Dashing Through the Snow Page 5

  “They used it all right. And even though you didn’t throw in a buck, they’re cutting you in on it. I don’t know if I’d be that good-natured.”

  Duncan blinked back tears. “They did? Wow! I can’t believe how wonderful they are. They really care about me. I want to see them. I don’t suppose they went to work…I wonder where they all are now.”

  “They’re down at the Branscombe Inn. That’s the headquarters for your search party. Wait till they hear they can call it off!”

  “Would you take me there now?” Duncan asked, wondering how he could explain his lost evening.

  “Sure,” Enoch said, then slapped him on the arm. “The ride will cost you a thousand bucks.” His laughter at his own joke led to a fit of coughing. “Yup,” he finally said. “It’ll be a mere grand. I should charge you more than that! Some people think you disappeared because you’re holding the other winning lottery ticket! Isn’t that crazy? Just look at you!”

  Duncan stared straight ahead as Enoch’s old truck rumbled down the road.

  So this is how it feels to win the lottery, he thought.

  8

  Horace Pettie and his assistant, Luella, were putting the final touches on the window display that they had created to cash in on the Festival of Joy. Business at Pettie’s Fine Jewelry had been slow, and it certainly wasn’t being helped by all the emphasis the town was now putting on having a simple, homespun Christmas.

  “The message of the Festival is all well and good,” Horace said. “But a man has to make a living.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Pettie,” Luella chimed in. “It was brilliant of you to create a charm commemorating this weekend. Trust me, it’s going to sell like hot cakes,” she assured him.

  “I think it’s really pretty if I say so myself,” Pettie admitted, holding up one of the charms. The design was a gold holly wreath with the words “Branscombe’s Festival of Joy” engraved around the border. He hadn’t wanted to put either a date or the word “First” on the charms in case they didn’t sell out. If there happened to be another Festival next year, he could dust off the leftovers.

  A small, balding man of sixty-eight, Horace Pettie was another lifetime resident of Branscombe and the sole jeweler in town, as his father had been before him. Luella Cobb, a solid blond woman in her mid-fifties, had been working for him for twenty years, ever since her youngest child started high school. It was the only job she had ever wanted. Ever since Luella had been given a box of play jewelry when she was four years old, she had never been without a bauble or two attached to her body. Her enthusiasm for jewelry made her a splendid saleswoman for Horace Pettie. “Jewelry does not have to be terribly expensive, just tasteful,” she would whisper to prospective clients. Then, as surely as night follows day, she’d pull out a more expensive item, breathlessly declaring it “stunning,” “gorgeous,” and finally exulting, “It’s so you!”

  Horace laid the last of the little gold holly wreaths on a tiny sled in the window, then he and Luella stepped out onto the sidewalk to view the display. The scene was that of a winter wonderland with Festival charms dangling from red ribbons.

  Pettie sighed. “We did a lot of work on this. I hope it brings people into the store.”

  Luella put her hands on her ample hips. A thoughtful expression crossed her heavily made-up face. It was cold, but they were used to standing outside studying their various displays, so neither one noticed. “Mr. Pettie, I have an idea,” Luella said slowly, excitement building in her voice. “I know what we can add to our wonderland that will attract attention.”

  “What’s that, Luella?” Pettie asked, like a mouse snapping at a piece of cheese.

  She tapped the window with her manicured finger. “Duncan’s ring! Let’s place it on the middle of the sled.”

  “I can’t sell Duncan’s ring!” Horace protested.

  “Not sell it!” Luella said impatiently. “We’ll make a sign saying, DUNCAN, COME HOME SOON. WE MISS YOU. YOUR RING IS WAITING.”

  Horace Pettie’s eyes widened. “Duncan is the talk of the town. But don’t you think it might seem a little insensitive?”

  “Not in the least!” Luella declared. “It’s a human interest story. Besides, sensitivity doesn’t pay the bills.” She turned and went back in the store.

  Horace trailed after her, always amazed at Luella’s creativity in drumming up business.

