Chapter 2
Istood there after Grinchly left, surrounded by twinkling lights and unsold dreams, and felt the weight of it all pressing down on my shoulders.
I had to do something, anything, to keep my mind off of the impending disaster.
The window display needed refreshing, and a new display always attracted attention.
That will help, I told myself, trying to sound convincing.
I spent the next hour crafting a winter wonderland scene—vintage snow globes arranged on fake snow, white lights twinkling, with a family of stuffed penguins looking charming and not at all desperate for someone to buy them.
By the time I finished, my knees ached from kneeling on the floor and my hands were covered in glitter. But it looked good, really good.
I stepped back to admire my work and nearly collided with someone standing behind me.
“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”
Mrs. Haversham stood there, a large shoebox tucked under one arm, her silver hair perfectly coiffed despite the December wind. She’d taught English at the high school for forty years before retiring, and she still had the posture of someone ready to correct your grammar.
“The bell didn’t ring,” she said, which seemed impossible but I’d learned not to question Mrs. Haversham. “That’s a lovely display, dear.”
“Thank you. Can I help you find something?”
“Actually, I brought you something.” She set the shoebox on the counter and lifted the lid with careful reverence.
The box was filled with dozens of vintage ornaments wrapped in tissue paper. I recognized the style immediately—1950s, hand-blown glass, the kind collectors paid good money for.
“Mrs. Haversham, these are beautiful.”
“They were my mother’s. I thought perhaps you could sell them on consignment.
” She pulled out a delicate silver bell, turned it so it caught the light.
“I’m downsizing, you see, and moving to that new senior community on Maple Street.
My children don’t want them, and I don’t want them locked away in someone’s attic collecting dust.”
“I’d be honored.”
We spent the next twenty minutes going through the collection, me carefully noting each piece while Mrs. Haversham shared the memories attached to them. Her mother decorating the tree while listening to radio carols, and her father pretending to be annoyed but secretly delighting in the ritual.
“Your grandmother loved these,” Mrs. Haversham said softly. “I brought them in once before, about ten years ago, just to show them to her. She held each one like it was precious.”
My throat tightened.
“She had that gift,” Mrs. Haversham continued. “The gift of making people feel like their stories mattered. You have it too, you know.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. Haversham settled herself into one of the armchairs I kept for browsing customers, her back ramrod straight and her sharp eyes fixed on me.
Avoiding that knowing gaze, I picked up a glass sphere, deep blue with hand-painted silver stars.
Light caught it, throwing tiny constellations across the wall.
“Your grandmother loved the stars. She used to say they were God’s way of decorating for Christmas year-round.”
The ornament blurred. I blinked rapidly and set it down before I could drop it.
“How is business, Noelle? Truly?”
I opened my mouth to lie, but something in her expression stopped me. She’d been my tenth-grade English teacher. She could spot bullshit from a mile away.
“Not great.”
“I see.” She was quiet for a moment, then added, “Your parents called me last week.”
My hands stilled. “Did they?”
“They’re worried about you.”
“They’re always worried. It’s their natural state.” I picked up a Santa ornament, examining his rosy cheeks and white beard. “They think I should sell the shop. Move back home. Get a ‘real job.’” I made air quotes with one hand, nearly dropping the ornament.
“Would that be so terrible?”
I looked up sharply to meet her concerned gaze.
“This shop is Gran’s legacy.”
“Your grandmother would want you to be happy, dear, not drowning.”
“I’m not—” I stopped and took a breath. “I’m handling it.”
“Are you?”
The question hung between us. Outside, someone laughed.
A car drove past, radio blaring pop music that clashed with my Christmas playlist. The world kept turning, completely indifferent to my small crisis.
I put down the Santa and gripped the edge of the counter.
“She left this to me. Gran spent forty years building this place, making it magical. I can’t just… give up.”
“Letting go isn’t giving up.”
“It feels like it.”
Mrs. Haversham stood up and took my hand in both of hers. Her skin was paper-thin, spotted with age, but her grip was firm.
“Your grandmother loved this shop, but she loved you more.” She squeezed my fingers. “She’d never want you to sacrifice yourself on the altar of her dream.”
“It’s my dream too.”
“Is it? Or is it the only thing you have left of her?”
“It’s both. Business will pick up.” I did my best to sound certain. “It’s always the busiest right before Christmas.”
“Perhaps you’re right, dear. Sometimes magic happens when you need it most,” she said softly. “You just have to be open to it.”
“Magic.” I laughed, then winced at the bitter edge. “Like a miracle customer who wants to buy ten thousand dollars’ worth of Christmas ornaments two weeks before Christmas?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Not in my life.”
She shook her head and moved towards the door. Halfway there, she paused. “Your grandmother used to say that Christmas wasn’t about the decorations or the presents. It was about hope, and about believing in things that seemed impossible.”
“Gran also believed in Santa Claus until she was twelve.”
