by Teri Wilson
And there it is, right beside the dog charm—a tiny silver platter of gingerbread men and cookies shaped like snowflakes, carefully arranged on a rectangular tray with handles shaped like holly leaves. Aidan is right.
It looks like an exact replica of the platter of cookies sitting on the table beside us.
Chapter Eight
I’d like to say that I handled things with Hepburn-like grace when Aidan pointed out the Christmas cookie charm, but alas, I didn’t. I snatched my hand away and basically fled, telling my mom I wasn’t feeling well and needed to go home.
It’s not a lie.
I do feel sick. There’s a knot of panic in my chest and I’m shaking all over by the time I get home and shut myself in my bedroom. I’ve got to get rid of the bracelet. It’s seriously starting to freak me out. Two charms that flawlessly match what’s going on in my life could possibly be chalked up to coincidence, but three, right in a row? Doubtful. The cookies on the charm are too tiny to tell if their decoration is as sloppy as my real-life efforts, but the shapes are plain as day. Even so, I might have been able to convince myself nothing strange is going on, if not for the charm’s little silver cookie tray. It’s a perfect replica of the platter with my gingerbread men and snowflake cookies on it, all the way down to the decorative holly leaf handles. The tray has been in our family for generations, and now its tiny identical twin is dangling from my wrist.
What is going on?
Deep breaths. Stay calm. There’s no such thing as magic.
Right…except I’m wearing a vintage piece of jewelry that says otherwise. I mean, what next? Is there a charm representing of my current panic attack? Because there probably should be.
I can’t bring myself to look too closely at the other charms. Not yet. First things first—there’s got to be something I can use to unjam the bracelet’s catch. After a quick scan of the room, I finally find a stray bobby pin in one of my dresser drawers. With a pang, I realize that I probably last used it to sweep my hair up into a fancy twist for prom with Aidan. But I refuse to think about that now as I bend the bobby pin and ram the tip of it against the tiny knob on the spring ring.
Spoiler alert: it doesn’t budge. Beads of sweat break out on my forehead, but no amount of poking and prodding will force open the catch. Fruitcake flops into a down position on the floor and gazes up at me wistfully. I feel like whining myself.
I toss the useless bobby pin aside and take another deep breath. It’s time. I can’t get the thing off, I have no idea how to track Betty down, and now three of the charms have seemingly come to life. I’m going to have to seriously examine the remaining silver trinkets and get a good look at what might be coming next.
“Okay, charms of Christmas future, show me what you’ve got,” I mutter. Fruitcake cocks his head.
Oh, goody. I’m talking to the bracelet now—because I wasn’t delusional enough already.
My hand trembles like crazy, and the charms tinkle against one another, making a deceptively lovely and simple sound. I swallow hard and take an inventory of the remaining charms. There’s a silver Christmas tree with a gold star on top, a wrapped Christmas gift, a teddy bear, an ice skate, a snowman with an orange enamel carrot for a nose, a delicate filigree tiara topped with a snowflake and finally…
A ring.
At the sight of that last one, my breath catches in my throat. It looks like a miniature engagement ring and appears to have a tiny diamond chip in the delicate setting. Funny, I don’t remember seeing that one when I first noticed the bracelet on Betty’s arm during our train ride.
I go over the charms again, one at a time. Honestly, with the exception of the ring, they don’t seem especially significant. At first glance, it’s simply an innocent collection of winter and Christmas charms. Maybe I really am jumping to conclusions.
There’s still no rational explanation for Fruitcake’s appearance, though. Or the eerily perfect match of the cookie tray. Or why the house charm is decorated exactly like my childhood home.
But why is the ring there? The mysterious force behind whatever Christmas magic is going on must have missed the memo about my non-proposal.
It’s just a bracelet, I remind myself, but I must not be very persuasive because I’m not entirely convinced.
