She nods and walks to Anders. I hear the sound of Randy’s car pulling up, and I turn to greet him. We work quickly to put the plywood over the open window so the bookstore doesn’t have any further damage from the snow that seems to be getting heavier by the minute. As we do, I fill him in on the little information we do have, and we walk inside the bookstore to see if there are any kind of clues.
Jane returns from giving her statement to Anders. She’s looking around the store when something catches her eye, and she gasps softly.
“Andrew, come here.”
I follow her gaze toward a few books splayed open on the floor, pages fluttering gently from the draft coming in through the now boarded window.
“This one isn’t normally up here,” Jane says with a furrowed brow. “In fact, I know it wasn’t here when I left last night.”
With gloved hands, I carefully pick up the book that caught her attention. “The Last Great Getaway,” I read aloud. “You think they left this here?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t put it there,” Jane replies with a hint of frustration in her voice.
“What’s it about?”
“Just like it sounds. ThinkThe Italian Jobbut set in the Victorian era.”
“So they think they’re invincible?” I scoff, unable to resist a small smile at the thought. “Well, we’ll see about that.”
16
Jane
“Wonderful,” I mutter angrily as I hang up the phone, with a dramatic press of the red button.
“That doesn’t sound good.” Mom’s big eyes look in my direction.
After surveying the bookstore and confirming that everything else was in its place, I went home and attempted to get some sleep. There wasn’t anything I could do at that time, and I knew once they released it back to me, I’d need to start damage control.
The display by the window is destroyed. The books, the shelf, the décor, they were all soaked from the snow. We’re still checking on everything else, but overall, we came out pretty lucky, which isn’t the case for all of the shops. Now that it’s no longer a crime scene (even though it still looks like one), Mom, Dad, Nonna, and I are here cleaning up.
“What did they say?” Mom asks.
“Well, looks like no one can replace the window until after the new year so the plywood will be part of our décor for Christmas.” I sigh heavily. “I knew it was a long shot, since some of the other shops haven’t been fixed either but I was hoping.”
“Chin up, buttercup, we’ll come up with something.” Dad rests his hand on my shoulder and smiles.
“Maybe we could cover it with some Christmas wrapping paper? Or put up a big wreath?” Nonna suggests, her hands on her hips as she surveys the plywood monstrosity.
A laugh escapes me at the thought of such a large, garish decoration covering the storefront. “Might as well hang a giant red nose and antlers on it and call it Rudolph.”
“Well, since we’re out of reindeer, why don’t we make it into something meaningful?” Mom’s eyes light up with the spark of an idea. “We could paint it white and let everyone in town draw or write what Christmas means to them.”
“And not just ours, we can do it for all the shops around town whose windows aren’t fixed yet,” I suggest further.
Dad claps his hands together. “Those are my girls! Always thinking of others!”
Nonna moves closer to me, her eyes bright with excitement. “Christmas is about community, after all.”
“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Mom chips in, her eyes sparkling with pride. “Do you have any leftover paint supplies from the faux fireplace?”
“Yes, we should have enough.”
“And I’ll get the word out.” Dad pulls out his phone, already typing away at a rapid speed.
Nonna nods approvingly. “I’ll make some hot chocolate to keep everyone warm while they’re waiting their turn.”
It’s just the kind of friendly, community-based idea that Oakridge Hollow is always up for. That’s how I ended up standing at the front of our shop, a chilly breeze wafting through the main street as we finish painting the plywood windows a crisp white. As I step back, paintbrush in hand, to admire the blank canvas we’ve created, I can’t help but feel a sense of hope. And tomorrow, the town will add their personal touches.
