Page 12 of Christmas Charms
“Is that seat taken?” I ask.
She looks up from the bundle of knitting in her lap, and I see that her reading glasses are red-rimmed with clusters of holly leaves and berries decorating the corners of the frames. “It’s all yours, dear,” she says, gathering her things so she can stand and let me by.
I feel myself smile ear-to-ear. She’s giving off a major Mrs. Claus vibe that I find particularly endearing. “Thanks so much.”
After the passenger across the aisle helps me heave my bag onto the overhead rack, I settle in beside my seatmate and check my phone. Still no conciliatory text from Jeremy, which I pretty much expected. He’s probably halfway to France by now.
Last night, I decided to keep my trip to Owl Lake a secret, just in case. I haven’t told my parents I’m coming, lest Jeremy make some sort of last-minute grand gesture that will undo the misery of the night before. Which is ridiculous, because after tossing and turning all night, I’m not even sure Iwanta grand gesture from him. Somewhere deep down in the pit of my stomach, I’m not sure there’s anything he could say or do to convince me that I actually want to marry him. Everything has gotten so confusing. It’s not until the train begins pulling out of the station that I fully absorb the fact that Jeremy won’t arrive, running through the station at the last moment while the music swells, to tell me he can’t live without me. There will be no trip to Paris with a ring on my finger. I’m actually going to sleep in my childhood bed tonight, far away from the glittering lights of New York and an entire world away from the Musée du Louvre.
I take a deep breath and focus on the scenery on the other side of the train window. The farther we crawl away from the city, the thicker the snowfall becomes, until the ground is covered by a deep layer of sparkling white. Icicles cling to the tree branches, and the train casts a cool blue shadow over the horizon. I almost feel like we’re headed toward the North Pole.
“Are you on your way home for the holidays?” the older woman beside me asks.
I glance at her hands and the careful, rhythmic motion of her knitting needles and catch sight of a flash of silver dangling from one of her wrists. “Yes, you?”
She nods. “Oh, definitely. It’s that time of year, isn’t it?”
My heart gives a little tug. Before I left Owl Lake for college, if anyone would have told me I’d miss eight Christmases in a row at home, I never would have believed them. Then again, I’d never have believed I’d turn down a proposal from Aidan Flynn either.
I press my hand against the ache in my chest.
“I’m Ashley,” I say. “Ashley James.”
“Nice to meet you, dear. My name is Betty.” She pauses from her knitting to offer me her hand.
As I shake it, I get a better look at the bracelet I spied earlier on her wrist and gasp. “Oh my, look at your charm bracelet. Is it vintage?”
It shimmers under the fluorescent lights of the train. Sterling silver, possibly even white gold. The charms are like none I’ve seen before—as if they’re from another era, like perfect, tiny images from Christmas cards that have been lovingly saved and pressed into the pages of a scrapbook. I spy a silver dog with a red enamel bow around its neck and a Christmas tree topped with a glittering gold star. There are more, and all of them seem to be either winter or Christmas-themed. It’s a lovely piece of jewelry, and when she withdraws her hand from mine, the movement of the charms sounds like jingle bells.
“This old thing?” She laughs. “Indeed. It’s even older than I am.”
Timeless, I think. “It’s quite beautiful. I’ve never seen one like it, and charms are kind of my thing.”
“Is that so?” She tilts her head and regards me with an intensity that makes my cheeks go warm. “Tell me more, dear.”
So I do. I tell her all about my job at Windsor and every collection of charms that has graced the display case in my department since I started working there four years ago. I tell her about the necklace I made for Maya with the Santa charm and eight tiny reindeer. I tell her about all my favorite booths at Brooklyn Flea and which ones have the best selection of antique silver pieces.
“Charms really are your thing, aren’t they?” she says.
I nod. “I studied jewelry making in college. Re-crafting vintage pieces is my specialty.”
Betty frowns down at her knitting and the click-clack of her needles stops. “Then why aren’t you selling your own designs?”
“You mean I should open an Etsy store or something?” I’ve considered it, but with all my hours at Windsor, I’ve never found the time to make enough pieces to keep a side business up and running.
“Not exactly.” Betty gives me another of those soul-piercing looks that makes my cheeks warm. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you just might need to learn to dream bigger.”
Seriously? Windsor Fine Jewelry is one of the most glamorous and recognizable jewelry stores in the world. It’s legendary. What could be bigger than working there? But as Betty’s charm bracelet rattles, drawing my eyes to its silver shimmer, I get the distinct feeling that Betty isn’t talking about Windsor at all.
“Dream bigger.” I let out a laugh. “You sound like my roommate. She keeps telling me I’m going to have the Christmas of my dreams, even though it’s been pretty much of a disaster so far.”
“I sensed something might be amiss. You seem sad, dear, and no one should be sad at Christmas. It’s the most magical time of the year.”
There’s that word again.Magical.
Something inside my chest loosens, like a shiny satin ribbon unspooling. I have the sudden urge to tell Betty everything, even though she’s a total stranger. “I suppose I am sad. I thought my boyfriend was going to propose last night, but it was just a crazy misunderstanding. And now he’s no longer my boyfriend.”
“I’m sorry,” she says.
