A part of me wished that was still true.
We entered the Sleigh Café’s kitchen. Even though it wasn’t a mealtime rush, there were still cooks bustling about, preparing food orders. A glance toward the pass-through showed a coffee barista filling orders near the front of the café.
Nick’s mother Holly took a tray of pumpkin tarts out of the oven. She saw me and gave a little squeal. “Allie!” And then she was hugging me, squeezing me with her oven-mitted hands.
And I…I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been smothered with physical affection. My family only hugged during awkward farewells and somber funerals. And I had few friends in New York.
Impulsively, I hugged Holly back.
“Are you here to dance in the Christmas Extravaganza?” Nick’s mother asked upon releasing me.
“No. We’re here for coffee,” Nick said before I could. He tugged me through the kitchen to the café proper.
A pretty, blond teenager wearing a Santa hat and a bright green Sleigh Café apron was making an espresso for a customer.
Being back was a bit surreal. I took a moment to drink everything in because although Christmas was still a theme at the Sleigh Café, its appearance had changed.
First, I focused on the familiar. Christmas music played softly from the speakers, currently a country rendition ofSilent Night. A big, live Christmas tree stood in the middle of the café, decorated with the reindeer and sleigh ornaments. The fireplace on the far wall glowed from a real fire, not gas. The café smelled of coffee and fragrant pine. Not surprisingly business was still good. There were three round, metal patio tables for two outside on the sidewalk, all currently occupied by bundled-up, coffee drinkers. The Christmas Cheer Meters in the shape of Santa Claus still graced every table. If anyone turned the dial to one-hundred percent, Santa gave a jollyho-ho-ho!
But changes had been made. The old diner booths had been replaced with wooden booths that looked like sleighs. All booths were filled with what looked like holiday shoppers, if the bags at their feet were any indication. There were chimney-shaped salt and pepper shakers on each table with Santa’s boots stuck out the top.
“I love the sleighs,” I told Nick.
He smiled. “Me, too. Dallas Parker from Parker’s Furniture made them.”
I glanced behind him toward the front of the café. On a bulletin board next to the checkout counter, colorful envelopes had been pinned, instead of the usual business cards touting local services or flyers for whatever charitable or youth event was going on. There were names written on the envelopes but no addresses. A closer inspection showed the names to have been written with different pens and apparently by different senders, since the handwriting never seemed to be the same.
“What’s going on here?” I stood before the display.
“You haven’t heard about the Sleigh Café Christmas cards?” Nick tapped a big red envelope with Lexi O’Malley’s name printed on it. “It started a couple of Christmases ago with Mom handing out holiday cards to customers she thought needed a word of encouragement. Word spread, and it’s become a community thing. Now, cards are dropped off in a collection box beginning the day after Thanksgiving.” He gestured toward a tall, narrow gift box without a lid next to the cash register.
A glance inside revealed at least ten cards of various colors and sizes inside. “Why don’t they just send them through the regular mail?”
“Maybe because whoever writes the cards doesn’t sign their name. Not their real one anyway.” He reached beneath the cash register and showed me a card with Santa and his sleigh being pulled by a team of reindeer. “Someone left this for me.”
I opened it and read the handwritten sentiment. “You are enough.” Someone had signed it as Hermey. “Hermey? Isn’t that the name of the elf inRudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer? The one who wanted to be a dentist?”
“Yeah.” Nick grinned.
I was momentarily distracted by the way my heart raced when Nick looked at me. I shook my head, trying to clear it. “Who’sHermey? In town, I mean.”
Nick shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“But…”
“That’s the thing about these cards, Allie.” He draped his arm across my shoulders and led me toward the coffee station behind the counter. “They’re anonymous messages of encouragement.Anonymous. It’s part of the wonder and mystery of Christmas.” He put his finger on his nose and wiggled it.
“Christmas magic.” I waved him off. “Doesn’t it bother you that you don’t know who thinks you believe you weren’t enough?” It bothered me. I’d always been obsessed with solving the mystery of my Secret Santa in homeroom. “Whoever sent that card is keeping a close eye on you.” I leaned closer to tease. “That card could be from Darla Marlow.” His high school crush. “This could be a romantic gesture.”
“I’m okay believing it’s Hermey.” Nick poured us two coffees into take-and-go cups, which he then put lids on. “Come on. Our bench awaits.”
Our bench.
The bench across from the town square where we’d sat as teenagers. We’d drink coffee and watch the comings and goings on Main Street. We’d have good-natured arguments about which local Christmas traditions were the best – Nick defended Santa driving through town on the local firetruck, I was all for the Christmas Extravaganza because I was a featured dancer. But privately, I adored the idea of the Kissing Bench, not that either one of us had ever had the opportunity to test the tradition.
How my mother had hated our bench and those conversations.“Don’t get attached to this dead-end town,” she’d say. “You’re meant for a bigger life than this.”
She was the reason I was a professional dancer. She’d seen a passion I had and encouraged it. Some might say overzealously so. But now, seeing Christmas so lovingly embraced, a part of me wondered what was better about living in a big city.