Love Finds You in North Pole, Alaska (2 page)

Until the week before last, when he’d worked up a sweat hot-footing it through the Fairbanks airport. From out of nowhere, a pint-sized kid of six or seven had tugged at Bryce’s sleeve, then hiked up his own pants leg. “Got
my
scar falling through a plate glass door,” he’d boasted. “Wish it was on my face, like yours.
That
would keep those girls and their cooties away, for sure!”

Bryce frowned at the memory as Curt asked for permission to peek under the patch, his white-bearded face reminding Bryce of the forty-two-foot Santa that welcomed visitors to North Pole. He might’ve obliged his old friend—if a mother hadn’t chosen that moment to enter the barber shop, leading two small boys by the hand.

“Maybe some other time,” he said, nodding toward the door.

Curt followed his line of vision and gave a “gotcha” nod. “And when you do, maybe you can tell me how it happened. You’ve never said….”

With good reason
, Bryce thought as his mind flashed on the rugged Afghan terrain, with its narrow rutted roads and mere handful of scrubby shrubs dotting the bomb-pocked landscape. Ordinarily, a captain like himself wouldn’t have led a small band of men on patrol. But that day, with his lieutenant out of commission, he’d taken up the gauntlet, determined to locate and detonate land mines hidden in the gritty soil in preparation for the arrival of new troops. One cautious boot step at a time, he’d picked his way around rocks and debris, cautioning the soldiers to follow in his footsteps. Sadly, one had lost his balance and—

“Look, Mommy,” shouted the youngest boy, “a pirate!” And pointing at Bryce’s eye patch, he narrowed his own eyes and asked, “Are you a
real
pirate?”

His brother, who outranked him by a year or two, groaned and rolled his eyes. “Of course he isn’t, dopey. There’s no such thing as real pirates.” Chin up and shoulders back, the older boy ignored the whining protests his comment inspired and plopped onto one of six red chairs against the mirrored wall. “You should get some
Ranger Rick
s in here, Curt,” he said, leafing through a tattered issue of
Newsweek
. “’Cause these things you call magazines are
borrr-ing
.”

Curt opened his mouth to respond, but the kid was a beat faster. “So, what happened to your eye, mister?”

Grinning, Bryce was tempted to say it had been poked out when, as a boy, he had asked one too many questions. As he tried to conjure a story that would satisfy a curious youngster, Curt said, “Son, I’ll have you know this man’s a war hero. He got that fighting for the good old U.S. of A.”

“Steven,” came the mother’s harsh whisper, “mind your own business, please.”

Bryce loved kids and had once prayed to have a house full of his own. But that was before shrapnel had turned him into a weird rendition of Al Pacino’s
Scarface
. Odd, he thought, that he’d braved a thousand battle horrors without flinching, yet the inquisitive stares of two young boys set his teeth on edge.

Suddenly, he wanted out of the barber chair. Out of the shop. Out of North Pole and away from
Christmas
. “You finished?” he asked Curt.

“Yeah…not so a body could notice.” He pointed at the tiny bits of hair scattered on the white tiles. “See? Won’t even need my broom.”

Standing, Bryce peeled off the cape and reached for his wallet.

But the barber held up a hand to stall him. “No, no…put that away. I’d feel guilty, charging full price,” he said, pointing at the floor again, “especially from a war hero. Give me two bucks, and we’ll call it a day.”

Bryce handed him a five, headed for the door, and, with a quick wave over his shoulder, stepped into the bright late-June sunshine. Slapping his Baltimore Orioles’ cap onto his head, he thought of the unexpected turns his life had taken. He’d turned thirty-two in a barracks overseas, surrounded by his men—all married with children, except for the very youngest recruits. Oh, how he’d envied the guys with families! Back in college, he’d mapped out his life. “The Plan” had him married by twenty-seven, a dad by thirty. He could almost hear his aunt Olive saying, “Tough to become a husband and father when you’re off fighting in foreign countries year after year….”

He glanced up and down Mistletoe Drive, where tour buses and RVs lined the curb. Even in his present mood, Bryce couldn’t help but smile at the joyous laughter of children, harmonizing with Brenda Lee’s rendition of “Jingle Bell Rock” emanating from the loudspeakers
.
He took a deep breath of clean Alaska air and shook his head, thinking of the To Do list he’d scribbled that morning. Except for “haircut,” not a single item had been checked off. But since it wouldn’t turn dark for nearly nineteen hours yet, he’d have more than enough daylight to get everything done.

