Page 60 of About Last Christmas
See, she knows my brain. “Yes. I’ll take any lead at present.” I log into the video-call platform and click Enter Meeting.
A man’s face fills the screen, but his phone camera’s tilted up on a table or something. So basically, I have a personal view of OldSoulSam’s nostrils. Grimacing, I put my sandwich down. I might never have an appetite again.
“Hello?” I say. “Can you hear me?”
“Yep. What can I do for you?”
“You claim you have the Vallerton nativity set pieces. I’d like to get a closer look.”
“Hold on.” He picks up the phone and walks with it to another room. Meanwhile, I’m struggling against motion sickness. He angles the camera at the pieces, and I can spot the bottom edges of the Mary figure. Unlike the rip-off piece at Timeless Treasures, this hallmark is legit. Okay. Promising so far. He shows me the hallmarks of the other two pieces.
“Thank you. Can I see the rest of the figurines?”
“Yeah.” He shows me the bodies, placing them close to the camera. Theylookhow they’re supposed to. It bothers me that I can’t test the weight. However, this is the furthest I’ve gotten in this search. OldSoulSam is holding the tops of the pieces, so I don’t yet have a clear glimpse of their heads. “Can I see their faces?”
“Faces?”
“Yes. What’s underneath your hands.”
He’s quiet for a second, then repositions the camera back to the nostril angle. “You’re about to see something spectacular,” he gushes and adopts a transatlantic accent. “These pieces have transformed from stuffy antiques to interpretational art.” He aims the camera on the full figures.
My mouth drops.
Tilly gasps over my shoulder.
“They havenoheads.” I stare at the once beautiful figures.
“Ah, this is where the magic happens. You can imagine the Madonna in your own mind’s eye. See the Christ child with your heart instead of your vision.”
“What I see is a collector’s set that lost all value.” Someone decapitated the figures! The culprit could be a monster with a vendetta against valuable antiques or a kid who found their dad’s hacksaw. Either way, the set is worthless.
“I’m willing to negotiate,” OldSoulSam continues.
“I appreciate your cooperation, but I’m not in the market for headless figurines. Thank you for your time.” I disconnect.
Tilly, who listened to the entire exchange, hands me a scone. “You might need to have dessert first.”
I bite off a chunk. But even a triple-chocolate pastry can’t lift my spirits. I know finding this set is pretty much an impossibility, but I have to try. I just hope Leo didn’t mention this hunt to the dear widow. Because it’s looking like we might need a Christmas miracle.
CHAPTER 19
I pressthe buzzer at the gate to Ivy Hall. I’ve never spoken into an entrance intercom before. What’s the protocol? Is it like a Wendy’s drive-thru where you wait to be greeted before ordering a combo? Right now, I can go for a large order of confidence with a side of wit. I just really want to get through this evening without making a fool of myself.
“Look at you being on time.”
I mock huff at Leo’s teasing through the speaker. “I only confessed to being disorganized. I will not have you insulting my punctuality.” Although my chaotic mind has made me late for things. But I stated my point and am bound to defend it.
He laughs. “Come on in. You can park right under the porte cochere.”
“Port what? Is that another language or rich-person talk?”
“I hear that sarcasm. Just park by the front door.”
A beeping sound precedes the gates swinging back. As I pull up the sloping drive, pathway lights frame the paved road, giving a soft glow. It’s only six o’clock, but it might as well be midnight for how dark the sky is. I take in the snow-capped trees surrounding a palatial-looking home. My lungs squeeze at such opulence. The sprawling brick structure can easily befeatured in magazines. However, the best sight is Leo leaning on the open front door as if he’s been waiting for me all day. A large overhang, supported by pillars, shelters the entrance. Must be the port thingy. However, I can see why Leo wants me to park here. My car won’t get dusted with snow or iced over. The weather seems tame, but snowfall in Ohio is unpredictable from October to March.
I step out of the car, making sure I grab the Secret Santa folder, and meet Leo by the entrance. He’s all casual in gray sweatpants, a hoodie that says, “Silver Creek Fire Dept.,” and—my kryptonite—a backwards hat. An unexpected shyness courses through me. Probably because it’s only been twenty-four hours since I acknowledged my feelings for him. “Hello.” I hate the little quiver in my voice.
“Hey.” He smiles and eases back so I can step inside.
