Page 12 of A South Hill Christmas Keepsake
“Just keeping us grounded in reality.”
“Well, reality’s overrated.” She slipped the locket into her coat pocket. “I’m choosing the love story.”
He winced. “Sorry, but that tree’s probably seen a lot of breakups over the years.”
“Well, according to Aunt Winnie, this tree’s got its own love story. Two people were supposed to meet under it, but a snowstorm hit, and the guy had to be on the midnight train, and that was the end of that.”
“Isn’t that a song? Gladys Knight right? Figures you’d cite a love song for support.” He made the woo-woo sound from the chorus ofMidnight Train to Georgia.
“Well, you are no Pip.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Have you always been this cynical?” No wonder he was still single.
“Hey, it was train-related. It was funny, not cynical.”
“Says you.” She couldn’t believe he could be so blasé about the whole thing. “It’s a lovely story.”
He sighed. “Not with the romantic locket again.”
Flummoxed, she let out a huff. “Don’t judge. It could be something special.”
“Or a dime store locket that someone threw away, or gave their granddaughter to wear, and she lost it on the playground.”
“Go ahead. Make fun,” she said. “I want to find the owner, or at least a family member.”
He rolled his eyes. “How are you going to do that?”
“It’s a small town. Someone would have to recognize these people,” she said, realizing she was sounding a little defensive.
“Now, you’re getting all googly-eyed over the whole idea of hunting them down?”
“Think what you want.” She went back to decorating the surrounding bushes with ornaments, but she couldn’t stop glancing toward the spot where she’d found the locket. Something about it tugged at her. The tree, the initials, the date. That piece of jewelry wasn’t a cheap trinket either. It was a breadcrumb from a story waiting to be told.
When they finished decorating, dusk had draped South Hill in shades of rose and golden orange. The dogwood shimmered beneath a feathery light net of tiny white lights, every branch glittering as if it remembered being part of something important.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next day, Nate pulled into the parking lot in front of Dogwood Hall after lunch, in response to Hannah Leigh’s text that had read only:Need a hand. Bring muscles and an open mind to the dogwood.
He spotted her before the engine even cooled. She was standing near her SUV, sawhorses flanking a wide plank of painted wood that caught the winter light. Her hair lifted in the light breeze, and she had that determined set to her shoulders. The one that said she’d already made up her mind, and the rest of the world would have to catch up.
Smudges of green and ivory streaked her gloves, and a little crescent of paint marked her cheek like a badge of creativity. The scene looked more like a pop-up art fair than a parking lot. A thermos sat nearby, steam curling faintly from the lid, and the air carried the mingled scents of cedar, cold pavement, and fresh paint.
He climbed out, tucking his hands in his jacket pockets as he walked toward her. “Should I even ask?”
She glanced over her shoulder, eyes bright, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Just in time. What do you think?”
He came closer, the sign’s bold white lettering taking shape:
Love Left Behind Board
Meet Me at the Dogwood — A New South Hill Tradition
He let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll give you this—you don’t think small.”
She grinned, clearly proud. “Told you I was serious about finding the owner of that locket. And this is how we’re going to do it.”
He folded his arms, trying not to smile. “Couldn’t you post a flyer like a normal person?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
