Chapter Twenty-One
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WHEN GWYNN stepped into the kitchen the next morning, Aunt Maude greeted her with a mug of coffee. “Are you ready for some Jamboree fun? I have to drop off my pie with the judges first, but then we can go wherever you wish.”
Gwynn pocketed her phone, Irene’s scathing words from their brief call dulling the sunlight pouring through the window above the sink. She took the mug and stared into the black liquid. “I’m not in a celebratory mood, Aunt Maude. You and Uncle Russ go have fun.”
Narrowing her gaze, Aunt Maude put a hand at Gwynn’s back and directed her into the dining room. “Come. We must pray. You’re obviously burdened, child, but we’re not meant to bear the weight of the world.”
“How can I not? Irene has already run into snags at the gala and is livid I’m not there—”
“She has other workers who can help.” Aunt Maude pointed to a chair.
Gwynn sat. “One would think. What if, in her bitterness, she sours my potential contacts against me?” She glowered into her coffee. She’d forgotten the cream. “I’m creatively blocked, my past is still obscured, but honestly, why worry about all of this when—should my memories return—I might find myself locked up and wearing orange?”
“One day at a time, dear. Tomorrow has its own troubles, so let’s focus on the gifts today will bring.” Taking Gwynn’s hand between both of hers, Aunt Maude bowed her head.
As the older woman prayed for wisdom and patience and the Lord’s leading, the strain in Gwynn’s muscles eased, and the sorrow and hopelessness sloughed away. As she thanked Him in advance for the anticipated resolution, an inexplicable calm nestled around Gwynn like a comforting hug.
Aunt Maude finished with, “Amen,” and tightened her fingers about Gwynn’s. “Come to the Jamboree. Hide your face or don’t hide your face—people see what they want to see—but don’t deny yourself a highlight of the Christmas season.”
Gwynn kissed the woman’s wrinkled hands and smiled. “Christmas Jam, here we come.”
* * *
“Whoops!” Gwynn sidestepped a little boy running full tilt among the crowd. From behind her scarf, she grinned after him. Could one blame him for his exuberance? Aunt Maude had spoken truth—the Christmas Jamboree was a highlight of the season, and this year’s festivities held more wonder than Gwynn remembered from her youth.
As she wandered with the Davisons through the kiosks, admiring wares and occasionally talking with vendors, snippets of memories popped to the surface: Savoring the buttery sweetness of funnel cakes dusted with powdered sugar; collecting an illustrated bookmark or clay figurine from a favorite vendor; visiting the Santa Shack where Gramps shrouded his identity behind a thick wig and beard.
Cash and his parents featured among the images, with Ainsley first in a stroller, then causing mischief as a toddler, then as a kindergartner holding Gwynn’s—er, Hadley’s—hand, and later acting as a third wheel when Hadley and Cash wanted to hang out alone.
Gwynn’s cheeks warmed at the recollection of that first official kiss with Cash behind Gramps’ kiosk and a second one shared during the Jam dance in a corner of the gazebo.
Oh, dear—would tonight’s dance come with a kiss?
Scowling, she flipped her Dutch braids over her shoulder. She had no business thinking about kissing Cash. Not when she couldn’t commit to a future. Yet her eyes and beating heart grudgingly acknowledged he was not only a good-looking gentleman , but an endearing, honorable one, as well. Hard facts to gloss over.
Speaking of the charmer, there he stood, two stalls away, inside the Plane & Knotty kiosk, conversing with a woman who scrutinized the child’s desk he’d built.
Her pulse quickened.
“Oh, I see Ellen.” Aunt Maude waved to a woman in the crowd. “I better go say hello.”
“That’s my cue to find Greg and grab a cup of coffee.” Uncle Russ kissed Aunt Maude on the cheek and ambled away.
“Would you like to come with me?” Aunt Maude asked Gwynn. “Or would you prefer to meet somewhere in a little while? Ellen and I do tend to prattle on.”
Gwynn’s gaze flitted back to Cash. “I’ll meet up with you later.”
“Say ‘hi’ to him for me,” Aunt Maude sing-songed and strolled in the direction of her friend.
The heat from Gwynn’s cheeks spread down into her torso. Who needed the sun, weak as it was this time of year, when she had schoolgirl infatuation to keep her warm?
Tweaking her newsboy cap, she moved toward the wooden shelter. Lord, restrain my heart. Let me not—
Charlie Parker lunged into her path, and she jerked to a stop. His black eyes glittered, the ever-present toothpick hanging from his lower lip. “Rumor has it yer her. Hadley Jacobs.”
“I, uh—” She touched the scarf covering her nose and glanced beyond him, but he blocked her view of Cash. “My name is Gwynn.”
“Why’re you back?” Charlie swayed from one foot to the other in a repetitive motion, his hands flexing spasmodically at his sides. “You comin’ fer the ranch? You gonna dig up the hidden money?”
She retreated a step and scanned the area. Where had Aunt Maude gone? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Did Charlie know what had happened that hellish night? He’d been interrogated years ago and come out clean, but what if he’d lied to the police?
A hand cupped her elbow. “There you are, my dear.”
Red plaid registered in her peripheral vision, and Gwynn looked up into the rosy face of the Santa-look-alike. Relief bubbled within her. “It’s you!”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “So it is. Come try my hot chocolate.” He nodded to Charlie. “Charles, if you’ll excuse us.”
