Colorado Christmas Magic

by Caitlin McKenna

  “Seriously?” She’d never heard of such a thing.

  “That’s St. Nicholas.”

  “You just saved me a trip back here. Thank you.” Charley found the end of the line and checked her watch. Not that she was going to insist on a free voucher, but there was no way she’d be standing in front of a clerk in less than ten minutes.

  Two women in front of her were exchanging gift ideas for their husbands, and a couple ahead of the women were laughing at something funny. Charley couldn’t believe how many customers were talking to each other, as if they were at a cocktail party. How could everyone be in such a good mood, standing in line at the post office?

  An instrumental version of “Deck the Halls” faintly filled the lobby. She’d never heard music in post offices before. Was this a new thing or did it apply only to St. Nicholas?

  The line continued to move, and eight minutes later, she was summoned to an open window where a jolly clerk with curly blond hair and a welcoming smile drummed his hands on the counter, keeping the beat to “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” He immediately noticed her empty hands. “What can I do for you, out-of-towner?” he asked in a cheery voice.

  “Is it that obvious?” Charley dipped her chin to inspect her own clothing.

  “Not at all. I know practically everyone who comes in here. When I see an unfamiliar face, I just assume.”

  “Well, you assumed right. In fact, because I’m an out-of-towner, I’m curious to know when you pick up the mail from Santa’s mailbox.”

  “Oh, gosh, we don’t handle anything from that location.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “But don’t you collect all mail?”

  “That we do. That’s our job. But not from Santa’s mailbox.” He threw his hands in the air with a hands-off gesture.

  “Don’t tell me Santa collects it himself,” she said with an easygoing smile.

  “No, no.” He rolled with a laugh, then got serious. “One of Santa’s helpers retrieves all correspondence left at that location.”

  One of Santa’s helpers? “And that’s allowed?”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? He owns the box.” The clerk was still drumming his hands on the counter, not at all upset or uncomfortable with her questions, which didn’t make sense if the town was hiding something.

  “He doesn’t rent the box from you?”

  “No, he owns it outright.”

  Charley was getting nowhere. She had to change her line of questioning. “Does it bother you that he doesn’t ask for postage?”

  “Why would it?” He looked at her curiously. “We’re not providing a service. We’re not delivering the mail.”

  He had her on that one. “Have you ever seen anyone pick it up?”

  “No, but we know it’s one of Santa’s helpers.”

  Not exactly the answer she was looking for. “How do you know it’s one of Santa’s helpers?”

  “It’s not one of us, so who else could it be?” He beamed a broad smile.

  She glanced at the line behind her, expecting to see everyone glaring back at her, but they weren’t. They were happily conversing with each other while waiting for an open window. She put her attention back on the clerk. “Have you ever seen a Scrooge letter?”

  “Of course.” He quit drumming and leaned in. “We send them out every week.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes widened, excited. Finally, she was getting somewhere.

  “I know, right?” he said, conspiratorially, as if he were sharing a juicy piece of gossip. “Who knew there were so many Scrooges in the world?”

  Charley frowned. “No, wait, I think I misunderstood you. Are you the guys generating the letters?”

  “Golly, no!” He exploded with a big belly laugh, then instantly turned professional again. “They’re dropped off in the lobby here, and we mail them out—because they have stamps,” he added with a chuckle. “In case that was your next question.”

  “Funny.” She smiled. “Who drops them off?”

  “I imagine one of Santa’s helpers.”

  And they were back to the same circle of canned answers. She refused to let that deter her. “Have you ever caught one of Santa’s helpers on camera?”

  “Nope. Never have,” he said, sounding a little disappointed. “But I assure you we get those letters delivered.”

  “I know you do. I got one myself.”

  “Oh,” he said in a singsong way. His face reddened, no doubt from what he had said earlier about Scrooges. “Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?” He grinned, quickly recovering. “Welcome to St. Nicholas!”

  “Thank you—” she glanced at his name tag “—Wyatt.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Wyatt was back to drumming his hands on the counter, this time to “Jingle Bells.”

  “Not at the moment, but thank you for your time.”

  “Oh!” Wyatt held out a slip of paper, a voucher for a free drink. “Here ya go.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, but I wasn’t in line for ten minutes, and I didn’t buy anything.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He wiggled the voucher in front of her to take it. “It’s on me.”

  “Thank you, Wyatt.” She turned to go. “I love the Christmas music, by the way. They don’t play it in my post office back home.”

  “Well, it is Christmas in St. Nicholas, after all.”

  “Yes, it is,” Charley said. Yes, it is.

  Chapter Ten

  Charley had wanted concrete evidence that her seeing Jack had been manufactured, not magical, before she met him for dinner. She felt safe in reality but too vulnerable in potentiality—which was where her emotions were taking her. This assignment of debunking the legend was supposed to have been fast and easy, yet the more she experienced in St. Nicholas, the less likely she saw that happening. Now she had an unexpected obstacle in her path, a very handsome obstacle that was clouding her rational mind with every minute she spent with him.