Shoving both hands into the front pocket of his sweatshirt, he hiked toward Snowman Lane. Despite the bright day, the air held a dry chill, making him wish he’d grabbed a jacket before leaving his apartment above Rudolph’s.

His parents’ shop came into view, and it was more than enough to raise his hackles. His dad had tinkered and fiddled with the hideous two-story white structure until it became a flat-faced replica of Santa’s sleigh, and above the door stood the biggest, ugliest reindeer ever crafted from wood and metal. The deer grinned stupidly around a thick chain that supported a crimson sign, where softball-sized light bulbs spelled out R
UDOLPH
’
S
C
HRISTMAS
E
MPORIUM
. As if all that wasn’t high enough on the tacky scale, Rudolph’s nose—a gigantic, red-glowing ball—blinked to the beat of whatever tune blared from the store’s speakers.

Today, “Jingle Bells” twittered from above, and Bryce gritted his teeth as he yanked open the shiny green door, upsetting a dozen strands of tinkling gold bells hanging from the doorknob.

“Well, looky what the wind blew in.”

Bryce’s face softened. “’Mornin’,” he answered. His mood had brightened instantly, because as much as he hated Christmas, he loved his aunt Olive ten times more.

“I thought you were gonna get a haircut,” she teased when he whipped off his cap.

Running a hand along the short, flat surface of his hairdo, Bryce laughed. “I did!”

Olive harrumphed and went back to labeling snow globes covering the glass-and-stainless counter. “Coulda fooled me.”

Since his parents’ tragic deaths, Aunt Olive had been his only family. But if the truth be told, she’d filled that role long before they died. As he’d winged his way from the Afghan village where he’d been stationed, it had been Olive who’d arranged the memorial service, and by the time he arrived in North Pole, she’d put in her resignation at the elementary school. “I need a change,” she’d said when the last of the mourners left the church basement. “Soon as you head back overseas, I’ll manage Rudolph’s. By the time you retire, I’ll have the place running like a top…and paying for itself.” As his parents’ only child, Bryce had inherited the shop—along with a hefty mortgage and a stack of unpaid bills. He knew Olive had done her level best to keep that promise. It wasn’t her fault that a dozen other stores in North Pole sold similar merchandise.

Bryce leaned on the counter and covered her hands with his. “Wish I could change your mind about retiring.”

Olive winked. “If wishes were fishes…”

“I’ll be lost without you,” he said, meaning it.

“Pish posh,” she said and, waving his admission away, began counting on her fingers. “You’ve jumped out of airplanes into enemy territory, slept in foxholes, gotten shot at, dodged land mines—except for
one
—and escaped from a POW camp, yet dealing with a few Christmas shoppers scares you?” She laughed. “You’re
weird
, nephew!”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Bryce shrugged. “Besides, I suppose it is time you did something for Olive for a change.” To his knowledge, her plan for an extended vacation in sunny Florida marked the second thing she’d ever done for herself. Decades of caring for her aging parents had freed her brother to play shopkeeper. It didn’t seem to matter to anybody, least of all Bryce’s dad, that he was a horrible businessman. Bryce often wondered if his parents even realized that Olive’s “do the right thing” mindset had required her to sacrifice any hope of having a life of her own.

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said, slapping a price label onto another snow globe. Setting it aside, Olive began humming along with Bing Crosby as he crooned the words to “White Christmas.”

Bryce wondered how she’d react when he confessed that he’d been talking to a real estate agent with ties to a national chain about selling the place. And that once it sold, he’d use the proceeds to turn his lifelong dream of opening a carpentry shop into reality. His dad hadn’t left him a dime, but he did leave a few decent tools. If they hadn’t rusted from lack of use and storage in the cold, damp garage, Bryce might just get a jump start on crafting sample pieces that would show buyers what he was capable of. Over the years, during weeklong furloughs, he’d designed and built an armoire, a roll-top desk, a dresser, and a kids’ rocking chair. But he’d need more than that if he hoped to eke out a modest living from the trade…especially in a town where
Christmas
was the main draw.

“All right,” Olive said, one fist propped on a chubby hip, “out with it.”

He felt the eye patch rise as his brow rose. “Out with what?”

