by Teri Wilson
“Speaking of getting inside.” My mom peers out at the icy drizzle and shivers. “It’s freezing out here. Ed, grab Ashley’s bag. Let’s get her out of the cold.”
“But what about the dog?” I say as my dad reaches for my suitcase.
“Honestly, you don’t need to make up a cute story, sweetheart. We don’t mind that you brought your dog. We’re just pleased as punch to see you.” My dad winks at me as he carries my luggage over the threshold. “He can come inside.”
I gape at the back of my father’s head as he walks into the house. The dog glances up at me, eyes dancing, before trotting after my father as if he owns the place.
What. Is. Happening?
Hesitantly, I step over the threshold. My dad can’t possibly think I invented the golden’s mysterious appearance on their porch just to sneak a dog into the house, can he? But if he doesn’t belong to my parents, then where did the furry little guy come from? He’s too calm and well cared for to be a stray, but there’s no sign that he belongs to anyone, either. Animals don’t just appear out of thin air with red satin bows tied around their necks.
The dog pauses halfway to the den and cocks his head as if to ask what’s taking me so long.
“I’m coming,” I say, smiling despite the completely bizarre circumstances. The pup seems really sweet, regardless of where he came from or who he belongs to.
“Are you hungry, sweetheart?” My mom heads straight for the kitchen while my dad carries my things to my old bedroom. “I’m assuming you took the train, and I’ll bet you haven’t eaten. How does leftover pot roast sound?”
My stomach grumbles. “I’m famished, actually—and pot roast sounds great.”
“Perfect. I’ll heat some up for you.” She reaches into the refrigerator while I scan the area for any signs of pet ownership, coming up empty.
No food or water bowls. No leash hanging on the row of hooks by the back door. No fluffy dog bed tucked by my dad’s recliner in the den. (And that’s definitely where it would be, if it existed).
Once we’re both indoors, the dog won’t leave my side. He’s velcroed himself to my leg and keeps gently tucking his head beneath my hand, politely demanding to be petted. I acquiesce, because why not? He’s the most devoted male I’ve crossed paths with in a long, long time.
“So what’s his name?” my mom asks as my plate of leftovers spins round and round in the microwave.
She’s talking about the dog. I can tell.
My mom’s face is open and honest. It always has been, so I can also tell she’s not faking anything or putting me on. She genuinely thinks the friendly pup belongs to me.
“Fruitcake,” I deadpan.
Because something truly nutty is going on.
An hour or so later, I’m back in my childhood bedroom, rummaging through my suitcase for my pajamas. My parents have been incredibly kind and patient about my unexpected visit, even though I sort of skimmed over the details of my breakup with Jeremy.
Full disclosure: my parents aren’t exactly his biggest fans—and that’s not anything new. Jeremy has never set foot in Owl Lake, but my mom and dad met him on a few occasions when they visited me in the city. I always thought they’d eventually get along like gangbusters once they had a chance to really get to know one another, but it seemed like every time we all got together, Jeremy either got called away to deal with some big work emergency at Windsor in person, or his cell phone blew up like crazy and he gave it all his attention instead of interacting with us. Either way, my mom’s smile would always grow increasingly strained around the edges, and one time, I overheard my dad mutter something terrible under his breath.
That Jeremy is no Aidan Flynn.
We’d been out to brunch at The Mark—Jeremy’s treat—and I’d walked Jeremy to the lobby after he’d been summoned back to Windsor to assist a celebrity client who was having some sort of diamond crisis. Once I’d seen him off, I returned to the table just in time to accidentally hear my dad’s rather blunt assessment of my new boyfriend.
“It’s not a contest,” my mom had said, in true mom form.
And despite the fact that my father’s words hadn’t actually had anything to do with me personally, my face burned with shame. I managed to slink to the bathroom and hide for a few minutes until I could force a smile and return to the table.