I’m not altogether sure how I feel about the ring charm. It doesn’t seem possible that it could be some kind of premonition. I still haven’t heard a word from Jeremy. He’s probably sipping champagne in a gilded room at the Palais Garnier opera house or something equally posh right now, while here I am…
Trying to make sense of my vague feeling of disappointment over the fact that none of the charms on my wrist appear to have anything to do with Aidan Flynn.
I wake up the following morning on a mission.
Maya called while I was at the firehouse last night, and by the time I finally listened to her voicemail, it was too late to call her back. Totally my fault for getting distracted by the bracelet, which is, of course, still stuck on my wrist. A collection of mangled bobby pins sits on my nightstand in an ineffectual pile. At one point last night, I tiptoed down to the basement in search of my dad’s bolt clippers but they were far too bulky for the task at hand.
According to Maya’s message, while I was busy yesterday riding around in a fire truck, doting on my mystery dog and baking Christmas cookies, a handful of candidates interviewed for the management position. How can this be happening? Other than a few afternoons off when my parents came up to Manhattan for a visit, this is the one time I’ve actually taken vacation days, and I’m going to get passed over. I just know it.
I ring my boss, but of course Windsor isn’t open yet and there’s no answer. I leave another message indicating I’m interested in the position, but it’s clearly not enough or I’d have heard back, letting me know that I’m at least in the running. I have to get back to Manhattan.
Staying in Owl Lake and waiting for the train station to re-open isn’t an option, but that’s fine. There are plenty of other ways to get from here to Manhattan. Okay, there’s actually just one other way—by car. Granted, I don’t own a vehicle, because renting a parking space in the city is basically the equivalent of renting an apartment for your Ford Fusion. But I can certainly rent a car overnight. Easy peasy.
I let Fruitcake out, then get dressed in another classic black cashmere turtleneck and simple black slacks as fast as I can while Betty’s charm bracelet rattles on my wrist.
Not much longer.
Once I’m back at Windsor, I will definitely be able to get it removed. It will probably take all of two seconds for one of the jewelry repair specialists to open the clasp. So, there—I’ve officially got two perfectly valid reasons to beat a hasty trail to the city.
Just like the day before, my parents are dressed in their matching plaid bathrobes, sipping cinnamon roll–flavored coffees at the kitchen table when I make my way downstairs. It’s starting to feel sort of like the movie Groundhog Day around here, but in a good way. From the ongoing Christmas traditions to my mom and dad’s quiet morning rituals, there’s a rhythm to Owl Lake that sets it apart from the hustle and bustle of my usual life. I’ve forgotten how comforting the routine of small-town life can be—probably because I’ve always been so anxious to spread my wings and experience something bigger and better.
“Sweetheart, are you sure you want to try to drive? The roads are still pretty icy,” Mom says when I announce my plans to rent a car and drive into the city for the day.
“The forecast calls for more snow,” Dad adds.
I glance out the big picture window facing the lake. There’s not a snowflake in sight. A pale lavender mist covers the icy surface of the water, and as I’m taking in the breathless serenity of an Adirondack sunrise, a snowy white owl swoops from the branches of a blue spruce tree and glides through the air in a smooth, graceful arc.
It’s my first
real owl sighting since being back in town, so I watch until the big white bird disappears into the mist. Snowy owls like to fly close to the ground—just a little nugget of owl lore my grandmother taught me when I was little. She also told me that snowy owls were supposed to symbolize big dreams and new beginnings. They’ve always been my favorite.
“The weather seems fine,” I say. Seeing the owl feels like a sign—that promotion is mine. I just have to grab hold of it. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I promise.”
My dad smirks. “The last time you said that, Aidan ended up driving you home in the ladder truck.”
Like I need the reminder.
I roll my eyes. “That won’t be happening again, I assure you.”
“If you say so,” he says, smirking far too much for my liking.
Have my parents forgotten that I lead a perfectly independent life in the biggest city in the country? I don’t need Aidan—or anyone else, for that matter—to rescue me. Certainly not on a daily basis.
