CHAPTER SEVEN
By the dogwood, Hannah Leigh’s sweater snagged on a long strand of pine roping on the handrail, causing her to nearly trip over a box of Christmas lights that looked like they’d wrestled with a squirrel and lost. “Lordy goodness.” She stumbled, arms windmilling to stay upright.
She placed one hand against the tree trunk.
Nate was on the ladder above her, stringing a net of white lights through the twisted limbs of the old dogwood tree that sat like a forgotten relic between the schoolhouse and the sidewalk. “You okay down there?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder with a grin.
“Just trying not to end up a casualty.” She tugged at her sweater to free herself.
She glanced up at him. He still had that steady, sure look about him—dark hair a little longer now, a day’s scruff softening his jaw and making him look more like the man he’d become than the boy she once knew.
She played off the mishap. “You’d think after all these years, this tree would’ve learned not to fight back. ”
He smirked. “It’s got roots deeper than the mayor’s grudge against public Wi-Fi. Be gentle. Plus, this tree has never had lights on it.”
“Never?”
“Never. The historical society has never allowed it,” he said.
“Wait? Are we going to get into trouble for doing this?” The last thing she needed was to get into trouble and smear Winnie’s outstanding reputation in this town.
“I told you we were making our own rules. Besides, we’ll be fine as long as no one rats us out.” He shook his head. “It’s an old rule. Don’t sweat it. This tree has lived so long, I doubt a few low-voltage lights will cause a problem. Besides, I’m being very gentle.”
“You better be!” She shook her head. “We’ve been out here working for hours. We’d better hurry before we get caught.”
“It’ll be fine. Trust me.” Nate paused, one hand gripping the ladder. “This tree deserves to be celebrated.”
Hannah Leigh glanced up, surprised by the wistfulness in his voice. “I bet this tree has seen a lot over the years.”
Only the soft rustle of fallen leaves interrupted the silence between them.
The old dogwood, bare of its summer blooms, still carried a quiet dignity. Its branches reached wide across the lawn.
“I used to believe this tree was magic,” she said aloud.
Nate looked down from the ladder, his dark brown eyes softened. “Maybe it still is.”
She was about to reply when her boot caught on something uneven. Bending down, she brushed aside what she thought was a rock, but her fingers grazed something smooth and curved, half-buried in the soil.
“What in the world…” she murmured, digging until a small pouch came free. Heavy for its size, something solid was tucked inside. Sliding a finger through the drawstring, she loosened it just enough to peek. A small object slipped out, tumbling into the dirt at her feet.
Tarnished with age, a locket lay before her, its chain broken and rusted in two.
She eased a fingernail into the edge of the clasp until it gave, revealing two faded black and white photographs that had to be more than fifty years old.
One picture of a young woman with soft curls and the other of a man in a suit, both smiling the way people do when they still believe love can fix anything.
“Nate? Come and look at this,” she called, brushing dirt off the locket.
He climbed down, wiping his hands on his jeans. “What did you find? That old time capsule from the third grade? Is this where we buried that thing?”
“No, we buried the time capsule out back on the far side of the school playground but look what I found. This has to be even older than that time capsule.” She opened the locket and handed it to him. “Do these faces look familiar to you?”
He squinted. “Not really. It could be anybody. Folks used to bury things all the time around here. You wouldn’t believe what people find under the garden beds. Someone found a jar of money in a flower bed over on Franklin Street.”
“Isn’t that where the UFO sighting was back in the 70s? Maybe aliens left a deposit to come back.”
“Hope I’m here when they do.”
“Not me, but still, this locket...” Hannah Leigh turned it over in her palm. “Look, there are initials etched on the back. I found my love under the dogwood. RD + HB, and the date December 23, 1964.”
“The eve before Christmas Eve? Over sixty years ago?” Nate let out a low whistle. He studied the locket. “Looks like it’s been in the dirt a long time.”
“I wonder how it got here?” She turned it over in her palm. “Maybe it was a Christmas gift, and the chain broke while she was sitting under the tree reading, but she didn’t realize it.”
“Doubtful.” He pointed to the slip of fabric. “You don’t wrap up something like that by accident.”
“Then it had to be a token of true love.” She pressed it to her heart. “So sweet.”
“Or, it might not have been sweet at all,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “maybe somebody pitched it mid-argument right into a snow drift for dramatic effect.” He mimed a pitcher’s windup, complete with sound effects and an exaggerated ‘boom’ at the end.
Her eyes narrowed. “You know how to ruin a perfectly romantic theory.”
“Just keeping us grounded in reality.”
“Well, reality’s overrated.” She slipped the locket into her coat pocket. “I’m choosing the love story.”
He winced. “Sorry, but that tree’s probably seen a lot of breakups over the years.”
“Well, according to Aunt Winnie, this tree’s got its own love story. Two people were supposed to meet under it, but a snowstorm hit, and the guy had to be on the midnight train, and that was the end of that.”
“Isn’t that a song? Gladys Knight right? Figures you’d cite a love song for support.” He made the woo-woo sound from the chorus of Midnight Train to Georgia.
“Well, you are no Pip.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Have you always been this cynical?” No wonder he was still single.
“Hey, it was train-related. It was funny, not cynical.”
“Says you.” She couldn’t believe he could be so blasé about the whole thing. “It’s a lovely story.”
He sighed. “Not with the romantic locket again.”
Flummoxed, she let out a huff. “Don’t judge. It could be something special.”
“Or a dime store locket that someone threw away, or gave their granddaughter to wear, and she lost it on the playground.”
“Go ahead. Make fun,” she said. “I want to find the owner, or at least a family member.”
He rolled his eyes. “How are you going to do that?”
“It’s a small town. Someone would have to recognize these people,” she said, realizing she was sounding a little defensive.
“Now, you’re getting all googly-eyed over the whole idea of hunting them down?”
“Think what you want.” She went back to decorating the surrounding bushes with ornaments, but she couldn’t stop glancing toward the spot where she’d found the locket.
Something about it tugged at her. The tree, the initials, the date.
That piece of jewelry wasn’t a cheap trinket either.
It was a breadcrumb from a story waiting to be told.
When they finished decorating, dusk had draped South Hill in shades of rose and golden orange. The dogwood shimmered beneath a feathery light net of tiny white lights, every branch glittering as if it remembered being part of something important.