I frown as I tug my candy cane–striped pajamas from my luggage. It’s funny, I haven’t thought about the brunch incident in a long time. Years, probably. It happened about six months into my relationship with Jeremy. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to ignore my father’s opinion.
But he’d compared Jeremy to Aidan. Really, Dad? Aidan hasn’t been part of my life since the summer after high school. By the time they met Jeremy, Aidan and I were ancient history. And now our relationship is even more ancient. The concept of Aidan and me is basically prehistoric.
Then why do you keep thinking about him?
I roll my eyes at myself. It’s kind of hard not to think about Aidan Flynn, given my current surroundings. Our prom picture is still hanging on my bedroom wall, while faded, dried flowers from the wrist corsage he gave me at our senior homecoming dance are still pinned to the bulletin board. And somewhere at the bottom of my jewelry box, Aidan’s class ring is probably buried beneath my earliest attempts at jewelry design.
All the mementos are messing with my head, that’s all. So I turn my back on them and find Fruitcake stretched out on the foot of my bed like he’s lived here all his life. His tail beats wildly against the duvet when I meet his gaze. Thump-thump-thump.
“Where did you come from, and what are you doing here?” I ask. Then, more pointedly, “Why me?”
I’m talking to a dog.
No, it’s worse than that—I’m talking to a dog as if he knows the answers to all of my life’s questions. I’ve got to stop doing this. First Betty, now Fruitcake.
I pull on my pjs and climb into bed. Fruitcake is basically a giant, furry foot warmer, and I have to admit—it’s not terrible. He’s really rather cozy, and I have to remind myself that he doesn’t actually belong to me, despite whatever my parents may think. I need to try and find his owner, just like I still need to locate Betty so I can return her bracelet.
While I’m thinking about Betty, I reach to unclasp her charm bracelet from around my wrist. I can’t exactly sleep with it on. Most of the bracelets we sell at Windsor feature a toggle clasp, but this piece is older and it connects with a simple silver spring ring. Spring rings date back to around 1900, which matches my best estimate for the time period of the charms.
I press on the clasp’s tiny lever with the pad of my thumb, but it refuses to budge. Weird. It must be jammed or something.
I try again…and again. Still nothing. The lever is completely unmovable, which seems extra strange, considering I had no trouble at all with it when I put the bracelet on earlier. And I’d even been in a rush at that point.
Fruitcake shimmies further toward the head of the bed until he’s close enough to rest his head in my lap. He watches, eyes shining, as I continue struggling with the bracelet.
It’s no use. My thumb is tender and throbbing, and I’ve made no progress whatsoever with the clasp. I am going to have to sleep with it on—and just hope that I don’t accidentally stab myself in the eye with the sharp edge of a tiny charm in the middle of the night.
I do a quick inventory of the charms, checking for anything particularly pointy. There’s a snowman with nice, rounded edges—perfect. But as I keep flipping through the tiny silver pieces, I spot a house charm that makes my eyes widen. It’s an old-fashioned cottage that looks like it came straight out of Owl Lake. A fir tree with minuscule little bows on its branches sits in front of the cottage, along with—prepare for goosebumps—a replica of Santa’s sleigh.
No way.
The tableau is an exact replica of the hou
se I’m sitting in, decorations and all. Adirondack-style Christmas cottage, check. Fir tree tipped with bows, check. Antique sleigh, check. What are the odds?
While I’m staring at the charm, the bracelet makes a sudden tinkling noise, like the ring of a bell. I’m not going to lie. I’m a little freaked out. More strange things have happened to me today than the rest of my life put together.
Fruitcake lets out a snuffling sound and nudges the bracelet with the tip of his nose. He cocks his head, and at first, I’m grateful for the interruption. Betty, the bracelet, the house charm, Fruitcake himself—they’re all just funny coincidences. There’s really no other explanation.
But then I catch a glimpse of the charm dangling right beside the little silver house—it’s the one that originally caught my eye when I first spotted the bracelet on Betty’s wrist. It’s a tiny silver dog with a red enamel bow on its neck. I hear the same distinct tinkling noise again, and my eyes go wide.