Santa knew one of her father’s lackeys?
He maneuvered her between two kiosks, through the little alleyway, and out into another lane of vendors. Humming the Jingle Bells chorus, he approached a quaint red kiosk with a green pitched roof and white trim. Behind the open window, a young woman wearing a gray woolen jacket embroidered with green curlicues handed out steaming cups to the customers waiting in line.
Did the sun shine brighter here, or was it that Charlie no longer posed an immediate threat? Gwynn glanced over her shoulder, but the man hadn’t followed them. What did he want, anyway?
“Thanks for rescuing me,” she said.
“’Tis a shame Charles veered from the path in his youth.” The Santa-look-alike beckoned Gwynn to follow him into the kiosk through a side door. “Never could get him back on the straight and narrow.”
Santa’s helper turned from the window and gave her a wide smile. “You must be Gwynn.” A knitted Santa cap sat at a jaunty angle atop her shoulder-length, copper waves, and her ears—wait, were her ears pointy ?
Why not, Gwynn? It’s Christmastime. What better excuse to dress up as elves or Santa or the Grinch?
The old man indicated the woman with a hand. “This is Tinsel, my granddaughter-in-law.”
“Meister K needed help today.” Tinsel filled a candy-cane striped cup with hot liquid from a dispenser. “So, I volunteered my husband to stay home with the kids.” An impish grin sprang to her mouth as she snapped a lid onto the cup and passed it to a teenager on the other side of the window.
Gwynn lowered her scarf and turned to the man. “Meister K? That’s your name? Why do you keep popping up at random times and then disappearing again without a trace? Cash almost ran you over the other day!” Was it only two days ago? She had grown a ton since then.
But had she become wiser?
Meister K let out a jolly ho, ho, ho and helped fill two cups with liquid chocolate. “My trusty reindeer wouldn’t have let anything happen to me, but thank you for worrying.”
Tinsel snickered. “Blaze had a few choice words for you after the fact.”
Blaze ? Gwynn gave a minute shake of her head and latched onto Meister K’s comment. “That’s all you have to say about what happened? ‘Thank you’?” She jammed her hands on her hips. “You freaked me out!”
“If you hadn’t been so insistent on getting back to Boston, I wouldn’t have had to interfere.” He set the cups on the counter by the window, and Tinsel fitted them with lids.
Gwynn opened and closed her mouth several times, but only a squeak came out. This old man had made her miss her flight? On purpose ? Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
He dipped his chin and looked at her. “You know very well who I am.”
“No.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “No, because Santa Claus isn’t real. He doesn’t exist.”
“Well, no, Santa Claus-as-legend doesn’t exist—society has turned him into an agnostic dolt.” He set two more cups before Tinsel. “Santa Claus-as-man, however, is very much real, and I’m trying to answer your letter. You’re not making it easy for me.” He looked at her over his wire-rimmed glasses. “But then, you’ve always been stubborn, or you wouldn’t have written me in the first place.”
Gwynn straightened in the doorway. “Wait, wait, wait. Supposing for the moment that your mental health isn’t in question, what letter are you talking about?”
Meister K patted his coat pockets. “’Tis true that at the time, you didn’t know you were writing to me. But it came nonetheless.” He checked his pants pocket and then shuffled through a stack of napkins. “Now, where did it go?”
“You didn’t leave it at the Workshop, did you?” Tinsel asked with a quirked eyebrow.
He puffed out his cheeks, his eyes twinkling. “I really need to retire.”
Matching his mirth, Tinsel pressed a striped cup into Gwynn’s hands. “Here. Enjoy my mother’s drinking chocolate.”
“ Drinking chocolate?”
“Melted gourmet chocolate mixed with milk. I added a shot of butterscotch in yours.”
“I love butterscotch,” Gwynn murmured.
“I know.” Tinsel winked.
Gwynn’s gaze ping-ponged between the two Christmassy people before her, her thoughts muddled and sluggish. The dry mountain air, perhaps? “Have I stepped onto the set of an upcoming Hallmark movie?”
Meister K chuckled again. “I’ll get that letter to you in another day or so. Promise me you won’t leave Prospect before then.”
“That’s it? You brought me over here to … give me a letter you don’t actually have? Answer my questions with more riddles? Evade them altogether?”
“Or maybe I invited you here to taste the finest drinking chocolate in the world.” He gestured to her cup. “Try it.”
Suppressing an eye roll, Gwynn lifted the container and took a sip. The creamy, buttery flavor slid over her tongue in a chocolate caress, and she closed her eyes, sagging against the door-jamb. “This is phenomenal.”
“Even better when it doesn’t come from a dispenser.” Tinsel handed two more cups to customers and waved at a little boy. “But I’ll send along your compliments. Drinking chocolate is my mother’s signature treat.”
“And now, you’d best return to your young man.” Meister K moved to the side door. “He’s waited all morning to see you.”
Gwynn frowned. “If you’re talking about Cash Cooper, he isn’t mine.”
“And whose fault is that?” Meister K huffed. “Don’t know the last time I worked so hard to make a Christmas wish come true.” He gestured for Gwynn to exit the kiosk. “Off you go, then, child. And remember.”
She backed into the cold. “Remember what?”
“That’s for you to figure out.” Eyes twinkling, he closed the door with a, “Merry Christmas!”