Page 22 of All in for Christmas

People crowd among the vendors offering holiday finery.

Fun trinkets like nutcrackers and carved wooden reindeer.

Stacking Russian dolls and rustic handmade crèches.

Tables loaded with ceramics, platters, vases, and mugs, many of them Christmas themed.

I draw nearer and scoot under a tent, shielding myself from the snow.

A vendor nearby sells hand-stitched Christmas stockings; another displays festive holiday wreaths adorned with fresh pine cones.

An old-fashioned popcorn machine that looks like a red pushcart stands upright ahead; its glass case displays the popping corn hopping its way out of a suspended tin contraption inside.

Two workers stuff paper bags with fresh-popped popcorn and deliciousness fills the air, along with the smell of hot apple cider.

Shoppers stroll by holding paper cups with lids.

Some drink cider, others coffee. I know one seller in particular who specializes in French hot chocolate, which is— ooh la la —to die for.

Is that same vendor here?

I survey the meandering crowded, scanning the various booths. Dean’s home watching the kids, and I told him I had to run some errands. I didn’t say what, but he probably—rightly—believed those had something to do with Christmas.

Or “Kissmas,” as Henry calls it so winningly.

I sigh when I picture his precious face, and Eleanor’s adorable mug when she’s hogging toys.

I can’t help rooting for Eleanor. I admire her gumption.

She goes for what she wants, and that’s a good thing.

Dean and I just need to encourage her to do that kindly, without steamrolling others in the process.

I pause at a table selling handmade puppets that are worn like oven mitts.

I tug on a happy elf and cheery Santa, thinking Eleanor and Henry might like these and find them fun.

There are others, like an angel and a snowman.

Three wise men! How cute! A reindeer, too.

I’d love to buy these for the kids and decide to pick two up on my way home.

These would look precious poking out of the tops of their Christmas stockings.

Ooh! I find someone selling gourmet candies, including Christmas goodies I recall from my childhood, like large stick-type candy canes and licorice whips.

Those would be fun to get for the kids, as well.

Maybe Dean would like some treats? Hang on —I spot a special mug on the next table over in a booth selling ceramics.

It’s dark blue and shows the darkened mountains, the night sky speckled with dozens of yellow stars.

How perfect. I bet he’d love this. I’ll come back for that too, but I can’t forget my mission. Finding Mrs. Claus.

I traipse down the aisle, squeezing past others admiring trinkets and flowing scarves.

Earrings, like the ones I bought for Mom.

I stop walking and back up, return to a particular booth.

“Happy holidays,” says the artist who makes the earrings.

I pick up a pair that resemble the ones I got for Mom and admire them.

“Oh yes!” She smiles cheerfully. “You were here last week.”

“Was I?”

She adjusts her holly wreath vest. She wears a bulky turtleneck underneath and has short, choppy brown hair. “You bought something for your mom?”

“Yes, yes. That’s right.” I did buy those earrings for Mom, both here and in my other reality. Certain things seem consistent leading up to the time split, others not. If only I could understand why it happened, and how to get back to my old life.

“Looking for something special?” the woman asks me.

“Yes, actually.” I glance around. Under the big tent, Dean said, near one end. I peer in both directions. “I’m looking for the lady who sells advent calendars. Do you know her?”

“Why sure!” Her smile sparkles. “That’s Mary Christmas.”

“I’m sorry?” I ask, thinking I’ve misheard her.

She chuckles, clearly having been through similar conversations before. “First name’s Mary, M-A-R-Y. Last name’s Christmas. Or so she says. She sure dresses the part.”

She laughs and I chuckle right along with her. “ O-kay .”

“You should check out her advent calendars,” she says. “I hear they’re very special. Everyone raves about them.”

“Thanks!” I say cheerfully. “I will.” I turn and I’m greeted by a sign for the booth across the way.

“French-Style Hot Chocolate.” My mouth waters and I know I’ll have to buy a cup.

I wait patiently in line, and as I stand there, I spot a storefront across the way, on the other side of the sidewalk fronting the square.

It’s a consignment shop called Second Chances, and something special catches my eye in its front window.

A handsome telescope stands on a tripod base, and I instantly think of Dean.

What an awesome gift. It would be so much fun to surprise him.

But first things first. Anyway, the consignment shop is closed, like most of the places surrounding this town square on a Sunday.

“Can I help you, Miss?” I look at the hot chocolate vendor, seeing the line has inched up and it’s my turn. “Yes,” I say happily, “I’d love one of your cups of hot chocolate.”

He fixes it for me. “Whipped cream on top?”

I shrug, smiling. “Why not?” I dig in my purse for my wallet, flip it open, and hunt for my debit card.

What? Gone. Credit card, too. Hmm. “Just one minute,” I tell the man who holds up my cup of hot chocolate with a frothy white peak.

It smells fantastic. I count out my paper bills and ask, “How much?”

He answers, and I’ve barely got enough cash. Embarrassing. I hand him the largest bill I have, which isn’t that large, honestly, and he makes change. “Thanks!” I say, dropping the loose coins into the zipper pocket in my wallet. How broke am I?

I tuck away the receipt the man gives me in a separate section of my wallet.

Ah, there! I spot the plastic card sporting my bank’s logo.

So I do have a debit card after all. I wonder if it still works and whether I can check my balance at the bank.

A branch for the one I use is located beside the consignment shop.

I accept the steaming cup of hot chocolate and take a sip.

It’s hearty and delicious. Also, piping hot, and it warms me up in the chilly afternoon air.

Snow continues falling around me in the square, twirling toward the ground in big heavy flakes and crowning the tops of the downtown buildings.

None of them are very tall, only two or three stories.

These old masonry buildings are historic, having been constructed in the eighteen hundreds.

“Thank you!” I tell the man. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” he says before addressing the next person in line.

I glance at the bank beside Second Chances, thinking I should check my balance before making my holiday purchases.

But first! I need to track down Mrs. Claus.

I keep getting distracted. I meander down the row, sidestepping past happy shoppers.

Everyone seems to be in a great mood as they appreciate the handcrafted wares being sold by the individual vendors.

Finally! I spy the top of a red Santa hat, then its white pom-pom tip hitting a woman’s shoulder.