas last year and how this year they had a hundred on the
list. “I think we can do it. The news is running a piece about the fundraiser, and the community is more aware. Everyone wants
to help.”