Wishing Cross Station

Chapter Twenty-Three

The store was an absolute disaster by the end of the day, but Mr. Best told us not to worry about it. We'd clean up after the holidays were over.

"The shop will be closed between the holiday and the New Year, anyway. Closest thing I get to a vacation." He was silent for a moment as the two of us walked the distance to Miss Finch's. He'd let Marigold go early so she could help with final dinner preparations. "I'm going to have to look into hiring a permanent shop assistant soon. I've become quite accustomed to having you here, Mr. Wainwright. I will be sorry to see you go."

"I'll be sorry to go, sir," I said, and I meant it.

We arrived at Miss Finch's to find, much to our surprise, the house had been decorated just a little bit here and there...a garland over the mantle, candles above it. In the corner sat the tiniest live Christmas tree I'd ever seen in my life, trimmed with ribbon and bows instead of ornaments of glass.

It had Marigold's touch all over it.

"Merry Christmas!" she said, smiling, taking our coats as we removed our boots. "Welcome! I hope you're hungry. There is enough food to feed half of Wishing Cross!"

"I told Wilson I wanted to feed a small party, not a small army," Miss Finch muttered. "He must have misinterpreted. With the supply of groceries he added to my usual order, I could feed the entire neighborhood."

"We are grateful for your hospitality, Miss Finch," I said, and she nodded to me without saying a word.

She turned to Mr. Best. "William, come and sit at the piano. We have a few more minutes before the turkey is done. Play us a tune."

"No...I couldn't."

"Oh, please, Mr. Best!" Marigold asked gently, lifting the key case on the piano. "It would be so lovely."

"Only if you will sing along with me," Mr. Best challenged as twin circles appeared, illuminating Marigold's cheeks. "I've heard you sing in church. I know you have a beautiful voice."

"I've been told I have my mother's voice," Marigold replied modestly. "She used to sing to me, when I was small. I hardly remember."

I watched the scene unfold from the far corner of the room, taking it all in, not wanting to disrupt the magic I hoped was about to happen.

I recognized the song from the first few notes. I'd been taken to church often enough as a child, to enough weddings and masses and funerals to know it well; it was Ave Maria.

As Marigold sang, something changed inside of me. It wasn't a subtle, slight difference; it was a massive, life-altering shock. It broke me down into nothing, burnt the rubble to ash, and rebuilt me into someone completely different.

The sound of her voice, with just the piano and Mr. Best's heartfelt playing, transformed me from the boy I'd been when I arrived here with delusions of manhood and made me into a fully realized human being, a grown man, desperately in love.

A man without a heart of his own, because his would forever belong to the girl with the golden hair and the voice to match.

She'd reached inside of me and stolen my soul. Tears stung my eyes, but my resolve kept them at bay.

I wondered if this was how J. Howard Fox felt the moment he'd met her mother.

God help me. I'll be absolutely lost without her. There is no changing that now.

They finished their song, and I heard the soft sound of sniffling behind me. The performance had even brought our difficult, tough-as-nails-on-the-exterior-hostess to tears.