Fruitcake shuffles toward the kitchen table, turns three circles and plops down with his chin on my dad’s foot. Honestly, whose side is he on?
The rental car place is right on Main Street, close enough to walk. When I get there, it seems as if I’m the only person in Owl Lake interested in renting a car. I decide this is a good thing. Surely that means that there are plenty of cars available and my magic bracelet hasn’t somehow orchestrated events to keep me stuck here in Owl Lake.
I shake my head. It’s a bracelet, not a magic wand.
“Here you go,” the clerk says, handing me a set of keys. “We don’t have any utility vehicles left, but the car has all-wheel drive, so you should be good to go. Just be careful out there. We’re expecting a lot snow today.”
I peel off my mitten and take the keys. “Thanks so much.”
Snowflakes swirl lightly against the windshield as I crank the engine. By the time I travel the length of Main Street and turn onto the highway, the snow is beating against the windows in thick white clumps.
Admittedly, the roads are a little treacherous in this kind of weather. Conditions are always more severe upstate in the mountains, though. Once I get to Albany, the halfway point, I’ll be home free.
I lean closer to the windshield, squint hard at the horizon and try to lift my spirits by visualizing myself as a manager at Windsor Fine Jewelry. The windshield wipers are working overtime as I approach the town line. Swish swish swish. Still, it’s starting to feel like I’m heading straight into a wall of white. The car is crawling forward at barely ten miles per hour. At this rate, I can forget about arriving in time to plead for the promotion—I’ll get back to Windsor when it’s time for me to retire.
I can do this…I need to do this.
The Now Leaving Owl Lake, Owl Capital of the Adirondacks sign is just ahead, barely visible through the swirl of snow. Somehow, I feel if I can only get past it, everything will be fine. My foot presses just a little bit harder on the gas, and the next thing I know, the car is drifting sideways, sliding off the road.
No!
Following my dad’s rulebook for what to do when you hit an icy patch on the road, I take my foot off the accelerator and allow the car to slow. Again, I tell myself that everything is fine, and it totally is…
Until the car drifts slowly into a snowbank with a muffled thud.
Snow is piled up on the side of the road in a mound nearly as tall as my rented vehicle, and within an instant, I’m a part of it. The windshield is packed with snow, and I can’t see a thing. But somehow, I’ve yet to actually make it past the Owl Lake’s town limits.
Don’t panic. At the moment, getting back to Windsor seems less important than getting out of this car, so I push the door open to make sure I’m not about to be buried alive.
It opens just fine. Only the front part of the car is stuck. But when I get back inside and crank the engine again, the wheels spin and spin against the snowy ground without actually going anywhere.
I’m officially stranded.
I reach for my cell phone, but there’s not even a hint of bars in the upper left-hand corner. No service whatsoever. Maybe it’s the weather, but somehow I doubt it. Was I really just waxing poetic about small-town life earlier? This would never happen in Manhattan.
My eyes drift shut and I rest my forehead against the steering wheel. What am I going to do? The wind outside sounds like an entire chorus of owls, eerily beautiful. I’m too far from Main Street to try to walk home, especially in the snow. And I can’t exactly stay here until the salt trucks come out to clear the roads.
But just as the first flutter of panic begins to stir deep in my belly, I hear a familiar noise in the distance, coming closer and closer.
And closer.
I groan, torn between dread and relief, because it’s the unmistakable wail of a fire engine.
I squeeze my eyes closed tight.
Not him, please.
Anybody but him.
Okay, yes—I’ve been feeling a bit fluttery lately in Aidan’s presence. There, I’ve admitted it. But butterflies aside, I really don’t want him to be behind the wheel of the red truck making its way toward me, lights flashing through a dizzying twirl of snowflakes.
For starters, there’s the whole damsel in distress thing. I don’t want to look like the big city girl who doesn’t know how to take care of herself once she’s away from concrete and Starbucks. And I really don’t want to seem like I need a Prince Charming on a shining red firetruck to come save me.
