“Copy that,” he replies, already dialing on his radio while keeping his eyes fixed on our suspects. “Officer Harrington and I are on scene, potential break-in.”
My heart pounds against my ribs like a sledgehammer as I stealthily make my way closer on foot. Every instinct tells me this is our perpetrator, and there’s an odd satisfaction in being on the verge of catching them in the act. The figure starts to swing the crowbar at the window.
“Police!” Randy shouts suddenly, springing into action. “Drop your weapons and step away from the building.”
One figure bolts down the alley and out of sight. The other freezes, dropping the crowbar with a clang that echoes in the night. He obediently puts his hands in the air as Randy approaches him, handcuffs ready.
I take off after the runner, determined not to lose him.
“Stop!” I yell, dodging a couple of trash cans in my way. But he doesn’t stop. If anything, he speeds up.
All I see is a dark figure weaving in and out of the narrow passageways ahead of me. I follow him down another alleyway and almost lose him when he makes a swift turn.
Just as I round a corner, he stumbles on something and falls to the ground with a loud thump. Without thinking, I lunge forward to grab him before he gets back on his feet.
“Got you,” I breathe out triumphantly as I place handcuffs on his wrist and keep my knee firmly planted on his back. “You’re under arrest.”
It’s always a good day when you catch a criminal. But it’s an even better day when said criminal has been causing a ruckus in your town and now, he’s behind bars. We turned in our reports, and now, I can blissfully get a few hours of sleep after a long night.
“Are you sure you want to have dinner tonight?” Jane’s concern is written on her face.
After my too short of a nap, I came here to the bookstore to meet for our town paint-a-thon. Jane brought the cookies we made, Nonna is warming up water with an electric kettle, and we’re gathering all the paint supplies.
“You’re right. I don’t want to spend time with you or your family,” I deadpan, and she giggles. “Of course, I’m sure. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“But if you change your mind, everyone will understand. You’ve had a long day already.”
I pull her in close to me and kiss the top of her head. “I promise I’m fine. Now, let’s get to painting!”
“Very well, detective. Just don’t say I didn’t offer you an out,” Jane retorts, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she dips a brush into a can of bright green paint.
“Awfully chirpy for a guy who spent the wee hours chasing burglars,” Nonna chimes in, pouring the boiling water into several cups. She doesn’t seem at all surprised about my morning escapades.
“Coffee have something to do with that?” Jane asks, her eyebrow arched in amusement as she nudges towards the cold drink in my hand.
“I plead the fifth,” I answer, grinning down at her.
The close-knit community of Oakridge Hollow never ceases to amaze me, even after living here for a couple of years. Everyone genuinely cares about each other, and in times of need, they come together to support one another. People of all ages are out on this chilly snowy day, painting the wood-covered windows on Main Street to make it look festive for Christmas.
As best as I can, cause I’m not an artist, I start working on Jane’s plywood window. I wasn’t sure what to draw at first, but then it hit me. It’s simple enough to everyone else but extra special to Jane and I.
I stand back to admire my handiwork. A cozy house in a snowy forest, our first meeting. A bookstore in a small town, our reunification. And a few of my favorite moments with her: a Christmas tree, Mr. and Mrs. Claus, and cookies.
“Andrew, that’s...” Jane trails off, staring at my painting.
“Do you like it?” I ask, reaching for her hand. She intertwines her fingers with mine, her smile making me feel like I just won a million bucks.
“Like it? I love it!” she exclaims. “It’s us.”
“Exactly.”
Then she grins broadly at me. “Andrew Harrington, is there anything you can’t do?”
“Just one thing,” I murmur, leaning into her ear. “Resist you.”
Nonna clears her throat loudly from behind us, causing both of us to jump apart.
“If you lovebirds are done flirting,” Nonna begins, “we still have some painting to do.” She winks at Jane and points to the next plywood-covered window with her paintbrush.
