CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The next afternoon, they stood in front of the old post office that had been shuttered for over twenty years. The wind whipped Hannah Leigh’s hair across her face, and she hugged her coat tighter. “It’s a little spooky, isn’t it?” She had the heebie-jeebies already, and they weren’t even inside.
“Afraid of ghosts?” Nate asked, deepening his voice and doing his best spooky impression.
Hannah Leigh crossed her arms, trying not to smile. “If that’s your haunting voice, you’d never make it past orientation. You’re a terrible Ghost of Christmas Present.”
“Guess I’ll stick to carpentry,” he said.
“Good plan. Now, spiders and mice? That’s another story.”
“I can handle the critters,” he said, grinning as he lifted a tarnished brass key. “Come on. It’s just an old building full of forgotten moments.”
The heavy door groaned open, echoing through the empty lobby. Inside, the air was cold and stale, thick with the smell of dust, wood oil, and old paper.
“Smells like something died in here,” she muttered.
“Adds to the charm,” Nate said, moving toward a stack of postal crates.
“Old Mr. Dillard was the postmaster back when this place closed. The realtor said he was a real quirky guy. A hoarder who couldn’t stand the idea of tossing anything, even federally regulated mail.
So he boxed up all the undeliverables, and stuck them in the storage shed out back.
They forced him to retire when they moved to the new building, and he died a month later.
No one has ever bothered to go in and do anything with any of that stuff. ”
Hannah Leigh swept her phone flashlight across the dusty counters and rows of brass-front mailboxes with twisty combination knobs that no one ever seemed to master. “So, what? They moved what was important and left everything else behind.”
“Yep. Out of sight, out of mind. Folks figured he’d handled it.” Nate shrugged. “I’m pretty sure it wasn’t common knowledge.”
“Birdie found out.”
“Well, she’s more capable than the CIA.” He walked through the space. “I would love to buy this place and turn it into something cool.”
“Maybe one day you’ll get your chance.” Hannah Leigh shook her head, amused.
“Not likely,” he said. “It’s way overpriced.”
“If South Hill is sentimental enough to give old mail a free twenty-year lease, I think there may be a chance they will eventually decide that building will be better off renovated than crumbling.”
They rummaged through drawers of yellowed paperwork and brittle envelopes until she lifted a green envelope from the pile.
“Look. This letter’s addressed to Santa Claus, South Pole. ‘Forward to North Pole if Found’ written on it.”
Nate grinned. “On this hunt, I half expect it’ll lead us there. Come on. There’s not much left in here. The boxes are supposed to be in the storage shed out back.”
She tucked the card in her pocket and followed Nate outside and down the cracked sidewalk.
He worked the key, and after only a brief protest, the shed door swung open. A string of jingle bells clanged wildly against it.
“Well, that’s not creepy at all,” she said. “Very festive for a ghost encounter.”
A bird burst from the rafters, scattering dust. Hannah Leigh yelped, then gathered her wits. “Where did that come from?” she said, catching her breath.
“Don’t panic. It’s just a pigeon,” Nate replied, scanning the rafters. “Or a bat in a holiday disguise.”
“That thing was the size of a flying chihuahua wearing a feather boa,” she insisted. “That was no bat.”
Their voices bounced off the metal walls. The bird settled high on a beam, glaring down like a cranky landlord.
“Let’s find the box before Big Bird decides we’re lunch,” Nate said.
Hannah Leigh was just thankful it wasn’t a bat. Rabies would not be a fun way to spend the holidays. There were boxes stacked on floor-to-ceiling racks down each side and a row in the middle. She started reading the labels on the boxes, careful not to disturb any other tenants of the shed.
“Looks like they’re organized by date,” she said, brushing dust from the nearest stack. “Oldest on that side.”
They split up, working quickly. Then Hannah Leigh found what they’d been hoping for half-buried beneath cobwebs. Undeliverable Mail ~ 1964, South Hill 23970.
Her breath caught. “Nate. Here! I found boxes with the same year as the picture of Ruthie and Henry Bell.”
He hurried over and pulled them down. “Two of them. Let’s take these inside and get them under some light.”
“There’s no power here.”
“Oh, right?” Nate rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “My place is just up the block. We can go there.”
Her pulse gave a little skip. His place? Her nod came quick to keep from changing her mind. “Sure. Yeah. Cool.” She picked up a box, leaving the other for him to carry. “Following you.”
