by Teri Wilson
“People like us?” I echo.
“You know what I mean.”
Why does he keep saying that? I’m beginning to think Jeremy doesn’t actually get me at all.
“I honestly don’t.” I wrap my arms around my myself tightly in an effort to hold myself together.
“Babe.” He reaches for me from across the table, and I somehow manage to let him hold my ring-less hand. “Marriage? Really? Why would we want to go down that road? We’re living the dream.”
I nod mutely, trying my best to hold onto the feeling of Audrey’s pink diamond resting against my skin. Audrey Hepburn would handle this sort of disappointment with grace and poise. She’d never weep into a slice of pepperoni pizza.
“Look around.” Jeremy waves his free hand toward the view outside the window. Central Park dazzles with twinkling lights, and the gentle snowfall is so beautiful, it nearly makes me cry. I push back the urge since no matter how desperately I want to believe the gorgeous holiday scenery is the reason for the tears just on the verge of brimming, I know better. “Tonight, it’s Manhattan. Tomorrow, it’ll be Paris. We’ve got the sort of glamorous lives that most people only dream of.”
Paris.
During the past few devastating minutes, I’d somehow forgotten all about our romantic holiday vacation.
I take a deep breath. Back at my apartment, my passport is probably diving back inside a drawer, never to be seen again. As much as I’ve always wanted to go to Paris, it’s the absolute last place I want to be with Jeremy at the moment. “So you’re saying that after three years together, you’re not ready to get engaged.”
He gives me a tentative smile. “I guess so, yeah. But babe, that doesn’t mean…”
I stand without letting him finish. I’ve heard enough.
“Please stop explaining—it’s okay,” I say.
Really, it is. Because the more I think about it, the more I realize I’m not ready for marriage, either. Not to Jeremy, anyway. Not after tonight.
I slide into my coat, and the charm on my vintage pin gives a little jingle. Such a Christmassy sound. So joyful, when I’m feeling the exact opposite.
“I hope you and your family have a very merry Christmas,” I say, and then I give Jeremy one last wobbly smile before heading out into the cold.
Alone.
Chapter Four
“Please tell me you at least left him sitting there with cheese stuck to his chin.” Maya passes me the small carton of gingerbread ice cream she dug out of the freezer the minute I turned up back in our tiny living room wearing my broken heart on my sleeve.
I blink back tears and dig in with my spoon. If there’s a genuine cure for heartbreak at Christmas, it’s got to involve gingerbread. “I couldn’t. It seemed mean.”
Before leaving Jeremy at the pizza place, I’d caved, handed him a napkin and told him about the cheese. I figured I owed him that much after three wonderful years together.
Although, truth be told, I’m not sure they’d been altogether wonderful. I’m not sure of anything at this point.
“He deserved it,” Maya says, jabbing at the air with her spoon for emphasis. “He deserved worse. You should have dumped your pizza on his head and smeared the tomato sauce in his hair. You dated for three years, and he’s still rolling his eyes at the thought of marriage. He deserves way more than public humiliation by way of cheese.”
I try to laugh, but I can’t. All that comes out is a pathetic strangled noise. Somewhere between Central Park and my living room sofa, I’ve gone numb. I’m not going to Paris for Christmas. There will be no candlelight service at Sainte Chapelle, no Christmas Eve stroll along the Seine, no fancy party at the Ritz. Jeremy and I are finished, all because I’d suddenly believed that we lived in a Windsor holiday ad when in fact, we do not.
What was I thinking? I’m almost twenty-seven—far too old to believe in Christmas magic.
Maya sighs. “Come to think of it, I might be the one who deserves punishment. I feel like this is all my fault. I should never have mentioned the ring.”
“Stop.” I shake my head. “Don’t be silly. You were just looking out for me.”
“I’m sorry. Seriously, Ash. So, so sorry.” Her face crumples, and just when I think it’s impossible to feel any worse about this evening’s dire turn of events, I do.