  She sat facing Jack in a booth by a window in the town’s only twenty-four-hour diner. Sitting on her hands, she stared at the menu, just as she had done in high school. Jack looked to be studying the menu, too, only she suspected neither one was. She glanced at him when he wasn’t looking, and though she couldn’t be certain, she thought he’d been doing the same. They were definitely uncomfortable around each other, as if they’d somehow been thrust back in time with no escape from teenage awkwardness, and the silence was getting more unbearable by the minute.

  “Evening, folks,” chirped a welcoming waitress, coming to their rescue. “I’m Angel, and I’ll be taking care of you this evening.”

  Charley smiled at the woman who had such shiny black hair, it almost glistened. It was neatly pulled back in a bun, and her chocolate-brown eyes were deep and soulful. She had no idea how much of an angel she really was at that moment.

  “Evening, Angel,” Jack said, studying her. “I have to ask. Is Angel your real name, or are you assigned a Christmas-themed name?”

  Her eyes smiled. “It’s been my name ever since I received my wings.” She winked and Charley laughed. “Do you two need more time, or do you know what you want?”

  Both is what Charley thought.

  “Ladies first.” He motioned to Charley.

  When Charley was nervous, she ate, and right then, she could have eaten a burger and a whole pie by herself. She took one look at muscular Jack and opted not to order either. “I think I’ll have the Cobb salad with the dressing on the side. And an iced tea, please.”

  Angel jotted down Charley’s order, then looked to Jack. “And for you?”

  “I’ll take the cheeseburger, no onions, fries, and a root beer.”

  Charley couldn’t believe what she just heard. Her gaze immediately fell onto his broad shoulders and muscular arms. She inspected the outline of his
body through his shirt. Yes, he still appeared to be a solid mass of muscle.

  “Easy-peasy,” Angel said before she gathered the menus and flitted away.

  This dinner feels surreal. If she closed her eyes, she’d swear they were back at their favorite diner in Studio City, grabbing a bite to eat before going to the football game. Yet fourteen years had gone by. There was so much to ask him she didn’t know where to begin. Never did she think she’d be at a loss for words because there was too much to say.

  Jack’s body was quivering, which she traced to his foot nervously tapping on the floor under the table. Apparently, he was also having difficulties finding the words, and the awkward silence threatened to swallow them whole if she didn’t say something.

  “How can you possibly eat burgers and fries and still look like...that?” she asked with tinges of envy in her voice.

  His mouth curved into an easy smile. “High metabolism.”

  A high metabolism that resulted in a great body she couldn’t stop staring at, and now he hit her with a disarming smile that wouldn’t quit. Just what she needed to remain clearheaded.

  “That’s not fair,” she protested, clicking back into the conversation.

  “Look who’s talking,” he threw back. His eyes lingered on her face—probably studying every line and every imperfection—she was sure of it. “Wow, Charley, you haven’t aged a day since high school.”

  She felt heat splash across her cheeks. What was he doing to her? “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  His lightheartedness waned as a fiery intensity in his eyes suddenly snatched hold of her, luring her in. “I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re even more beautiful today.”

  Her breath caught in her throat as his gaze remained steady, quickening her pulse, and for a moment she had no sense of where she was.

  “Here are your drinks,” Angel announced, startling Charley so much that she jerked back, instantly breaking the connection with Jack.

  Only then did she take a deep breath. She cast her eyes downward, embarrassed that a few words and a single look from Jack had yielded her powerless.

  Angel threw glances between them. Charley could only assume the waitress felt the charged air because she disappeared without saying another word.

  Charley released a small single-note laugh before she fixed her eyes on Jack again. “So...”

  He smiled. “So...”

  Where to begin. Should she tell him how he never really left her thoughts? She opened her mouth, hoping whatever came out would be right, but instead, her hair was pulled by a little boy sitting in the booth behind her.

  “Atley, get down!” a woman chastised her son. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Charley.

  “No worries,” she replied as the woman made her son sit on the opposite side. She then shared a look and a laugh with Jack, realizing they were in the wrong place to navigate whatever was happening between them.

  “So...uh...work...” he trailed off, rubbing his forehead, as if the thought of work was already giving him a headache.

  “Yeah...work,” she mirrored, but with an added layer of disgust.

  He dipped his head, smiling, before he shifted in the booth, as if physical movement would push him into work mode. He traced the line of his jaw with his fingers, which only made her want to do the same. “Regarding the free week you received...”

  “Right.” She forced herself back to the matter at hand. “I got a letter in the mail, probably the same letter your friend received.”

  “I never saw it. What did it say?” He stared at her, never blinking, never wavering.

  His dazzling eyes weren’t letting up in the intense department. Focus. She unwrapped the paper straw and dropped it in her tea. “It said I was invited to St. Nicholas for a complimentary week.”

  “And what was your obligation to receive the free week?”

