Page 62 of A South Hill Christmas Keepsake
“Hannah Leigh. Come here. Quick.”
“What is it?” She read the text and then her mouth dropped wide. “Oh my gosh?”
Nate opened the link, and they both lean in close. The first attachment was Henry Bell’s obituary.Henry Joseph Bell, 84, of Chicago, Illinois, passed peacefully surrounded by family.A lifetime captured in a few lines. Reporter. Traveler. Brother to Mabel Kensington of Charlotte, North Carolina.
Nate exhaled, leaning back. “You made it to eighty-four, Henry,” he murmured. “Guess life gave you a few more stories.”
Nate looked back at the email. “Look. My friend says he found his sister Mabel’s contact listed in a local directory and left amessage explaining who he was and what he’d found in South Hill. He didn’t expect to hear back. But the next afternoon, an email appeared in his inbox. The subject line simply read:About Henry.
He opened that attachment, and they read it together.
Dear Sir,
Your voice mail caught me off guard, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised my brother left pieces of himself scattered in the towns he loved. His work was his life.
Henry spoke of South Hill often, and of a young woman named Ruthie. He said she had a laugh that could outshine a church bell and a heart big enough for both of them.
He talked about how she didn’t show up that night of the storm when he’d planned to ask her to marry him. From that day forward, work was his whole life.
He carried a newspaper clipping in his wallet until the day he died. A story about a holiday party with a picture of the two of them dancing, along with a receipt for a locket engraved at a jewelry shop there in South Hill. Maybe he hoped someone would find it and understand what it meant.
Ruthie was the only woman who ever had my brother’s heart.
Thank you for finding her story. For finishing what he couldn’t.
With gratitude,
Mabel Kensington
Hannah Leigh’s eyes glistened. “He never stopped loving her.”
Nate nodded slowly, his voice soft. “No. He just ran out of time.”
They stood there for a moment. Then Hannah Leigh looked up, a small, sure smile tugging at her lips. “I think Ruthie finally gets her ending. At least she knows for sure.”
Nate reached for her hand, their fingers brushing. “Maybe Henry does too.”
“We need to print all of this out for her and give it to her when we get the locket back,” she said. “I wish we could get it to her by Christmas.”
“That’s probably a long shot, but I’m pretty sure she’s going to be grateful to have this no matter when we’re able to get it to her,” Nate said.
“She’s waited so long. I wish they’d never given up.”
Nate pulled Hannah Leigh into a hug.I’ll never give up on you.
Outside, snow drifted across Main Street, settling like a benediction over the town that had held their stories — the old and the new — long enough for love to find its way home.
On Christmas morning, the whole town felt hushed under the snow, as if it were holding its breath in gratitude.
Nate had been up for hours. Sleep wasn’t an option, not after the way Hannah Leigh had looked at him last night. He’d slipped out before dawn, let himself into Aunt Winnie’s kitchen with her blessing, to surprise Hannah Leigh the only way he knew how, by building something from scratch.
Butter sizzled, coffee brewed, and flour streaked his sleeve. The biscuits weren’t perfect, but they were golden and warm. The air smelled rich and welcoming.
Aunt Winnie peeked around the corner, her eyes twinkling. “Lord help me, you look like you wrestled that biscuit dough and lost.”
“Not true,” he said, grinning. “I won. Barely.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll let you take the glory.” She patted his arm, already bundling into her coat. “I’m off to carol with the ladies over at the assisted living home.”