“Oh, don’t give me that. I taught school too long not to recognize when somebody’s got something up his sleeve.”

Chuckling, he met her dark eyes. “Never could fool you, could I?”

“Main question I’ve always had is…why do you even
try
?”

She had a good point. So why not just spit it out? Might ease her mind, knowing that while she sunned herself on warm sandy beaches, he’d be happy, doing what he’d always wanted to do. Elbows between two snow globes on the counter, Bryce spelled out his plan, then held his breath and waited for her reaction.

“Honey,” she said, patting his cheek, “that’s the best idea you’ve had since…well, it’s your best idea yet.” She walked around the counter and threw her arms around his neck. “Now I won’t have to worry about you while I’m dipping my toes in the warm blue waters of the Atlantic. And let me tell you, I am
so
ready for that!”

A nice picture, he acknowledged…for Olive. But he bit back the sadness roused by mere thoughts of her leaving.

“Of course, with me gone, you’re gonna need to hire somebody to run the store…until it sells.”

Bryce heard the unspoken warning in her gravelly voice. The North Pole real estate business hadn’t exactly been brisk. The fact was, Olive probably made more selling snow globes than anyone in town had earned selling property.

“I’ve been trying to find help for nearly three months. Hope you’ll have better luck than I did.”

“Me, too, ’cause the idea of sitting inside all day, every day, makes my hair stand on end.”

“What hair?” she teased.

Bryce laughed, savoring the bittersweet moment. He sure was going to miss her! “Maybe while you’re in Florida, you can get work in one of the beachfront comedy clubs.”

She ignored his feeble attempt at humor. “I know you’ve never been the ‘stay indoors’ type, but it might be good to try it on for size. Maybe it’ll knock that chip off your shoulder.”

“Chip? What chip?”

“Oh, please.” Olive began moving snow globes from the counter to a shelf along the side wall. “You haven’t been yourself since you walked through that door a couple weeks ago, wearing that patch and a Captain Hook attitude.” She shook her head. “I know it hasn’t been easy, dealing with the fact that you’ll never see out of that eye again, but even
you
have to admit, things could have turned out worse.”

Lots worse
, he admitted, remembering all the soldiers who had fallen while defending their country. And some of those who’d made it home would spend the rest of their lives in wheelchairs or struggling to adjust to prostheses that replaced lost limbs. Bryce felt the heat of shame creep into his cheeks. “I didn’t realize I was behaving like…I never meant…” Had his demeanor really made others think he felt sorry for himself? Bryce sure hoped not. “It isn’t the blindness that bothers me,” he said dully.

Olive turned, a snow globe in each hand. “Oh? Then what?”

How could he admit how much he disliked being back here, where every man, woman, and child—whether born in North Pole or visiting by choice—
loved
the town where it was Christmas, twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five? He didn’t bother voicing his hearty objection to the sell-sell-sell attitude surrounding the day on which the Lord was born, because on a practical level, even he had to admit how much the whole Christmas thing had pumped up North Pole’s economy. Besides, his attitude toward God and religion had taken a big hit during the past few years, so it seemed hypocritical, even to him, to use the over-commercialization of a holy day as his excuse.

Bryce took a deep breath and decided to follow her example of doing the right thing, simply because it needed to be done. “So, what can I do to help?” Might as well dive in headfirst. He’d been home nearly two weeks and hadn’t done a real lick of work to help her out. If he hoped to sell the place and make a profit, he’d better learn the ropes while she was still around to teach him, because the lessons he’d learned as a kid, working beside his parents, had long ago retreated to the dark recesses of his memory.

On the heels of a muffled yawn, she said, “A shipment arrived this morning, and I haven’t had a chance to unpack it.”

He paid little attention to the dark circles under her eyes. His aunt often spent all-nighters reading novels by her favorite authors. He’d tried the “Even a powerhouse like you needs a good night’s sleep” speech, but since it had always fallen on deaf ears, Bryce didn’t bother now. Instead, he stood at attention and snapped off a smart salute. “Captain Stone, reporting for duty, ma’am!”

Olive snickered. “There’s the clipboard,” she said, nodding toward a peg on the wall, “and a pen. Now get crackin’, soldier!”

He hung his baseball cap on the hook behind the door as she added, “And when you’re finished with that, get busy writing a want ad.” Almost as an afterthought, she tacked on, “’Cause I’m leavin’ next week whether you have help or not. Got it?”