  “There wasn’t one.”

  “Did you read the fine print?”

  “There wasn’t any.” She retrieved the letter from her handbag and attempted to smooth the wrinkles before handing it over.

  He noted the crumpled-up condition and gave her an inquisitive look. She just smiled at him and shrugged. He read it, flipped it over. “Did the Carrolls explain why you were invited?”

  She swiftly broke eye contact. “Who knows?”

  “What aren’t you telling me?” His tone was teasing in a suspicious kind of way.

  “Nothing.” She tried to sound as nonchalant as possible.

  “I’m a detective. I know you’re holding something back.”

  She offered a dismissive grin, slumping down in the booth. “I’m sure that’s what all you detectives say.”

  “Only when it’s the truth.” His eyes bored into her again. He was good, and she was certain no criminal ever lasted more than thirty seconds under his scrutiny.

  “Fine,” she said on a sigh. “Apparently, Santa thinks I’m a... Scrooge.”

  Jack exploded with a laugh, which only annoyed her. “You? But you love Christmas.”

  She was impressed he even remembered. “I used to, but not anymore.”

  “Why not? What happened?”

  “Doesn’t matter. What I want to know is who sent me here. I first thought the letter was in response to my blog, but I—”

  “You have a blog?”

  “Yes, but it can’t—”

  “What’s it called?” Jack pulled out a notepad and clicked his pen.

  “The Cold Hard Facts.”

  “Great title.” He jotted it down, then set his gaze back on her. “Let me guess. You said something negative about Santa.”

  “Nooo,” she said as though she were running musical scales with the one word. “I said Christmas was too chaotic, and everyone should just skip it.” She crossed her arms with a single nod of her head, still feeling her suggestion was a sound one.

  He grinned, then took a drink. “I’d say that’s motive for your invitation.”

  “I hate to tell you this, Detective, but you’re wrong. My take on how to handle Christmas had only been posted less than an hour before I received the letter, so it can’t be tied to my blog. What about your friend? Is he a Scrooge?”

  “I don’t know him that well, but yes, he could have been considered one. I’ll be checking into it later.” Jack tapped his pen on the table. “Okay, so it has to be somebody you know who thinks you’re a Scrooge. A coworker, a friend, a family member who didn’t like what you gave them last year for Christmas.”

  “I’ll have you know, I gave out really expensive gift cards.”

  “Gift cards?” He said it in a sad way, like he felt sorry for her that she couldn’t think of anything better.

  “And what did you give as gifts, Santa?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He brushed it away. “If you can’t think of a potential suspect in your work or personal life, then we’ll need to track down whoever sent the letter.”

  “I tried. The return address is a mailbox.”

  “That’s great.” He opened his hands like he had just solved the mystery. “Tomorrow we’ll stop by the post office and find out who owns the box.”

  “It’s not a PO Box,” she clarified. “I’m talking about a private, free-standing mailbox on public property.”

  He pushed his brows together. “Are you sure?”

  “I already stopped by the post office and that’s what they told me.”

  “Where’s the mailbox located?”

  “Out there, in the town square.” She indicated with a tip of her head. “I’ll take you over there after we eat.”

  He leaned closer to the window but couldn’t see much due to the glare on the glass. He clicked his pen. “Walk me through the process.”

  She sat forward, excited to share her information. She could get used to hav
ing a partner on her investigations, especially if it were Jack. “The mailbox is for Scrooge suggestions. Anyone who knows a Scrooge can place his or her name inside the mailbox, but only Santa decides who gets invited to town.”

  He raised a brow in disbelief. “Santa?”

  “It is Santa’s mailbox,” she said with a tongue-in-cheek grin. Even though she was quite willing to rule out the possibility of Christmas magic at play, there was something very odd about that mailbox, and that was a cold hard fact. “I know what you’re thinking. I thought it was ridiculous too. I was so confident in my assumption that I decided to prove it by suggesting you.”

  “Me!” He seemed truly insulted. “Why me?”

  “Oh, come on. You know why. When we were in high school, you couldn’t get through Christmas fast enough. Your house was one of four on the entire block without any decorations.”

  He gave a slight nod, knowing she was right. “Well, I didn’t get a letter or a free week.”

  “But you’re here.”

  “Because I’m on a case. Like you, I want to know who’s sending out these invitations and why.”

  She took a sip of her tea. “According to the locals, this town, or something in this town, magically turns people’s lives around for the better.”

  Jack scribbled in his notepad, then leaned back, taking her in. “Now I want to focus on you.”

  She inhaled sharply, trying not to get lost in his eyes. “What about me?”

  “Is your life being turned around?”

  More like being played with. Never did she think she’d see him again. “I’ve been here for a whopping twenty-four hours.”

  “Which means the clock is ticking. The legend has only six more days to make the magic happen for you.” Only after she laughed did he get the double entendre. “Sorry.” He shook his head in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to derail our conversation.”

  “Do you see me complaining?” She smiled at him.