Page 59 of About Last Christmas
“I thought you had to work.”
“I got to leave early. Why are you out here?” he repeats, but this time, a softness threads his voice.
“I needed air.”
“And to let off a little steam?” He nods at St. Nick.
“Something like that.” The wind picks up, and I tug my coat collar closer to my neck. “I’m sorry I hit you with the snowball.”
“No, you’re not. But I’ll accept your lie, anyway.” Holy fruitcake, that smile of his. “I shouldn’t have sneaked up on you.”
“It’s a habit of yours.”
“Yeah.” He tugs me toward the senior center doors. “You’re definitely becoming a habit.”
“Can you video call me?” I type into the chat box to OldSoulSam and tap Send.
I woke this morning with the awareness that I forgot to check PastPort. PastPort is like an eBay for amateur antique dealers. I normally don’t search the site because all I can picture are thousands of Adelaides wanting to make a killing on a faux piece.
But I’m desperate.
So during my morning coffee, I cracked open my laptop and searched PastPort for a Vallerton. After several rounds of using different keywords, I found a hit.
Someone with the handle “OldSoulSam” and a profile picture of a vintage film projector listed a Vallerton. Though it wasn’t the entire set, only Joseph, Mary, and the baby Jesus. While the wisemen and shepherds are noticeably missing, it’s the most progress I’ve had, and I’m not about to dismiss the chance to secure the key figures.
The price seems fair, but the pictures are fuzzy. Since I never buy sight unseen and flying to Nebraska to inspect them isn’t going to happen, I request a video call to see the pieces. I go to work, checking the site throughout the day, but receive no response.
What Idoget is a text message from Leo inviting me to Ivy Hall tomorrow for dinner. Since the firefighters’ gala, I haven’t indulged my imagination about what could possibly be inside the legendary estate. I didn’t want Leo to think I was using him to gain access. It sounds silly, but after Leo expressed that people are more interested in his possessions than him as a person, my heart did an about-face.
I’m to bring the Silver Creek Secret Santa letters, so I can’t actually call tomorrow night a date. After last night’s party at the senior center, I can admit to myself that I have a crush. I don’t know whether to feed it or smother it with a pillow. Fletcher’s words haunt me like the Ghosts of Christmas. I can’t entertain the idea of a future with Leo if he’s prone to roaming. Long-distance relationships can work, but the end game has to be both of us in Silver Creek, and I can’t be certain this is where he wants to settle.
When I return to my apartment to reheat my exciting dinner of leftover casserole from the party, my PastPort mailbox chimes.
“I have pics posted of the items,” is all OldSoulSam reponds.
Really? I waited all day forthat? Anybody can pull internet pictures of the set. I need something more substantial. A virtual call will help determine authenticity, and so I type that.
I wait a few minutes and get another response, including a video-call invite set for five minutes from now.
A knock sounds at my door.
“It’s me!” Tilly calls. “I’m armed with eighty-sixes!”
“Say no more!” Eighty-sixes are the foods the café makes that are not suitable to sell to the customers. Mostly, it’s a cake that fell flat, a soup that isn’t thick enough, or a salad on its last leg. It doesn’t matter because Tilly’s leftovers are far better than mine. I run to open the door. Tilly of course has a key, but she’s burdened with boxes. “What happened?” I was expecting maybe a couple bags, but Tilly has enough food to last all week.
“One of the businesses booked us for catering, then canceled. So we have fifty finger sandwiches and pastries for dessert.” She smiles. “Which is great because I’m starving.” She places the load onto the counter.
I notice the pastries have a company’s logo on them, no doubt the reason they can’t be sold at the café. “I have to make a video-call first.”
She grabs plates from the cupboard. “To whom?”
“Some guy I just met on the internet.”
“Ha. Ha.” Tilly reaches into a box and grabs some sandwiches. “Who is it, really?”
“Seriously. Some guy who claims he’s got an antique I’m looking for. It’s on PastPort.”
Tilly gasps as if I’ve told her something scandalous. “PastPort?” She hands me a plate full of food. “That hopeless, huh?”