“Please don’t apologize. None of this is your fault.” I nibble on my bottom lip and pause before continuing, “I’ve actually been wondering…”
“What?” Maya’s spoon comes to a halt midway to the pint of ice cream. We’ve nearly plowed through the entire thing already. “I don’t like the guilty look on your face. Surely you’re not blaming yourself for your boyfriend’s general cluelessness.”
“Ex-boyfriend.” Maybe if I say it enough times it will begin to feel real. “And I’m not blaming myself.”
But perhaps I sort of am—not because of anything that transpired between Jeremy and me, but due to the nagging sense that my current predicament smacks of terrible irony.
Is this how Aidan felt all those years ago?
I try not to think about the answer to that question, because if I’m really being honest with myself, he was probably even more heartbroken than I am right now. Isn’t that the way it always is with young love—first love?
On the rare moments when I allow myself to remember how Aidan and I said goodbye, I crumble inside. No one gets engaged at the tender age of eighteen, though. Saying no to him was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But it had been the right answer, the only answer.
Hadn’t it?
I take a ragged inhale. “Do you think what happened with Jeremy could be some kind of cosmic payback for breaking someone else’s heart? I mean, maybe I deserve this.”
Maya tilts her head, not catching my meaning at first. After a moment, she says, “Wait, are you talking about your old high school boyfriend—the one who proposed back when you were still teenagers?”
“Aidan,” I say, and his name tastes too familiar on my tongue. Too sweet. I put down my spoon. Clearly, I’ve overdosed on frozen gingerbread. “Aidan Flynn.”
I still haven’t told her about running into Aidan outside of FAO Schwartz earlier. I’m not sure why, exactly. I usually tell Maya everything.
I think I was just intent on believing that seeing Aidan again after all this time was a non-event. Certainly not anything meaningful or fated. But the longer I go without mentioning it, the more important the encounter begins to feel.
Maya studies me, and when she speaks again, her voice has gone soft. Serious. “What exactly happened back then? You never talk about it beyond the bare minimum.”
“The night before I left for college, he surprised me with an engagement ring. We’d already planned on dating long distance since I’d gotten a scholarship at MassArt in Boston and he was staying to study at the local college in Owl Lake, but we’d never discussed marriage before.” I glance down at the bare ring finger of my freshly manicured hand.
I can still picture that ring with perfect clarity—antique, rose gold with a small emerald-cut center stone, surrounded by a decorative halo of tiny diamond chips. It looked like it could have been right out of one of the classic movies we loved so much—absolutely breathtaking. Even after four years of working at Windsor, and even after having Audrey’s infamous pink diamonds placed around my neck, that modest vintage ring is still the most beautiful piece of jewelry I’ve ever set eyes on.
“I just sort of…panicked.” I shook my head. “We were so young. In love, yes, but going in completely different directions. I’d lived in Owl Lake my entire life. I was excited about moving away and seeing the world. He knew my plans. All I could talk about was getting my degree and moving to New York or London or Paris, like Audrey Hepburn’s character in Sabrina. I wanted to start my own jewelry line someday. I loved him with my whole heart, but pr
omising to marry him would have changed everything. Does that make sense?”
“Of course it does. You were practically kids,” Maya says.
“I asked him if he could just hold onto the ring and ask me again later, when we were older. When we were ready. He agreed, but after I left Owl Lake, things just…ended. I think he was crushed that I’d said no, and I felt too guilty to face him again. I’ve hardly been back to Owl Lake at all since I left. My college internship kept me insanely busy, even during the holidays, and you know how crazy it gets at Windsor.”
“Wow, that’s such a sad story.” Maya reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. “But it’s ancient history and it certainly doesn’t have anything to do with Jeremy. I don’t want to hear another word about you being punished for it. You’re one of the kindest people I know. No one deserves to have their heart broken, least of all you. You deserve to be happy, Ash. You still deserve the Christmas of your dreams, with or without Jeremy.”