Mostly, I don’t want to see the disapproving look on Aidan’s face when he sees that I’m trying to escape Owl Lake again when I’m supposed to be enjoying the holidays with my family. Last time, his scowl spoke a thousand words, and I’m really not in the mood to hear any of them again.
Never mind that any and all of the accusations he could choose to throw at me are technically true—I am out of practice at driving in the snow, I very much need saving at the moment and I’m indeed mid-flight back to Manhattan. It would just be really great if Aidan didn’t have a front-row seat to my most recent humiliation, especially after he’d already gallantly saved me from public embarrassment the previous day by force-feeding himself my sad attempt at homemade gingerbread men.
Making those cookies had been fun, though. My mom was right. The end result didn’t matter as much as spending time with her in the kitchen and seeing how happy we made the firefighters. Life is messy, so it only makes sense that baking gets messy too. And who am I kidding? Aidan choking down those terrible cookies meant far more to me than if they’d been perfect and delicious. Jeremy would have never done such a thing. Not many men would, I suppose.
Three sharp knocks on my driver’s side window force my eyes open, and sure enough, the chiseled face I see peering down at me belongs to Aidan Flynn. Snow tips his eyelashes, and even his bulky firefighter helmet can’t hide the square set of his jaw and his perfectly defined cheekbones. Still, I’m both mortified and disappointed to see him. The sudden pounding of my heart is just a result of my recent near-death experience. Obviously.
I feel a little breathless, but I know I must be taking in oxygen because the window goes foggy as I sit there, staring at him. When I wipe it clean with my mitten, I have a very clear view of Aidan’s judgmental frown. Honestly, is he the only firefighter in the OLFD? Where’s Uncle Hugh when I really need him?
I sigh, and since I’ve made no move to open the car door, Aidan does it for me.
“Going somewhere?” He arches a brow.
“Apparently not.” I scramble out of the car so I can stand eye-to-eye with him, but it’s no use. He towers over me. Plus all his firefighter gear makes him seem huge—quite literally larger than life.
“Are you okay?” He looks me up and down, and despite the fact that I have to blink against the snow, my face goes hot. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
Nope. Just my pride.
I lift my chin. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” he says flatly. Why do I get the feeling he’d be far happier if I’d twisted an ankle or something, preventing me from limping out of town until after Christmas? “Because getting back to the city isn’t worth risking your life in a snowstorm.”
“For your information, I wasn’t ‘risking my life.’” I attempt to make sarcastic little air quotes, but since I’m wearing mittens, the gesture is impossible to pull off with any sort of flair. I look like I’m giving him a cutesy, double-fisted wave.
He accidentally smiles before rearranging his features back into frown. “You slid right off of the road.”
“Just a little bit,” I counter.
His ice-blue gaze flits to the front end of my rental car, currently buried beneath a pile of white, and then back at me. “Would it kill you to stay put for a few days? Couldn’t you see how happy your mom was last night at the station? Your Uncle Hugh, too. Everyone in town is ecstatic that you’re back.”
Everyone?
I don’t dare ask, mainly because I’m afraid of what his answer might be.
“I wasn’t going back to Manhattan for good.” I wish I didn’t have to keep saying this, but even more so, I wished everyone believed me when I did. I’m not quite sure they do, probably because I haven’t been home for Christmas in years. I haven’t spent much time in Owl Lake at all since I moved away.
My gaze drops to the snowy ground. Suddenly, I can’t seem to look Aidan in the eye anymore. I blink against the wind and my teeth start to chatter.
Aidan clears his throat. “Once the snow lets up, I can come back and tow your car out of there. Meanwhile, will you let me take you home?”
He’s asking my permission, like a gentleman. He could have simply ordered me to get in the firetruck since this is technically a rescue mission, and as a bona fide hero, he’s probably honor-bound not to leave me stranded here in the snow. But he didn’t, because Aidan isn’t like that.
