Chapter One
Everyone talks about Christmas magic as if it’s an actual, literal thing. As real as silver tinsel draped lovingly from the stiff pine needles of a blue spruce tree. As real as snow on Christmas morning. As real as the live toy soldiers who flank the entrance to FAO Schwartz, the famous toy store now situated in Rockefeller Plaza, right at the center of the bustling, beating heart of Manhattan.
But here’s the truth—as authentic as those costumed soldiers seem, they’re really just actors killing time until they land a role in an off-Broadway play. I know this because a pair of them stood in line behind me last week at Salads Salads Salads during the lunch rush. Dressed in their tall black hats and red uniforms with glossy gold buttons, they piled their bowls high with lettuce, cucumber slices and shredded carrots while discussing their audition monologues for the upcoming revival of West Side Story. It was all very surreal and not the least bit magical.
Genuinely magical or not, though, New York is undeniably lovely during the holidays. After four Christmases in Manhattan, I still go a little breathless every year when I catch my first glimpse of the grand Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. Every time I stand on the frosty sidewalk in front of Saks Fifth Avenue for the unveiling of their big holiday light show, I feel my heart grow three sizes, just like a certain green you-know-who.
I love this time of year. I always have, but this particular December is special. This Christmas will be my best yet. I just have to make it through my last day at work before taking off on my first real vacation in eight years—to Paris! My boyfriend, Jeremy, has family there, and this year, he’s invited me to spend the holidays with them. Christmas magic, indeed.
Oui, s’il vous plaît.
I pull my coat tighter and more snugly around my frame as I jostle for space on the busy midtown streets. The very second the floats in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade pack up and go home, Christmas shoppers and holiday tourists descend on Manhattan in droves. The switch is kind of jarring. One minute, a sixty-two-foot inflated turkey is looming over Central Park West, and the next, his giant, colorful plumage is nowhere to be seen. Swinging shopping bags are the only thing in sight, all the way from one end of 5th Avenue to the other.
The Christmas crowds are predictably terrible, so I always leave extra time during the holiday season for my walk to the upscale jewelry store where I work, just a few blocks from FAO Schwartz and its not-so-magical toy soldiers. A snowstorm blew in last night—the first of the Christmas season. And even though I’m in serious danger of being swallowed up by the crush of people headed toward the ice-skating rink at Rockefeller Center, I can’t help but marvel at the beauty of the season’s first snowfall.
Manhattan looks almost old-fashioned covered in a gentle layer of white. Frost clings to the cast iron streetlamps, and icicles drip from the stained-glass windows of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Huge Christmas wreaths have been placed around the necks of Patience and Fortitude, the massive stone lions that flank the main branch of the public library like bookends, and when a winter storm is sprinkled on top, the tips of their front paws and noses are the only visible glimpses of pale gray marble beneath a blanket of sparkling snow. I can almost picture them rising up to shake the snowflakes from their manes and prowling through Midtown, leaving a trail of paw prints in the fresh powder.
I smile to myself as I near the toy store. One of the actor soldiers out front pauses from saluting at passersby to pose for a selfie with a little girl bundled up in a bright red snowsuit. It’s an adorable scene, and I let my gaze linger longer than I should. Before I register what’s happening, I plow straight into a man exiting the store.
Oof.
We collide right at the edge of the red carpet stretched out beneath FAO Schwartz’s fancy marquee. Technically, I’m only partly to blame. The man’s arms are piled so high with gift-wrapped packages that I can’t even see his face, so I doubt he can tell where he’s going or who might be in his way. My gaze snags on the sight of his hands in the seconds just before impact. They’re nice hands—strong, capable. The sort of hands that can probably steer a car using only two fingers. Cradle a sleepy puppy in a single palm. Loosen a necktie with one swift tug.
I blink, and then impact occurs and the packages scatter. The rattle of what sounds like airborne Lego bricks and who knows what else snaps me back to attention.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going,” I say. I drop to my knees on the sidewalk to try and collect as many of his gift-wrapped packages as I can before they get stepped on. “Here, let me help you.”
We reach for the same box and when our fingertips collide, I realize there’s something almost familiar about those nice hands of his. Something that makes my stomach do a little flip, even before I look up to meet his gaze. And when I finally stand and get a glimpse of his face, I’m more confused than ever.
Aidan? My arms go slack, and all the presents I’ve just scrambled to pick up tumble to the ground again. Aidan Flynn?
No. It can’t be. Absolutely not.
One of his packages must have conked me on the head or something and made my vision go wonky, because there’s no way my high school sweetheart just walked out of FAO Schwartz. The Aidan Flynn I used to know wouldn’t be caught dead in New York City. He was a hometown boy, through and through—as much a part of Owl Lake as the snow-swept landscape. Hence, our awkward breakup.
“Ashley,” Aidan says, and it’s more a statement than a question. After all, he shouldn’t be as surprised to see me. I’m the one who belongs here. This is my city, my home—the very same city I left him for all those years ago.
Still, he seems to be almost as stunned as I am, because he makes no immediate move to pick up the remaining gifts scattered at our feet.
“Aidan, what are you...” I clear my throat. Why is it so difficult to form words all of a sudden? “What are you doing here?”
This can’t be real. It’s definitely some sort of Christmas hallucination. Not magic, definitely not that. Even though I can’t exactly deny that there’s a pleasant zing coursing through me as we stare at each other through a swirl of snowflakes.
I shake my head. Get ahold of yourself. I’ve moved on since Aidan and I dated, obviously. Eight years have passed, and now I’m practically engaged…sort of.
In any case, I shouldn’t be wondering why Aidan looks as if he’s just bought out an entire toy store. Is he a father now? Is he married? Is he a married to a New Yorker? All of these possibilities leave me feeling a little squeamish. I wish I could blame my sudden discomfort on something gone off at Salads Salads Salads, but alas, I can’t.
“I’m working,” he says, which tells me absolutely nothing. He could be one of Santa’s elves for all I know. Or a professional gift wrapper. Or a personal shopper for a wealthy Upper West Sider who has a dozen small children.