Chapter Two
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COMPELLED BY the hint of authority in the old man’s voice, Gwynn laid baking paper and bubble wrap atop the counter. “You have a workshop?” she asked, centering the painting on the paper. “What do you make?”
“Toys. My, uh, employees and I make childhood wishes come true.”
Gwynn smirked. “Of course you do.” Twinkling eyes. Deep laugh. White beard. He even had the “little round belly” that prevented his jacket from closing. This man probably dressed the part of Santa every year in his hometown Christmas parade. She wanted to dislike him for that reason alone but couldn’t. He exuded kindness.
She drew the bubble wrap over the paper and said, “I used to know a boy who hoped to open his own workshop one day.” Blue eyes that could rival Paul Newman’s surfaced in her mind, but she swiped a mental hand to dispel the memory.
“Does he make toys too? Are you saying I have competition?”
Gwynn taped the wrapping at the edges and forced a smile. “I don’t know that it ever happened, actually. We lost touch.”
“That’s too bad.” He pointed to the painting. “How much do I owe you? And I won’t accept anything less than a fair price.”
Gwynn quoted him what she believed reasonable for a near-finished product by an amateur.
He pulled out his wallet and counted out paper bills. “I lost touch with a friend long ago,” he said. “We had a falling out, you see, and we wouldn’t talk to each other for years. Later, I wanted to make things right, but …” He shook his head. “It was too late.”
Gwynn pressed her lips together as she slid the wrapped painting into a wide, ribbon-handled paper bag emblazoned with the gallery logo. “I’m so sorry.”
“You have people you love in your life?”
Unexpected tears stung her eyes, and she cleared her throat. “Yes, sir. Some live across the country”—like her Uncle Russ and Aunt Maude Davison—“and some are beyond my earthly reach.” Like Poppa Jeb and Mama Edith, the darling elderly couple who’d taken her in as a crazy teenager but who had died in a car accident two years ago.
“Ah.” The man grimaced. “I apologize, child, if I opened a wound. But then, you understand what this old geezer is trying to say, don’t you?”
“To appreciate my loved ones before they’re gone.” She held out the bag. “Thank goodness for technology and video calls.”
The Santa look-alike quirked a bushy eyebrow. “You and I both know the people on the other end of those calls would prefer a physical hug to a spoken one.” He took the bag and reached across the counter to squeeze her upper arm. “Don’t let fear hold you prisoner, Hadley, or you’ll wake up one day and realize you not only missed out on a friendship, like I did, but you missed out on life .”
Ice flooded Gwynn’s veins as he turned and shuffled to the door. “How do you know that name?” she demanded. No one had uttered it in almost ten years.
But he exited the store as if he hadn’t heard her. Outside, he snapped open his umbrella, secured the bag under his arm, turned left down the sidewalk, and disappeared from view.
Gwynn trembled.
How dare he use that name and imply she lived in fear! She had escaped her fears and been given a second chance at life—ensconced in safety—with Poppa Jeb and Mama Edith, thanks to the Davisons. Who was this Santa impersonator to suggest otherwise? Did he have connections to Uncle Russ or Aunt Maude in Prospect? Did he know something she didn’t?
With Michael Bublé’s version of “Blue Christmas” trilling through the speakers, Gwynn snatched her phone and tapped the Davisons’ number on her “favorites” list. Irene could potentially explode like an uncapped smoothie machine if she caught Gwynn using her phone during business hours, but hearing a friendly voice was more important at the moment.
The phone rang three times before someone picked up.
“Are you okay, dear?” Concern laced Aunt Maude’s voice on the other end.
Gwynn emitted a nervous laugh. “Hello to you too.”
“I’m sorry.” Aunt Maude chuckled. “But it’s midday, and since you never call during a work shift, I reckoned something was wrong.”
Yeah—do you happen to know why a random, jolly fat man called me Hadley? “I was, uh, gently chastised earlier for not reaching out to my loved ones more often.” With her free hand, Gwynn stowed the bubble wrap and baking paper under the checkout counter. “So, how are things there? Is Uncle Russ doing okay? How’s Brisket?” They had the most mischievous little Havanese with the most innocent “who, me?” puppy-dog eyes Gwynn had ever seen. Not that she’d met Brisket in person, but Aunt Maude filled their text thread with endless doggy pics.
“Oh, we’re all doing fine. Russ bought Brisket a remote-controlled truck.”
“ Another one? What’s that make, three?”
“One. The other two are sports cars.”
Gwynn snorted. “Are you sure Uncle Russ buys them for Brisket, or for himself?”
“You’ve seen the videos. Brisket loves to chase them around the house.”
“Uh huuuh.” Gwynn drew out the syllable.
“Hmph. Russ spoils Brisket and I spoil Russ, what can I say? Other than that, we’re busy getting ready for the Christmas Jamboree next weekend.”
“Oh, gracious.” Gwynn put a hand to her forehead. “That means I’m behind on my Christmas shopping. Are you entering the pie contest again?”
“You bet. Can’t let Annabelle Richards best me for the fourth year in a row.” Aunt Maude tsked. “You know she’s won—”
“Seven times in the last decade, yes, I know. I haven’t had your huckleberry pie in a while, but I do remember an amazing blend of tart and—”
“Oh, no!” Aunt Maude let out a strangled cry. “Russ? Oh, good heavens!”
Gwynn’s hand tightened around her phone. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Russ! It’s going to be okay, honey.” Commotion sounded in the background. “Gwynn, I gotta go. We need to get him to the hospital.”
“But—”
The line went dead. Gwynn’s mouth dropped and her heart pounded. Uncle Russ … to the hospital? What happened? Did he have a stroke? A heart attack?
I should be there.
“No, Gwynn, are you crazy?” she hissed. Circumstances in Prospect hadn’t changed. It wasn’t safe for her.
Yet the words from Santa’s double replayed in her mind. She’d never forgive herself if Uncle Russ was on his deathbed and she refused to see him one last time because of cowardice.
Oh, Lord, what do I do, what do I do?
“Why are you gawking at the entrance like a buffoon?”
Gwynn blinked. Irene sashayed across the floor as she peeled off her black gloves, the front door closing behind her. Gwynn’s mouth snapped shut. “I’m sorry. I was … just … I was on the phone—”
“Yes, I can see that.” Irene’s dark eyes narrowed at the apparatus in Gwynn’s hand. “I’ll be docking a half hour from your wages today.”
Less messy than a frenzied smoothie. “Irene, I have to go.” Gwynn tossed her phone into her handbag and searched for her peacoat.
“I beg your pardon. We don’t close until five.”
“This is urgent.” She shrugged into her coat, her thoughts whirling with the sudden change in plans. “I’ll have to get the next flight out—”
“ Flight ? Where do you think you’re going?”
“Montana.” Gwynn shuddered. Had she seriously uttered that word? “But don’t worry—I’ll be back in time for the show next Saturday.”
“Young lady, if you leave now, you may find yourself without a job to come back to.”
Gwynn inhaled. Lord, I need this job. “Irene, I’m sorry, but this is an emergency. My uncle, he’s … ill, and …” Please, God, let him be okay. I can’t lose him too. “And I need to see him.” Whether Gwynn liked it or not.
Apparently, God was trying to tell her something, after all.