Jingle, jingle.
The charm looks exactly like Fruitcake.
Chapter Six
The following morning, I’m awakened by the persistent ringing of my cell phone. At first, I try to ignore it. I didn’t get to sleep until the wee hours of the morning, thanks to my pathetic attempts to remove the strange bracelet.
I’d tried liquid soap and Vaseline, but neither would make the lever on the spring ring slide free. Then I’d done my best to fold my hand into a tiny enough contortion to slide the bracelet off my wrist, but after an hour or so of bodily origami, all I was left with was a cramp in my wrist and a vague sense of panic.
“Are you even real?” I’d asked Fruitcake as I stroked his warm head and tried my best to fall asleep.
It was a ridiculous question. Our house was just as real as it had been for decades, even though a small silver version of it dangled from the bracelet. Following that logic, Fruitcake should also be real.
He certainly seemed real at the moment—writhing around on his back on the bedroom floor and woofing with glee. He’s a morning person, because of course he is. It only makes sense that a magical dog would be an early riser.
He’s not magical, I tell myself as I fumble around for my phone. My eyes open wider and I sit straight up when I see Maya’s name on the screen.
I tap the green button to accept the call. “Maya, thank goodness it’s you.”
“Good morning to you too,” she says. “What’s wrong? You sound odd.”
“Things here are just a little—” I pause, searching for the right word. There’s no way the charms on the bracelet are coming to life. That’s just not possible. “—weird. Actually, they’re a lot weird. It’s good to hear your voice.”
Fruitcake pops to his feet and lets out a bark. I’m guessing he needs to go outside.
“Did I just hear a bark? I didn’t know your parents had a dog,” Maya says. In the background, I hear honking horns and the wail of sirens and I wish I was back in New York.
“They don’t.” He’s imaginary! “Never mind. It’s a long story. What’s up? I thought you were scheduled to work this morning.”
“I am. I’m on my break, and I desperately need a gingerbread latte. I also needed to step outside so I could call you, because I have huge news.”
She’s talking a mile a minute, in true Maya form. I throw off the covers and shove my feet into slippers so I can sneak into the den and take Fruitcake outside while she gives me her news. I refrain from asking if it involves an engagement ring this time.
The house is quiet. Nobody stirs, not even a mouse. My parents are either still sleeping, or they’re out front shoveling snow.
“There’s a management position opening up,” Maya says, pausing for dramatic effect as I open the sliding glass door and step outside onto the backyard deck. “And it’s in your department.”
Fruitcake romps into the yard, clearly a fan of the brisk winter weather. As for me, I’m thinking I should have put on a coat because it’s freezing out here. But I don’t mind because Maya was right. This news is indeed huge. “Are you serious? There hasn’t been an open management position in the charms department the entire time I’ve worked there.”
“Well, there is now. And rumor has it, they want to fill it by New Year’s Day.”
My elation takes a serious hit.
No! No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening while I’m miles away in Owl Lake. It’s the very first Christmas since I started at Windsor that I’ve been here instead of dutifully standing behind the charms counter. Out of sight, out of mind and all that.
“I need to get back to Manhattan,” I blurt.
Simultaneously, Maya says, “You need to get back to Manhattan.”
Finished with his business, Fruitcake spins joyful circles around me. Is this dog ever in a bad mood?
“I’m not sure I can go, though.” There’s no way I can tell my mom and dad that I’m already leaving from my first visit in years. I’ve been here less than twelve hours.
“Maybe you can just come up for the day, throw your hat into the ring in person, and then catch the train back to Owl Lake. Think about how much initiative that would show.”
She has a point. The upper-tier management at Windsor is all about initiative. And it would show a definite lack of initiative if I didn’t come in to apply since everyone in the building probably knows by now that I’m not in France. Note to self: don’t date people I work with anymore.