“Ha.” I stand to throw away our now-empty ice cream carton and put our spoons in the sink. “That ship has most definitely sailed. Or, more accurately, that plane will be taking off for Paris in about eight hours. Without me.”
“So does this mean you’re staying in New York for the holidays? I know you’ve already asked for the time off, but you know how chaotic Windsor gets this time of year. They might give you some hours if you ask. You could come with me to my mom’s on Christmas Day, like you always do.” Maya grins hopefully at me, and then my phone chimes with yet another incoming text.
I freeze right where I’m standing.
“Do you think that could be Jeremy?” Maya asks, wide-eyed.
Both of our heads swivel toward my phone, sitting innocently on the kitchen table in its protective silver glitter snowman case.
“You look,” I say. “I can’t bear it.”
What if he’s had a change of heart? Although, at this point, what could he possibly say that would convince me to climb aboard a flight to France?
Just kidding! I do want to marry you.
Not likely. Such an about-face would probably take a Christmas miracle. I’m not sure I even want him to change his mind, anyway.
“It’s a picture of your parents.” Maya holds up my phone for inspection. My mom and dad, all bundled up in winter gear at a Christmas tree farm, grin at me from the tiny screen.
My stomach tumbles. “My mom’s been texting me all day. She’s afraid my phone won’t work overseas, and she doesn’t want me to miss Christmas at Owl Lake.”
But I’m not going to be in France for the holidays anymore, which means I don’t have a single legitimate reason not to go home. My vacation days from work are already booked, and my packed suitcase is still sitting by the door. I could beg to get back on Windsor’s Christmas schedule, but if my family found out that I had the time free and deliberately chose not to come home, they would definitely be hurt, and that’s the last thing I want.
Besides, it’s not like I’ve been actively trying to avoid Christmas in my hometown in recent years. Other things have simply gotten in the way. I need to show the management team at Windsor that I’m a devoted employee if I ever hope to get promoted, and devoted employees work on Christmas Eve. A trip to France was about the only thing that could drag me away from the charms counter on the busiest shopping day of the year.
You’re not going to Paris anymore, remember?
The truth is finally beginning to sink in.
Maya’s eyebrows lift. “I’m guessing you haven’t told your folks about you and Jeremy yet.”
I shake my head. “No, not yet.”
We’ve been broken up for less than two hours. I don’t feel like reliving the humiliating pizza dinner again—not yet. There will be time to explain later. Maybe it will seem less mortifying if I tell my mom and dad what happened in person, over a warm cup of hot chocolate topped with marshmallows and a dash of cinnamon, the way my grandma used to make it. Maybe the perfect way to get over heartbreak is to spend Christmas Eve taking dinner to the old firehouse with my parents and then to wake up in my childhood bedroom on Christmas morning. Maybe a trip back home for the holidays is just what I need.
It’s not Paris, but it might be the next best thing.
Owl Lake, here I come.
With only ten days to go until Christmas, Grand Central Station is a complete madhouse the following day. The annual holiday fair is in full swing, with booths stretching from one end of the station’s historic Vanderbilt Hall to the other, selling everything from original artwork to toys and craft items. Shoppers, commuters and tourists alike weave through the crowd carrying colorfully wrapped packages and parcels decorated with ribbons and bows. In between announcements for departing trains, Christmas music plays over the loudspeakers, and even though everyone has places to go and people to see, the mood in the station is festive. It almost feels like a party, albeit a party to which I am a surprise guest with no plus-one.
I arrive at Grand Central bright and early and manage to snag the very last ticket on the evening train with a stop at Owl Lake. I should be home by bedtime. Since my hometown is such a small village nestled far upstate in the shadow of the Adirondack Mountains, only a few trains per day run from Manhattan to Owl Lake’s tiny railway station. There are about half a dozen stops at various points in between, so when I drag my suitcase—still stuffed with everything I so lovingly packed for Paris—onto the train, most of the seats are already taken. I make my way down the aisle until I finally spot an empty window seat next to an older woman wrapped in a pretty red cape with her snow-white hair swept up into a magnificent bun.
