Page 53 of About Last Christmas
Leo glances at the folder between us. “A few of the letters were beat up. I couldn’t read them.”
“Ugh, yeah.” I snatch my water bottle from the table and wash down my breakfast. “Some Scrooge swiped the letters from the café community mailbox and trashed them. Tilly salvaged what she could.” But I agree. Some of those letters are hardly legible. What if one of those ruined entries was written by the perfect candidate?
“Might be wise to invest in locked, slotted boxes for next year.”
I don’t want to think about next Christmas. I’m struggling with this one.
“I started weeding out the letters that have no contact information.” He lifts a small pile of papers. “Unfortunately, since there’s no way to reach these people, you can count them out.”
I nod. “Those are probably from people who submitted their letters at the in-store mailboxes. There’s no envelope or email address on them to trace back.” I grab my phone, open my notes app, and, like the recovering messaholic I am, jot down reminders for the future, such as discovering ways to ensure candidates include their contact info and Leo’s suggestion about buying locked mailboxes. “Okay. We’re making progress.” I glance at the pile, then at him. “Do any of them scream at you?”
He exhales. “There are a lot of needs. I didn’t get a chance to read through them all, but the ones I did are heart-wrenching.”
“Right? And my main issue is how to know which are legit.”
“Let’s work through them, one at a time.” He picks up the stack of letters. “We’ll see how much headway we can make in an hour and go from there.”
I appreciate him taking the time to help, but I feel bad. Yeah, we made a bargain, but I’m not sure I can hold up my end of the deal in finding him the Vallerton. Though just to let him know I’m trying, I say, “I’ve reached out to several of Gran’s old contacts in the antique world. I didn’t before because many of them are retired. I’m hoping they might know someone who can give us a lead.”
“Thank you.” He gives an appreciative smile, but the skin around his eyes tightens. I noticed this shift in mood the day he’d first asked about the antiques. Something tells me there’s a story behind this search, and, judging by his previous reluctance, it might not be one with a happy ending.
“I remember you saying the antiques aren’t for you. Can I ask who they’re for?”
He sets the folder between us on the sofa, a frown settling between his dark brows.
“If it’s too personal, you don’t have to tell.”
“Last Christmas.” He sits forward and clasps his hands between his open knees, his gaze fixing on the rug. “The housefire that happened the night of our date. It was brutal.” He exhales a ragged breath. “An elderly couple was inside.”
I gasp, but he continues. “The husband came out first, thinking the wife was already rescued. When he didn’t see her, he went back into the flames.” Leo’s large frame is rigid and tense, but it’s the haunted notes in his glower that has my heart tearing at the edges. “What sucks is, the wifewasrescued. The firefighter brought her out the back door. The husband didn’tknow, and he went on searching for her. By the time I got to him, he’d collapsed from smoke inhalation.” He shook his head. “He didn’t make it.”
I cover my open mouth. How awful. “And his wife?”
“She survived, but she’s heartbroken. They’d been married over sixty years.”
My eyes sting. This couple shared a long love like Gran and Pap. Pap grieves his bride in his own way, and I know he misses her, especially during her favorite season. But this? It’s tragic on so many levels.
“If the husband only waited another couple of minutes, he’d still be alive.” Leo’s voice is heavy with regret. “He didn’t think. Just ran back into the fire.”
“Of course he did. Because love doesn’t think. It acts.” I glance away to swipe at the tears collecting on my lower lashes. “He did all he could to make her world right again. Even if it cost him. Because that’s what sacrificial love does. It gives without a second thought.” Leo’s gaze is on me, and I’m unsure if it’s because I got emotional or because I talked too much.
“I visited her a couple months after everything happened.”
“Do you usually do that? Visit the families, I mean?”
He swallows. “Sometimes. This one was different. It was tough on me.” He’s staring at the rug again. “I hadn’t lost anyone before. I replayed that night a thousand times, thinking about what I could’ve done to get to him sooner.”
Then it clicks. This must be theincidentFletcher had referred to at the firefighters’ charity event. “I’m sure you did all you could. My heart aches for the widow, but I hope you aren’t taking any guilt.”
He keeps quiet, which is an answer in itself.
“What happened when you visited her?” Surely, she didn’t blame him.
“She honored his memory by telling me story after story.”
“And you listened.” One thing about Leo, he gives you his undivided attention.
“Yeah. She brought up the antiques, like the ceramic tree.” He shifts, facing more fully toward me. “You know, the one you already found? She said that they would set it up every year together.”
