Page 13 of A South Hill Christmas Keepsake
He chuckled under his breath. There it was again. That spark she carried, the one that made even the simplest idea feel like it might turn into something magical. He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or worried. Probably both.
She turned, one hand on her hip. “Besides, no one would even notice one of those. Have you seen the number of fluttering posters on the poles in this town?”
He shrugged. She had a valid point.
“I’m going to spread the word that people can post their love stories here. I’ve got a basket to hang on the side, and pushpins so people can tack them up if they want.”
He could tell her mind was swirling with ideas.
“Maybe,” she said, “we should write a couple of notes to get it started.”
His brow shot up. “You mean make something up?”
“Of course not, but if you don’t have one, you could write about someone else’s story,” she said. “Maybe one of them holds the key to who once wore this locket.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Well,doubting Thomas, once people get caught up in watching for new messages on theLove Left Behindboard I can post the locket pictures here. With any luck, someone local will recognize those faces.”
“I’m not doubting your plan, just asking questions.” He could tell from her tone there’d be no talking her out of it. So instead, he picked up the sign. “I’m assuming this is what you wanted my muscles for. Where do you want this thing?”
“I’ve got the spot ready for you. Can you carry the sign by yourself?” she asked. “I can help.”
“I’ve got it. Lead the way.”
She started up the sidewalk, boots crunching over the frosted grass, a small cardboard box under her arm. The smell of paintand cold air mingled as they reached the edge of the lawn where the old dogwood stood, its branches bare but laced with twinkle lights that hadn’t yet been plugged in.
“Right here,” she said, pointing to a patch of softened earth.
He crouched to inspect the spot. She’d already prepped the holes, neat and even. “You dug these yourself?” he asked, half impressed, half amused.
“Of course. I can handle a screw gun and a pair of posthole diggers.” She pointed to two 4x4s on the ground. “Mr. Graham donated the posts.”
“Nice of him,” he said, smiling as he as he anchored it to the posts and eased the display into position. He steadied the frame while she knelt beside him, packing the soil with her gloved hands. Their shoulders brushed once, then again, the contact light but enough to make him aware of how close they were.
“There,” she said, brushing off her gloves. “That should do it.”
He gave the board a light shake. “Solid.” The lettering gleamed against the winter gray, bold and hopeful. “Looks good. People will notice this for sure.”
She stepped back beside him, tilting her chin toward the sign. “That’s the idea. A place for folks to leave messages, memories, maybe even confessions. If that locket belonged to someone in love, maybe their story will find its way back here.”
Nate studied her for a moment, admiring the way her eyes caught the light. She had that same unshakable faith his grandmother used to talk about—hope stitched right into her bones.
“Well,” he said finally, “if faith and hard work can bring a story home, I’d say you’ve already stacked the odds in your favor.”
Her smile came slow, soft, and sure. “Guess we’ll see.”
They stood there a moment longer beneath the dogwood, the night still and winter air cool, the painted sign gleaming between them like a promise.
He gave the sign a testing shake. “Sturdy. Nice work.”
“Thanks for the help,” she said, her smile lingering a beat longer than necessary.
“You’re welcome.” Nate stepped beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed as they looked over the scene. The quiet hum of Main Street came alive around the corner. In a while, all the lights here atDogwood Hallwould come on with the timer and illuminate this area and the new Lost Love Board.
Hannah Leigh For a moment, it seemed like they’d built something that mattered, even if it was just a sign and a dream. went digging through the box and hung a basket of notecards and ink pens on the side from a small hook already there. “There we go.”
He read the words on the front of the basket.