“Is that seat taken?” I ask.
She looks up from the bundle of knitting in her lap, and I see that her reading glasses are red-rimmed with clusters of holly leaves and berries decorating the corners of the frames. “It’s all yours, dear,” she says, gathering her things so she can stand and let me by.
I feel myself smile ear-to-ear. She’s giving off a major Mrs. Claus vibe that I find particularly endearing. “Thanks so much.”
After the passenger across the aisle helps me heave my bag onto the overhead rack, I settle in beside my seatmate and check my phone. Still no conciliatory text from Jeremy, which I pretty much expected. He’s probably halfway to France by now.
Last night, I decided to keep my trip to Owl Lake a secret, just in case. I haven’t told my parents I’m coming, lest Jeremy make some sort of last-minute grand gesture that will undo the misery of the night before. Which is ridiculous, because after tossing and turning all night, I’m not even sure I want a grand gesture from him. Somewhere deep down in the pit of my stomach, I’m not sure there’s anything he could say or do to convince me that I actually want to marry him. Everything has gotten so confusing. It’s not until the train begins pulling out of the station that I fully absorb the fact that Jeremy won’t arrive, running through the station at the last moment while the music swells, to tell me he can’t live without me. There will be no trip to Paris with a ring on my finger. I’m actually going to sleep in my childhood bed tonight, far away from the glittering lights of New York and an entire world away from the Musée du Louvre.
I take a deep breath and focus on the scenery on the other side of the train window. The farther we crawl away from the city, the thicker the snowfall becomes, until the ground is covered by a deep layer of sparkling white. Icicles cling to the tree branches, and the train casts a cool blue shadow over the horizon. I almost feel like we’re headed toward the North Pole.
“Are you on your way home for the holidays?” the older woman beside me asks.
I glance at her hands and the careful, rhythmic motion of her knitting needles and catch sight of a flash of silver dangling from one of her wrists. “Yes, you?”
She nods. “Oh, definitely. It’s that time of year, isn’t it?”
My heart gives a little tug
. Before I left Owl Lake for college, if anyone would have told me I’d miss eight Christmases in a row at home, I never would have believed them. Then again, I’d never have believed I’d turn down a proposal from Aidan Flynn either.
I press my hand against the ache in my chest.
“I’m Ashley,” I say. “Ashley James.”
“Nice to meet you, dear. My name is Betty.” She pauses from her knitting to offer me her hand.
As I shake it, I get a better look at the bracelet I spied earlier on her wrist and gasp. “Oh my, look at your charm bracelet. Is it vintage?”
It shimmers under the fluorescent lights of the train. Sterling silver, possibly even white gold. The charms are like none I’ve seen before—as if they’re from another era, like perfect, tiny images from Christmas cards that have been lovingly saved and pressed into the pages of a scrapbook. I spy a silver dog with a red enamel bow around its neck and a Christmas tree topped with a glittering gold star. There are more, and all of them seem to be either winter or Christmas-themed. It’s a lovely piece of jewelry, and when she withdraws her hand from mine, the movement of the charms sounds like jingle bells.
“This old thing?” She laughs. “Indeed. It’s even older than I am.”
Timeless, I think. “It’s quite beautiful. I’ve never seen one like it, and charms are kind of my thing.”
“Is that so?” She tilts her head and regards me with an intensity that makes my cheeks go warm. “Tell me more, dear.”
So I do. I tell her all about my job at Windsor and every collection of charms that has graced the display case in my department since I started working there four years ago. I tell her about the necklace I made for Maya with the Santa charm and eight tiny reindeer. I tell her about all my favorite booths at Brooklyn Flea and which ones have the best selection of antique silver pieces.
“Charms really are your thing, aren’t they?” she says.
I nod. “I studied jewelry making in college. Re-crafting vintage pieces is my specialty.”