  “You get the ring out of the safe,” Luella ordered.

  Horace hesitated.

  “Mr. Pettie, don’t worry about it. My bet is that Duncan is fine and has that other winning ticket, in which case he’ll never come back for the ring.”

  Horace’s ears reddened. “After I held it for him all these months!”

  “Exactly!” Luella said. She waved her hand. “If that happens you’ll end up selling the ring for twice the price. I’d buy it myself, but I think my husband would kill me.”

  Horace hurried to the back of the store.

  “I’ll make up the sign, then get on the phone,” Luella called after him. “After I tell Tishie Thornton how bad we feel about poor Duncan, there won’t be a living soul within a hundred miles who won’t know about that ring in our window. With any luck, a news crew will be here before lunch.”

  9

  This is probably the most impulsive thing I’ve done in my life, Flower thought as she stared out of the window of the bus she had boarded in Concord, New Hampshire. She had been counting the days until she flew in to spend Christmas with Duncan. They had both wished she could be there for the Festival of Joy, even though Duncan would be working, but they knew it didn’t make sense. She’d be in for the holidays a week later, and the flights were so expensive. But then the other day, out of the blue, Mrs. Kane had quietly presented her with a check for two thousand dollars.

  “Jimmy loves coming to day care, thanks to you,” she had whispered to Flower about her three-year-old. “He’s always been so terribly shy. You’ve brought him out of his shell. Please accept this gift, and treat yourself to something very special.”

  It didn’t take Flower long to figure out what that something special would be—a chance to surprise Duncan by showing up in Branscombe for the Festival of Joy. She hoped she’d be allowed to lend a hand with the events Conklin’s was catering, so that she could be near Duncan all weekend and get to know the coworkers he always talked about. For the past few months, he’d been hinting he’d bought her something special for Christmas. She hoped against hope that it was an engagement ring.

  Flower had been able to get Friday off from work. Before she left for the airport Thursday evening, she had called Duncan, but he didn’t pick up on either his cell phone or his home phone. Unlike her, he had a land line. He’s probably working late, she thought. She hated to tell even a tiny lie, but she had to if she wanted to surprise him.

  “I’m out Christmas shopping,” she had said. “My cell phone battery is almost dead. By the time I get home, you’ll be asleep. Talk to you in the morning.” And then she closed by saying, “I love you, Duncan.”

  She knew he wouldn’t be able to reach her when she was in the air and didn’t want him to worry.

  On the flight Flower was far too excited to close her eyes, just thinking that every second she was getting closer to Duncan and would finally see Branscombe for the first time. When she landed at Logan Airport at 6 A.M., and switched her cell phone back on, she was disappointed and surprised that Duncan hadn’t left her a message. He left her messages all the time, even when he knew she wouldn’t be able to pick up.

  An hour and a half later, while she was waiting to board the first bus to New Hampshire, she called him. He still didn’t answer. Her heart began to sink. But he could be in the shower, she thought. She left a message to call her back. “I know you must think I’m crazy,” she tried to joke. “It’s 4:30 in the morning in California, but I’m wide awake. It just felt so strange not to talk to you last night. I’m going back to sleep, but if you get this, leave me a message.” Sh
e turned off her phone. She knew she couldn’t speak to him when she was on the bus, in case someone seated near her started to talk.

  She had climbed aboard the bus to Concord, and once there, switched to the local bus to Branscombe. Now that she was approaching Duncan’s town, she was starting to feel uneasy. She kept checking her messages, but he still hadn’t tried to call her back.

  Don’t borrow trouble, she told herself. But what if Duncan didn’t want to be surprised like this? He was so orderly and methodical. For her to just show up, when he’s the type who would want everything to be perfect for her first visit, might not have been such a good idea after all.

  As the bus passed miles of snow-covered countryside, Flower convinced herself that all would be well. Finally they passed a sign reading ENTERING BRANSCOMBE. I know I’m going to love it here, she thought. At the depot, she was the first one off the bus. She switched on her phone again. No messages. Her heart quickening, she went straight to the ladies’ room to freshen up.

