Page 56 of Christmas Charms
Mine. I know it was. It sounded so whimsical and romantic at the time—like a whipped-cream evening, as Johnny Mathis might say. I should probably stop getting enchanted by the idea of a perfect holiday date and concentrate on living in the real world. The last time I thought I was going to have the ultimate Christmas date, I ended up breaking up with my boyfriend of three years. I’m still haunted by the thought of mozzarella cheese.
But the breakup was truly for the best, and my time in Owl Lake has felt far more like a dream than actual reality, thanks to the bracelet.
“This was your idea, darling,” Aidan says, and the endearment make me feel warm all over. I’m practically baking inside my Santa suit. “And it was a good one. Don’t you know by now that I’d never let you fall?”
Well, then.
Perhaps this experience won’t be such a disaster, after all. My gaze swivels toward the pond, and there are skating Santas as far as my eyes can see. This is madness—sweet, hilarious madness. Pastor Mike was right. The Santa Skate is pure Christmas magic.
The clergyman wizzes past us with outstretched airplane arms and a look of mild terror on his face. Aidan calls out to him, and he waves wildly at us until his balance starts to falter. He lurches forward a few steps, then seems to regain his footing. I am so not ready for this.
Aidan ties my laces into triple-knots, then stands and pulls me to my feet. I let out a squeal.
“Ready?” He waggles his eyebrows. Fruitcake woofs as if he thinks watching us out on the frozen pond is going to be every bit as entertaining as the Ice Capades.
I push my Santa hat further back on my head and nod. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Aidan wraps his big hand around mine, and we head toward the pond. I’m a little wobbly on my skates, and we haven’t even hit the ice yet. But then I step tentatively onto the frozen surface of the pond and within seconds, we’re gliding, hand-in-hand.
It feels like we’re floating. Our skates slide against the ice in perfect unison, and it’s like Aidan and I are dancing, only better. It’s so serene, and everyone around us is smiling and laughing—a merry, moving blur of holiday cheer. This is even better than I pictured it. A whipped-cream date, indeed.
We’re surrounded by Santas. There are Santa couples, skating hand-in-hand like Aidan and me, tiny tot Santas and entire families, linked arm-in-arm. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I wonder briefly why the skating rink at Rockefeller Center hasn’t hosted something like this, but I dismiss the thought as quickly as it comes. The Santa Skate belongs in North Pole. It’s the perfect place for this.
I take a deep breath as we head into the first turn, and cold air prickles my lungs, like I’ve just taken a big bite out of a snow cone. My ankles wobble like crazy, but Aidan grips my hand tighter and we make it safely around. In the center of the pond, one of the Santas leaps into the air and then lands on the ice with one foot, executing a graceful pirouette. The crowd erupts into a huge cheer.
Aidan gives my hand a squeeze and when I glance over at him, the wind against my face makes my eyes water. At least that’s what I choose to believe, because if I’m so happy that I’m crying, I won’t be able to leave this marshmallow world when Christmas is over, no matter what kind of promises I’ve made or how many times I’ve reminded everyone that I don’t really live in Owl Lake anymore.
Aidan blinks against the wind. His eyes look just as shiny and wet as mine feel as he lifts my hand to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to my mitten. His earlier promise spins round and round in my head, like a skater twirling on ice.
Don’t you know by now that I’d never let you fall?
It’s too late, though. I’m already falling…I’ve been falling for Aidan Flynn all over again since the moment I saw him outside of the toy store back in the city.
I blink hard, then the blade on my right skate hits a groove in the ice. The lovely, floating feeling in my chest winds itself into a tight ball of panic. My feet seem to slide in completely opposite directions.
I’m going down. I just know it.
I let go of Aidan’s hand and windmill my arms, trying to regain control, but it feels like the pond is turning sideways. Somewhere above the Christmas carols and the scrape of skates against the ice, I hear Fruitcake barking in alarm. I look toward the picnic tables where he’s waiting for us, as loyal and obedient as ever. It’s okay, I try to tell him with my eyes. Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.
But then my feet slide out from under me and I go airborne.
It all happens too fast for me to scream. All I can do is close my eyes and wait to slam into the ice. But the moment of impact never comes. Instead, I feel a pair of warm, solid arms catch me on my way down.
I gasp, and when my eyes flutter open, I’m clutching the front of Aidan’s Santa suit for dear life as he cradles me against his chest. He’s still gliding along with the rest of the Santas, carrying me in his arms and smiling down at me.
“I told you I’d catch you,” he says.
I’m sparkling inside. “You sure did.”
Jingle, jingle.
A tiny piece of my heart breaks at the special ring of another charm come to life, but it’s hard to be sad, even though it means there are only three charms left. I’m scared to fall. I’ve done it before, and it ended in disaster. But there’s a candy-cane breeze in my hair, my cheek is nestled against Aidan’s shoulder and we’re surrounded by Christmas magic on ice.
Maybe it’s okay to let myself go, just this once.
Later that night, I sit on my bed and pull out the bag of broken jewelry that Susan gave me from Enchanted Jewels. I can’t sleep. Dozens of Santas are skating through my head, and I can’t stop thinking about Aidan gathering me into his arms so I wouldn’t fall on my face. I have to find a way to occupy my restless mind and emotions, so I do what I always do whenever I’m troubled—lose myself in a collection of abandoned treasures. Running a polishing cloth over the neglected pieces is soothing. Rubbing away the tarnish feels like ridding the vintage treasures of the ravages of time.
Hours into the chore, I find a pocket watch near the bottom of the bag. It’s sterling silver, with swirls etched onto the back of its clock face and a serpentine chain. I turn it over in my hands, examining it. It’s missing its cover—a casualty of years gone by—but when I wind it up, it clicks a steady beat, ticking out the minutes one by one. My heart does a little leap. I can’t believe it still works.