Nate put the boxes in the truck and then gave Hannah Leigh a boost into the passenger seat. When he started the truck, he said, “I was just thinking about how old Ruthie had to have been. If she was say early twenties in 1964, then she’d be in her early eighties now.”
“I hope she’s in good health. She might not even remember if that locket ever belonged to her.”
“Somehow, I don’t think anyone ever forgets that kind of detail.” Nate’s pickup truck rumbled down Main Street, then turned the corner near Harper's Jewelry. After two more quick turns, Hannah Leigh knew precisely where he was going.
He slowed in front of the red-brick building with arched windows and worn painted lettering that read South Hill Mercantile. A wreath on the main entry and candles in every window, just like the old days.
“You live here?” she asked as they climbed out.
“Sure do.”
“But it’s huge.”
“I live on the top floor,” Nate said, hefting both boxes with ease.
“I can take one.”
“Let me get this.” He pushed the door closed.
“Follow me,” he said. “This building used to be the newspaper office a hundred years ago, before it was the mercantile. I restored it, refinished the floors, and added new windows. Tried to keep the history but make it modern enough to be livable. There was a lot of cool stuff in the attic still.”
Inside, the stairwell creaked beneath their steps, the air carrying the faint scent of cedar and sawdust. Nate flipped the old iron latch and pushed open the door to his apartment, revealing a space that stopped Hannah Leigh in her tracks.
It stretched the entire second floor—wide-plank floors that gleamed under soft light, tall windows straight ahead spilling late-afternoon sun across an open-concept living space.
Exposed brick lined one wall, and opposite it, a riverstone fireplace anchored the room, its walnut mantel rough-hewn and solid.
Built-in shelves framed the hearth, filled with framed photos, a few old woodworking tools polished to a satin glow, and a scattering of handmade Christmas ornaments arranged just so.
To the right, a large farmhouse table sat near the bank of windows, its surface dotted with blueprints and a half-finished mug of coffee.
Beyond that, the kitchen stretched along the far wall with gleaming white cabinets, open shelving with neatly stacked dishes, and a big copper sink that looked straight out of a home design magazine. A sliding barn door stood slightly ajar near the back, hinting at a bedroom or workshop beyond.
“I’m working on lease options for the ground floor,” Nate said, balancing the boxes on his hip as he reached for the switch. Edison bulbs glowed to life, warming the space even more. “Trying to let the building pay its own way.”
“Great idea,” she whispered, still turning in place to take it all in.
He set the boxes on the table, glancing her way. “It’s a lot for one person, but…” His tone softened, a quiet honesty threading through. “Maybe not forever.”
She didn’t trust her voice enough to answer. Instead, she ran a finger along the edge of the table. “You’ve got good taste,” she said, hoping her voice didn’t give her away.
He smiled at that, the kind that made her pulse skip. “Let’s see what that crazy old postmaster Mr. Dillard left behind.”
“That’s a D initial. Did his first name start with an R? What if he’s the RD on the locket?”
“That would be funny, but I don’t think so.
Hope not, anyway. We don’t need another lead that might take us off this one.
” They pulled things out of the first box.
Hannah Leigh untied the twine around a bundle of letters.
The paper was thin, soft, and yellowed with age.
“Look at these postmarks,” she said. “1963… 1964… right around the holidays.”
Nate whistled. “Old Dillard kept everything. Sadly, he was even worse at home. A hoarder, although back then I don’t think anyone knew that was a thing.
The realtor said, rumor had it when Dillard died, the EMTs couldn’t even get into the house with the stretcher there were so many things piled up. ”
“Different times back then.” She flipped through envelopes, then paused on one with smeared ink making it almost unreadable.
She blinked, hoping she wasn’t imagining it.
It just seemed too easy. “This letter addresses Miss Ruthie Danvers,” she said, squinting at the faded script.
“We have her address. Is there a chance she still lives there?”
“That’s unlikely, but it gives us a starting point. See what the letter says first.”
“No return address, but the postmark is local.” She tugged at the flap, but the paper resisted.
Nate flicked open a pocketknife and slid it beneath the seal. “There you go.”
Hannah Leigh unfolded the paper. Her voice trembled just a little as she read aloud:
My darling, Ruthie,
Thank you for agreeing to wait for me beneath the dogwood the evening before Christmas Eve. You are too special to leave behind.
Don’t tell a soul. We can’t risk anyone trying to keep us apart. I must leave on the midnight train that night. Please come with me.