  No wonder they call that flight the red-eye, she thought ruefully as she noticed how tired her eyes looked. She brushed her teeth, splashed water on her face, reapplied light makeup, and ran a comb through her hair. I certainly don’t look my best, but I don’t care, and I don’t think Duncan will either.

  She had gotten the address of Conklin’s Market online and printed out the directions from the bus depot. The store was only a few blocks away. As she stepped out onto the street, she turned right. She knew that Main Street was in that direction. She began walking, enjoying the sound of the crusty snow as it crunched beneath her sneakers. At the corner, she paused. Main Street’s quaint charm was everything she had imagined it would be. Old-fashioned street lamps, the row of tidy stores, and the small decorated Christmas trees lining the curb could have been on a postcard. Duncan had told her the trees would light up as Santa drove through town at the opening of the Festival. As she turned left, she smiled at the sight of a young woman lifting a baby from a stroller into a car seat. That’s what I want to be doing before too long, Flower thought. She passed a drug store, a real estate agency, and then, across the street, she saw a man and a woman standing in front of a jewelry store, examining the display window. They must work there, she thought—neither one of them has a coat on. As she watched, they hurried back into the store. If Duncan did buy me a ring for Christmas, is that where he got it? she wondered, and then again the nagging thought hit her—Why hasn’t he called me?

  Finally she reached Duncan’s workplace. A little bigger than she had expected, it still had the look of a nineteenth-century general store. The exterior was painted red with black trim. A sign read CONKLIN’S MARKET—A WELCOME AWAITS YOU.

  But when Flower walked through the door, the atmosphere was anything but welcoming. To her right, there were long lines at the registers, with cashiers yelling for price checks. It seemed to her that everyone in her line of vision was scowling.

  Duncan had told her that produce aisles were always located on one side of a store or the other. There were no fruits or vegetables in the vicinity of the front door, so Flower started making her way past the rows of aisles to the far wall on the other side. I’ll just say a quick hello and get the key to his house, she thought nervously. But when she turned the corner to the produce section, there was no sign of Duncan. A woman with a white stripe in her hair was yelling at a young kid who couldn’t have been more than twenty. Apples were scattered all over the floor, some still rolling off in different directions.

  “What happened here?” the woman screeched.

  “I guess I piled the apples too high.”

  “I guess so! Pick them up, put them back, and unpack the bananas. Look at those grapes! I told you to spray them, not drown them.”

  Oh, my goodness, Flower thought. She must be the owner’s wife, the one they call The Skunk. But where was Duncan? Something had to be wrong.

  The woman started to hurry past Flower.

  “Excuse me,” Flower said quickly. “Is Duncan Graham here?”

  Her eyes shooting darts, the woman snarled, “You’ve got to be kidding. Where have you been, under a rock? He won millions in the lottery last night along with four other jokers who worked here. He’ll never be back. Talk about ungrateful!”

  In a huff, she was off.

  Feeling as if she’d been punched in the stomach, Flower lowered her head as she felt tears flooding her eyes. Why didn’t he call me? she asked herself frantically. The first thing I would have done if I had won the lottery, if I even played it, would be to call him. No matter what time it was, I would have called him. We phoned each other all the time over the silliest little things…And even if he thought my cell phone was dead, he knew it would have taken a message.

  A stark realization hit her. He didn’t call me because after he won the lottery, he probably thought he’d find someone better. My mother was right. She’s laid-back about most things in life, but she warned me to take it slow with a man I met online who lives three thousand miles away…

  “Flower,” her mother had cautioned, “you haven’t met his friends or family or visited his home yet. Just be careful.”

  The words of her late grandmother also echoed in her ears: “You should know someone for a year before getting serious.”

  She and Duncan had met only seven months ago.

  I’ve made a fool of myself, Flower thought, as she squeezed past the shopping carts that were clustered around the cash registers. But I thought I knew him. He told me the other night that he wasn’t going to play the lottery anymore. His financial advisers said it was a waste of money. What made him change his mind?

