Chapter 25 Lila #2
“Empty room above The Lantern,” he says, straight and spare.
“Rented last night under ‘Daniel Kiefer’. Cash. No luggage.” His mouth tightens.
“Tape and silence. A closet with a cheap panel for a back. He was alone.” A beat.
“DiMarco saw it—three men pushing Nico into the SUV. He’s sharp, that one.
Notices everything in his mirror while he moves his scissors.
” He tips his chin toward Nico. “We hit the lock. Nico swung on sound. He did not break.”
“Do they come early now that he’s out?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “They wrote Christmas Eve, and they will keep to it. They will change how they set up, not when they strike. We will feel it.”
I press a cold cloth into Nico’s hand. “Honey or sugar?”
“Honey,” he says, like the word is armor. I pour without asking again.
The day builds. Marco announces five-thirty is our departure time because “shepherds walk slow.” He tapes two more snowflakes to the counter. I catch Hal hauling a small stack of cones from his hardware store across the street.
Mrs. Brewster sticks her head in the door, planner clutched to her chest. “How many urns should I set at the hall?”
“Two,” I tell her. “Three if the choir shows early.”
She salutes with a coffee stirrer and bolts back into the cold.
I catch Matteo near the back, close enough that I can speak into the space between us and not be overheard. “Find me later,” I tell him. “We need to talk about where I am during the show.”
“I already decided.”
“Try again.”
He takes that half beat he always takes when he wants to react and chooses not to. “You will be in the center aisle with your mother. Marco will be between you. I will be at stage right. Petro will be at the kitchen door. Nico will stand in the lobby with the programs. Your son stays in my sight.”
“Say it again.”
“He won’t leave my sight.”
Something unclenches inside me and then clamps again because now it’s a promise. “Good. I’m not sending him backstage for the first number. He comes up with the kids when it’s his turn, not a minute before.”
“Then that is how we will do it.”
We move like that for another hour. Boxes, notes, names. My mother shoves a sandwich into my hands. I eat half and hand the other half to Matteo. He tears it once, drops his eyes in thanks, and eats standing up.
He checks his phone, then the street. “I have one more walk to make,” he tells me. “Fifteen minutes. Then I am done moving in circles.”
“You’ll call when it’s clear,” I shoot back, trying for light, and let my mouth curve into a smile.
“I’ll call.” He touches my elbow, then leaves with the canvas bag and the rest of what he’ll need.
Nico stays on the stool near the pantry.
Stillness that reads as rest. When he looks my way, I give a small nod.
We understand more than we should. The bakery settles into a quieter rhythm for a bit.
Pickups, last boxes, a kid we’ve known since she was five showing us her angel halo like it’s a crown from a king.
I make a list because that’s what works for me.
I tell myself everything will be fine and work the stiffness out of my neck, as if I could knead the worry out with it.
The phone buzzes with a call that lasts three words. “Clear for now,” Matteo says. That’s all I get.
By late afternoon, we start staging trays for the run to the hall—stars, gingerbread, two pans of brownies for the sound crew, because sound crews everywhere expect brownies.
Marco checks his rope belt. He’s a man in uniform now and announces he won’t let his staff hit anyone unless they need it. I tell him that’s a good policy.
Dusk leans in early. The lights across the square look brighter for it.
People bundle and smile, the way towns do when everyone’s headed to the same room.
We load the first run into the van. Petro’s already behind the wheel, engine idling, breath ghosting in the cold.
He takes the trays I hand him, stacks them, and pulls out toward the church kitchen, sure and steady, a part of the evening’s rhythm.
I pull on my coat and the bright scarf my mother insists on because “photos.” I double-knot Marco’s boots and wipe a smear of honey from his cheek. My mother fusses with his head scarf until he declares himself fit for inspection. I kiss his hat, then the knit under it.
The bells at St. Bart’s start up, soft at first, then bigger, rolling through Main like a call. People turn their heads. Doors open. The town moves.
I step to the bakery window to find Matteo in the square. He’s looking for me. One quick nod lands in my chest like a weight and a hand, both at once.
We step out into the early dark, trays in our arms, breath rising. The church hall sits beyond the lot, with warm light streaming through its windows. The alley to the kitchen entry runs off to the left. I glance that way on instinct, expecting nothing.
She’s there.
She’s at the back of the hall, just inside the glass of the service doors, framed by two paper snowmen someone taped up crooked this morning.
Kids drift past her. The choir works through a tune that wobbles in and out of harmony.
Pine and sugar hang in the air. She stands there without her sunglasses, her coat drinking the light, her hair twisted up, one hand buried in her pocket.
She doesn’t move. She belongs to the night, not the pageant’s glow.