Page 16 of Christmas Charms
My mom’s face is open and honest. It always has been, so I can also tell she’s not faking anything or putting me on. She genuinely thinks the friendly pup belongs to me.
“Fruitcake,” I deadpan.
Because something truly nutty is going on.
An hour or so later, I’m back in my childhood bedroom, rummaging through my suitcase for my pajamas. My parents have been incredibly kind and patient about my unexpected visit, even though I sort of skimmed over the details of my breakup with Jeremy.
Full disclosure: my parents aren’t exactly his biggest fans—and that’s not anything new. Jeremy has never set foot in Owl Lake, but my mom and dad met him on a few occasions when they visited me in the city. I always thought they’d eventually get along like gangbusters once they had a chance to really get to know one another, but it seemed like every time we all got together, Jeremy either got called away to deal with some big work emergency at Windsor in person, or his cell phone blew up like crazy and he gave it all his attention instead of interacting with us. Either way, my mom’s smile would always grow increasingly strained around the edges, and one time, I overheard my dad mutter something terrible under his breath.
That Jeremy is no Aidan Flynn.
We’d been out to brunch at The Mark—Jeremy’s treat—and I’d walked Jeremy to the lobby after he’d been summoned back to Windsor to assist a celebrity client who was having some sort of diamond crisis. Once I’d seen him off, I returned to the table just in time to accidentally hear my dad’s rather blunt assessment of my new boyfriend.
“It’s not a contest,” my mom had said, in true mom form.
And despite the fact that my father’s words hadn’t actually had anything to do with me personally, my face burned with shame. I managed to slink to the bathroom and hide for a few minutes until I could force a smile and return to the table.
I frown as I tug my candy cane–striped pajamas from my luggage. It’s funny, I haven’t thought about the brunch incident in a long time. Years, probably. It happened about six months into my relationship with Jeremy. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to ignore my father’s opinion.
But he’d compared Jeremy to Aidan.Really, Dad?Aidan hasn’t been part of my life since the summer after high school. By the time they met Jeremy, Aidan and I were ancient history. And now our relationship is evenmoreancient. The concept of Aidan and me is basically prehistoric.
Then why do you keep thinking about him?
I roll my eyes at myself. It’s kind of hard not to think about Aidan Flynn, given my current surroundings. Our prom picture is still hanging on my bedroom wall, while faded, dried flowers from the wrist corsage he gave me at our senior homecoming dance are still pinned to the bulletin board. And somewhere at the bottom of my jewelry box, Aidan’s class ring is probably buried beneath my earliest attempts at jewelry design.
All the mementos are messing with my head, that’s all. So I turn my back on them and find Fruitcake stretched out on the foot of my bed like he’s lived here all his life. His tail beats wildly against the duvet when I meet his gaze. Thump-thump-thump.
“Where did you come from, and what are you doing here?” I ask. Then, more pointedly, “Why me?”
I’m talking to a dog.
No, it’s worse than that—I’m talking to a dog as if he knows the answers to all of my life’s questions. I’ve got to stop doing this. First Betty, now Fruitcake.
I pull on my pjs and climb into bed. Fruitcake is basically a giant, furry foot warmer, and I have to admit—it’s not terrible. He’s really rather cozy, and I have to remind myself that he doesn’t actually belong to me, despite whatever my parents may think. I need to try and find his owner, just like I still need to locate Betty so I can return her bracelet.
While I’m thinking about Betty, I reach to unclasp her charm bracelet from around my wrist. I can’t exactly sleep with it on. Most of the bracelets we sell at Windsor feature a toggle clasp, but this piece is older and it connects with a simple silver spring ring. Spring rings date back to around 1900, which matches my best estimate for the time period of the charms.
I press on the clasp’s tiny lever with the pad of my thumb, but it refuses to budge. Weird. It must be jammed or something.
I try again…and again. Still nothing. The lever is completely unmovable, which seems extra strange, considering I had no trouble at all with it when I put the bracelet on earlier. And I’d even been in a rush at that point.
Fruitcake shimmies further toward the head of the bed until he’s close enough to rest his head in my lap. He watches, eyes shining, as I continue struggling with the bracelet.
It’s no use. My thumb is tender and throbbing, and I’ve made no progress whatsoever with the clasp. Iamgoing to have to sleep with it on—and just hope that I don’t accidentally stab myself in the eye with the sharp edge of a tiny charm in the middle of the night.
I do a quick inventory of the charms, checking for anything particularly pointy. There’s a snowman with nice, rounded edges—perfect. But as I keep flipping through the tiny silver pieces, I spot a house charm that makes my eyes widen. It’s an old-fashioned cottage that looks like it came straight out of Owl Lake. A fir tree with minuscule little bows on its branches sits in front of the cottage, along with—prepare for goosebumps—a replica of Santa’s sleigh.
No way.
The tableau is an exact replica of the house I’m sitting in, decorations and all. Adirondack-style Christmas cottage, check. Fir tree tipped with bows, check. Antique sleigh, check. What are the odds?
While I’m staring at the charm, the bracelet makes a sudden tinkling noise, like the ring of a bell. I’m not going to lie. I’m a little freaked out. More strange things have happened to me today than the rest of my life put together.
Fruitcake lets out a snuffling sound and nudges the bracelet with the tip of his nose. He cocks his head, and at first, I’m grateful for the interruption. Betty, the bracelet, the house charm, Fruitcake himself—they’re all just funny coincidences. There’s really no other explanation.
But then I catch a glimpse of the charm dangling right beside the little silver house—it’s the one that originally caught my eye when I first spotted the bracelet on Betty’s wrist. It’s a tiny silver dog with a red enamel bow on its neck. I hear the same distinct tinkling noise again, and my eyes go wide.
Jingle, jingle.