“Good idea.” I nod, and Fruitcake nods back at me, as if I’m talking to him and him alone. “That’s what I’ll do.”
Once we hang up, I feel infinitely better about the immediate future. I know I just got here, but getting out of Owl Lake for the day sounds wonderful, given all the odd things that have happened since I left the city. I try the bracelet’s clasp again and give it a little tug. No dice. Since two of the charms have already mysteriously come to life, I’m afraid to examine the others too closely.
Not that there’s anything to be afraid of. Because it’s all just a coincidence, anyway. Right?
Of course it is. Bracelets do not have magical powers, and Christmas is Christmas. There will always be some real world overlap between Christmas-themed charms and actual, real-life Christmas.
Still, I’m looking forward to a day in the city. Maybe I’ll even manage to get some sort of hint to Betty’s whereabouts while I’m on the train.
When Fruitcake and I go back inside, my parents are both bustling around the kitchen in their bathrobes. My mom pours coffee into three mugs. It’s clearly some sort of holiday flavor, because the air smells like cinnamon rolls and coffee beans. My dad sneaks Fruitcake a slice of bacon while she’s not looking.
“Good morning,” my mom says brightly.
“Morning.” I smile.
My mom and dad both smile back, and a pang of guilt hits me right behind the breastbone. They’re going to be disappointed that I’m leaving already, even if I turn around and come right back.
It’s just for the day. Worst case scenario: overnight.
I plaster on the widest grin I can manage. “You’ll never believe what Maya just called to tell me. It’s the best news.”
Mom lowers her coffee cup. “What is it, dear?”
“There’s a management position opening up in the charms department. I’ve been there a few years now, so I think I’ve got a shot.”
“That’s great,” my dad says with genuine enthusiasm.
“But they want to fill it before New Year’s,” I add, grin freezing in place. “I need to have a meeting with my boss as soon as possible so I can explain to her in person why I’m the best choice for the job.”
My mom’s brow furrows. “But you just got here.”
“I know. It will only be a quick day trip. I’m coming right back, I promise.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, but I’m already glancing at the time on my phone, gro
wing more antsy by the second. I’m not quite familiar with the train schedule, but I’m pretty sure I need to hurry and get to the train station if I’m going to make it to the city and back by tonight. “I should probably get ready.”
“Wait.” Dad holds up a hand. “Honey, there was an ice storm last night, remember?”
I nod, thinking about the layer of frost covering the majority of the backyard. Only the area beneath the pergola my dad built ages ago had been spared. The grass had made little crunching sounds beneath Fruitcake’s paws when we’d been out there just now.
“But the sky seems clear,” I say.
“The temperature is still below freezing. The train station will be closed until the tracks can get de-iced.” My father shakes his head. “I’m afraid you’re stuck here.”
“Are you sure? A little ice never shuts down the trains in Manhattan for more than a few hours once the storm has stopped.”
“You’re not in Manhattan anymore.” Dad’s tone is careful. Gentle. But the look on his face is all too familiar. I’ve seen that look before.
That Jeremy is no Aidan Flynn.
He’s disappointed in me, which seems really unfair. Does he want me working the charms counter for all eternity when going into Manhattan for just one day could be the key to my career?
Besides, I can’t be trapped in Owl Lake. I’ve got a bracelet stuck to my wrist and two of the charms on it have somehow come to life. I need a break from whatever holiday craziness is going on. Maybe if I leave and come back again, everything will go back to normal.
I try to call the station to check and see if the trains are running, but the phones are down due to the storm.
“I’m going to Owl Lake station, just in case. There’s got to be a train out of here today. I promise I’ll be back in time for dinner.” Hopefully, with a shiny, new promotion. It’s time to turn this unlucky Christmas around.
Fruitcake trots at my heels as I dash back to my bedroom to change. For a split second, I wonder if he’ll still be here when I get back. If he’s really a charm come to life, he can’t be an actual, permanent dog, can he?