  It was a relief to get out of the store. Flower knew if anyone looked at her closely, they’d see she was crying. I’m so tired, she realized as she shifted her knapsack on her shoulders and started walking toward the bus station. I may have to wait hours for a bus back to the airport. She noticed that an older woman eyed her sympathetically as they passed each other. I bet she’s going to turn around and ask me if something’s wrong, Flower thought. I’ve got to get off this Main Street. Ducking down an alley, she walked past a parking lot and found herself on a quiet country lane.

  Across the street she could see a rambling white house with a sign that read THE HIDEAWAY—BED AND BREAKFAST. That’s perfect, she thought. Just what I need. I can’t get back on a bus yet. I need to just collapse and be alone.

  She bit her lip, wiped her eyes, and hurried across the road. Instructions on the front door said to ring the bell and walk in. I just hope they’re not booked up, she thought, as she poked her finger on the bell, opened the door, and stepped into a small foyer. On the registration desk, an electrical smiling Santa was waving his arms and bowing. To the left, she could see a parlor with a large fireplace, comfortable looking couches, a crotcheted rug, and a huge Christmas tree, decorated with lights and ornaments and tinsel. The only sound was the ticking of a grandfather clock. Then she heard footsteps hurrying down the hall and a voice calling, “I’ll get it, Jed.”

  A matronly looking woman, her graying hair pulled into a loose bun, was wiping her hands on an apron as she greeted Flower warmly. “Hello, honey. Here for the Festival?”

  “Uhhhhh, yes. But I can only stay tonight.”

  “We happen to have one room left. It’s nice and quiet and in the back. I have to warn you though. We have no television, radio, or Internet connection.” She laughed. “Are you still interested?”

  “More than ever,” Flower said, managing a smile.

  After handing over her credit card and driver’s license, Flower detected the usual reaction to her name. “So you’re from California,” the woman said, not sounding surprised. She took an imprint of the credit card on an old machine, the likes of which Flower hadn’t seen in years. “I’m Betty Elkins. My husband, Jed, and I are the owners here. Anything at all we can do to make you comfortable, please let us know. One of us is here all the time. We serve tea in the parlor at three o’clock with h
omemade scones and clotted cream.” She paused. “You heard about our Festival all the way in California?”

  “I did,” Flower answered, thinking sadly of her conversations with Duncan. She could tell Betty Elkins was anxious to hear more, but thankfully a man appeared who was obviously Betty’s husband. The sleeves of his green flannel shirt were rolled up, revealing muscular arms. He wore suspenders and a knotted bandana around his neck.

  Betty glanced at him. “We’ve got a full house, honey,” she said cheerfully, then turned back to Flower. “May I call you Flower?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Flower, this is my husband, Jed.”

  The gray-haired, thick eyebrowed Jed shook her hand. “I’m here to carry the luggage, but it looks like you don’t have much except that knapsack.”

  “That’s it,” Flower said with a shrug as he matter-of-factly took the bag from her.

  “Show her to the room, Jed. I’ve got to check on my Christmas cookies. They must be about ready.”

  Jed led Flower up the stairs and down the hall to a cozy room with yellow flowered wallpaper, a four-poster bed with a jonquil-patterned yellow quilt, a rocking chair, a night table, and a dresser. “This room is perfect for a girl with your name,” he commented as he put the knapsack on the chair. “Hope you’ll be comfortable.”

  “I know I will. Thank you.” When Flower closed the door behind him, she turned the lock, took off her coat, sat down on the bed, and kicked off her sneakers.

  I’ve never felt so alone, she thought. I truly believed Duncan loved me. But if he still wanted to be with me after winning all that money, he certainly would have called by now. She turned off her cell phone, leaned back onto the fluffy pillows, and immediately fell into a deep, dark sleep.

  10

  It was quarter of twelve when the four Reillys pulled into the driveway of the quaint, century-old Branscombe Inn. A half dozen television trucks were already lined up near the entrance.