Page 146 of Book and Ladder
People filled the lawn and wrapped down the block for our official grand opening. I miss the old property, but I’ve barely had a minute to dwell on the loss since we started this project of relocation. Cass’ words to me sit in a frame behind the cash register, a daily reminder that the heart of what we do for our communities isn’t bound to a location. We are that heartbeat, and the place where we serve our friends and neighbors is secondary to the spirit of love behind our actions.
“Here. Better?” I ask, tugging gently at the fake white hair to free it from the elastic.
“No,” he pouts, but his eyes sparkle. “Be my Mrs. Claus.”
“Are you proposing, Saint Nick?” My eyes crinkle and I look up at him through my lashes.
“Not yet.” He winks. His eyes study me, darting between mine.
We’ve talked about our future. Are we moving quickly? Probably. Maybe. But it doesn’t feel like rushing. We’re making up for all the years we lost holding grudges and allowing hurt to blind us from our true feelings.
Patrick’s either at my side of the duplex or I’m at his every night he’s off shift. And those Kelly shifts are my favorite. Every three or four weeks Patrick has nearly four days off in a row. On his last Kelly rotation, we asked Effie, Waylon, Winona, and my new hire, Jane, to cover the shop so Patrick could take me to the cabin he once told me about in an email.
Waylon’s still at the thrift shop, but he picks up shifts here on his off time. Winona’s stint serving tea didn’t last long—turns out she truly was a bull in a china shop. She’s back here part-time now, talking about nursing school after reading a romance about a nurse and her patient. Only Winona would pick a career because of a fictional meet-cute.
Patrick’s cabin was exactly as I had imagined it. A place tucked in the Smokies with views for days. And even though we went at the tail end of fall, the landscape did not disappoint. We hiked in the woods, spent late nights around the fire, and snuggled up on the porch with blankets and our books. It was hands down the best four days of my life.
“Do you know how much I love you?” Patrick asks, a smile quirking beneath that ridiculous beard.
I giggle again because even in my wildest childhood dreams, I never longed for Santa to profess his love to me.
“Why is that funny?” Patrick asks, a serious expression on his gorgeous face.
“Because, you’re Santa.”
“That’s Santa Baby to you,” he smiles and wags his dark eyebrows—a contrast to the stark white of his wig and beard.
I look up at him, taking in everything that’s mine. He’s mine now. And he reminds me I’m his every single day.
“Okay, Santa Baby,” I play along. “How much do you love me?”
“Enough to wear this suit even if it gives me beard rash.”
“That’s a lot of love,” I say, my voice dreamy. “And I love you. So much.”
He shakes his head lightly. “I can’t believe we made it here. You gave me another chance.”
“You made it so easy for me,” I remind him. “You did all the heavy lifting.”
“Firefighter workouts make heavy lifting light work.”
We laugh and he wraps his arms around me. We’re separated by the pillow stuffed under his red coat with black buttons and fur collar.
We’re ridiculously in love with one another—so sweet, we probably shouldn’t be seen in public until this initial hum between us fades. I’m assuming it will, but maybe I’m wrong.There’s something about finding someone you almost lost that makes you appreciate the fact that you have them more precious. I’ll never take us for granted.
“We’d better get downstairs,” I say. “People will be arriving before too long.”
Patrick leans in and kisses my cheek. I think he momentarily forgot that he has the beard on. He’s right, it’s scratchy, but I snuggle into him anyway, finding a spot on his cheek to kiss him back.
I open the office door and the two of us descend the old wooden stairs together, my hands running along the railing that’s seen years of families gripping it and probably sliding down it. The intricate woodwork on the spindles whispers of a time when craftsmanship was honored and men took pride in the details of every carved curve. This house needs work, but Liam, a local handyman, did a lot of the essential repairs before we opened. He’s already lined up volunteers to help continue the restoration over the next few months.
The original Moss and Maple was built from my grandparents’ dream. This one was founded by the community of Waterford. They own this shop as much as I do, each one of their hearts beating through the walls lined with shelves of books, etched into the welcome mat on the porch, hung with the photos of donors along the back wall in the non-fiction room.
Patrick takes a seat in the wingback chair in the corner of our children’s nook, looking the part with the exception of those telltale dark brows of his.
I pull the two oversized cardboard boxes wrapped in gift wrap out so they flank the front door. The “price” of admission to our Holiday Story Hour with Santa is a wrapped toy for a local child in need.
Customers start to pour in around noon, moms with kids,sometimes the dad tagging along, holding a child’s hand or carrying one on his hip. Their eyes rove the store, taking in the string lights along the walls, and the sprigs of holly and pine lining the counter in front of the cash register.