“And look how happy she was. Don’t lose that hope, Noelle. It’s the most valuable thing you have.” Then she was gone, the jingle bells ringing cheerfully behind her.
Let it go. Let it go. Everyone kept saying it. Mr. Grinchly, the bank, my friends, now Mrs. Haversham. Maybe they were right. Maybe I should just start over somewhere else, without the crushing weight of expectation and tradition and my grandmother’s voice telling me that Christmas magic was real.
My phone buzzed. A text message from the bank.
First National Bank: This is a reminder of your upcoming appointment on 12/30 at 2:00 PM. Please confirm attendance.
I typed back: Confirmed.
Christmas magic. Right. What I needed was a miracle—and I only had three weeks to find one.
I locked the phone and shoved it in my pocket.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of no customers and busy work.
I priced Mrs. Haversham’s ornaments, marking them higher than I probably should have because they deserved it, because they were special.
I rearranged the greeting card display. I made a third cup of coffee and immediately poured it down the sink because my hands were already shaking.
At five o’clock, I flipped the sign to “Closed” even though my posted hours said six. Nobody was coming anyway.
I grabbed my keys and headed upstairs to my apartment.
My little living room greeted me with its familiar chaos—Christmas decorations on every surface, fairy lights framing the windows, throw blankets in festive patterns covering my secondhand furniture.
The fireplace crackled with fake flames because a real chimney would violate about seventeen building codes.
My cozy little home—that I was probably going to lose in the new year.
I went to my tiny bedroom with more fairy lights sprinkled in the lace that draped the windows and the canopy of the bed, and changed out of my festive sweater and skirt into leggings and an oversized hoodie, the uniform of the quietly desperate.
Jingle Bells, my fluffy white cat, wound around my ankles demanding his dinner, then turned up his nose at the kibble I offered, as if he could sense the cheap store brand.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” I told him, stroking his soft fur. “I know it’s us against the world, but we’re broke.”
His only reply was a twitch of his tail before he jumped onto the bed, curling into a disgruntled ball.
I wished I could join him. Instead, I returned to the kitchen.
The bottle of peppermint schnapps sat in the back of my freezer, a gift from last Christmas that I’d been saving for a special occasion.
Close enough.
I poured a healthy measure into a candy cane striped mug and took a sip. Then another. The peppermint burned going down, but it was a pleasurable burn, and I carried the mug with me as I paced the length of my living room, the faux-firelight flickering over my worn-out rug.
Locked away in some attic… Mrs. Haversham’s words suddenly popped into my head.
Her ornaments were valuable. What if there was something similar in Gran’s attic?
I’d only been up there a handful of times since she’d passed.
It was dusty and cramped and full of the ghosts of Christmases past. It felt like trespassing.
But what did I have to lose? Hope? I’d already run out of that.
I added another measure of schnapps to my mug and carried it out onto the landing, then took a deep breath and opened the narrow door that led to the attic stairs.
I climbed them, mug in one hand, already feeling the schnapps buzz at the edge of my thoughts.
Dust motes danced in the weak light from the single bulb I pulled on, illuminating a space crammed with too many memories.
Too many boxes of Gran’s things I hadn’t been ready to sort through.
I took a long drink of schnapps and set the mug on a relatively stable box. Then I started digging.
Most of it was junk. Old newspapers used as packing material.
Moth-eaten linens that had once been beautiful.
A truly alarming number of plastic snowmen in various states of decay.
I pushed past boxes labeled “Christmas 1987” and “Winter Inventory ‘95,” my grandmother’s neat handwriting making my chest ache.
Boxes gave way to old furniture—a Victorian-era display case missing half its glass panels, a coat rack shaped like a reindeer, a mannequin wearing what appeared to be a Santa costume from the 1950s.
The costume was complete with a genuine beard, which was somehow more disturbing than the plastic alternative.
In the far corner, underneath a sheet so dusty it had turned grey, I found a trunk.
An actual dark wood and iron trunk, the kind you saw in movies, the kind that looked like it might have sailed across the Atlantic with someone’s great-great-grandparents.
I pulled off the sheet—immediately regretting it as dust filled my lungs—and knelt in front of it.
The ornate lock was decorated with embossed designs that looked like… I leaned closer. Vines and holly leaves, but with strange, sharp angles that weren’t quite festive. In the center was a symbol I didn’t recognize—a sort of twisted knot, like an infinity sign having a very bad day.
I tried the latch. Locked. Of course it was locked. Why would anything be easy?
I sat back on my heels and took another sip of schnapps. The trunk sat there, silent and mysterious, probably full of more broken ornaments and forgotten dreams. But Mrs. Haversham’s words echoed in my head. Sometimes magic happens when you need it most.
I really, really needed some magic right now.
I reached out and touched the lock again. It was cold, even colder than it should be in the cool attic. The metal seemed to hum under my fingers, vibrating with something that felt almost alive. And the lock clicked open.