We took our places in the queue. Celia tried to stand on tiptoes. “I wonder if I know who’s manning the stall. I don’t want to . . .” Her voice melted into the chatter of the crowd as I tuned into a once-familiar sound—a piece of music I couldn’t quite place. All I knew for sure was that I hadn’t heard it for a very long time.
“I’m going to check something out. I’ll meet you back here,” I said as I stepped away from Celia and followed the recognizable melody.
As I retraced our steps, I discovered a smaller stall at right angles to a stall selling woolen gloves. As soon as I saw what they were selling, I knew instantly where I recognized the sound from.
My jaw clenched as I took in the wooden musical jewelry box that my mother had when I was a child.
It featured in some of my earliest memories.
“Would you like a look, sir?” the slight woman behind the counter said.
I nodded, and she set the square mahogany box with small ebony feet on a velvet-covered counter in front of me. It was exactly the one my mother had. Had until my father had thrown it across their bedroom during one of their fights before they divorced. The box had splintered into hundreds of unrecognizable, irreparable pieces.
It was one of the only times I’d ever seen my mother full of sadness rather than rage. I tried to bat away the memory.
“It’s the only one I’ve ever seen like it,” the vendor said.
I lifted the lid to hear the familiar tune that had brought me here. Instantly, I was transported back to those unhappy times. Trying to stay out late so I didn’t have to go home to the arguing. Refusing sleepovers with friends because I knew I could never return the invitation. Trying to convince Granny to let me live with her permanently.
Inside, the box was lined in burgundy velvet and divided into four small trays. Just like my mother’s had been.
“I’ll take it.” I hadn’t bought my mother a Christmas present since I was seventeen. But something inside me couldn’t leave this box behind. I didn’t know whether my mother had searched for one since hers had been smashed or why she’d been quite so devastated by its destruction, but I couldn’t leave this here. It was like it belonged to her or me or our shared history or . . . something.
As I headed back to the mulled wine queue, I passed the stall selling the weather house. Celia had seemed so completely taken with it, I couldn’t resist it a second time. “Can I take that, please?” I asked the seller. She beamed at me. “Your wife will be delighted.”
I chuckled to myself. If only Celia knew how convincing we were as a couple, even when she didn’t share our entire cover with total strangers. I wasn’t going to tell her if it meant I wouldn’t get to kiss her again.
About five seconds after I’d paid for the weather house and had the parcel boxed, wrapped, and bagged in hand, I ran into Celia carrying two cups of mulled wine.
“You’ve been shopping. In Snowsville,” she added tightly.
I laughed at her silent accusation of disloyalty. “I’m not allowed to buy my Secret Santa gift in Snowsly,” I reminded her.
Her face softened and she glanced down at the box. I’d been able to fit the music box in one of my large inside pockets, but there was no hiding the weather house. “What is it?” she asked.
She was like an inquisitive puppy.
“You, of all people, should know I’m sworn to secrecy.”
“Can you at least tell me who it’s for?”
“I absolutely cannot do that. I’m not going to be responsible for ruining Christmas, and you shouldn’t even be asking.”
She rolled her eyes and thrust the cup of wine into my free hand. “I hope you choke on it,” she said in mock fury. “Shall we go?”
I chuckled, enjoying her frustration more than I should. “Yup. We’ve seen everything we came to see. Let’s head back to the car.”
Hopefully the box would fit on the back seat because there was no way all three of us would fit in the front.
This time, I took off my coat and made it into the passenger seat with relative ease. Maybe it was the mulled wine or maybe the kiss that had loosened my limbs.
“For what it’s worth, I think the Snowsly market is better,” I said as Celia pushed her key into the ignition. “The stalls in Snowsville seem . . . not as cohesive somehow. Does this car have heating? It’s really cold in here.”
Celia glanced at me, panic in her expression. “Sebastian, I’m turning the key.”
Fair point—I was being impatient. “Sorry, I—”
“No, I mean I’m turning the key and nothing is happening.”