His brow raises. “Frieda the Fake?”
Oof, I didn’t mean to confess my neuro tic. “Yeah, because it was a fake baby … never mind. I kinda do that. Tack on descriptors to names.”
“Did you do that to mine?”
Several times over, but I’m not going to admit it. Instead, I adopt a professional air. “What brings you to The Memory Bank?”
He catches my avoidance of his question, and his eyes gleam with amusement. “I need help finding something.” He tugs a piece of paper from his pocket. “Would you happen to have these items?” He hands me the note.
I read it over and let out a whistle. “Atlantic Mold Company ceramic tree 1965, and Vallerton nativity set.” Wow. I’m not even sure Santa himself can fulfill this wish list. “May I ask what this is for?” Leo doesn’t strike me as a guy who’s into vintage Christmas decorations.
His gaze drops to his folded hands. “It’s for someone else.”
Cryptic much? I open my phone and google “Atlantic Mold.” Most people would recognize these items. Atlantic Mold Company spearheaded the ceramic trees trend. The countertop-sized trees have holes in the boughs to place multi-colored plastic pieces. A single light is placed at the inside tree’s base, so when turned on, all the little plastic colors are brightly lit. “Theseare fairly popular, but the year might trip you up. The stamp on the bottom of the tree doesn’t mean the year that particular tree was created, just the year that the mold was. A certain tree can be made later but have an earlier date on it because of the mold type.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have a picture of what color the tree was? Green or White? Snow on the boughs?” The options are endless.
“Yeah.” He stands to pull his phone from his jeans pocket, and after a couple seconds, angles his phone screen toward me, showing me the tree.
“That helps. I have something similar in storage, but it’s not that mold. Hold on.” I move behind my counter and scribble down Jared’s name on a scrap of paper, so I remember to call him later. “I’ve got a friend who specializes in antique Christmas décor. He might be able to help you.”
“I appreciate it.”
“As for the other piece, that’s an extremely rare find. Just to make sure, are you certain you need a Vallerton and not a Garrick set? People often confuse the two.” Mostly because both sets were made around the same time. They are pretty much equal in value, but the styles are completely different. Gran has a Garrick, which she always promised I’d inherit. My heart squeezes at the thought. There are many meaningful memories attached to that nativity set.
“It’s Vallerton. I’m sure of it.”
“That nativity set is ridiculously hard to track down. And if one happens to get listed, it’s usually snapped up by an inside buyer.” I personally saw one of those nativity sets years ago. The detail on those pieces is impeccable. Sadly, it’s so rare, just like the Garrick brand, I wouldn’t know where to start. “If I find one—and that’s a big if—it’ll have at least three zeros in the price tag.”
He grimaces. “So you’re saying it’s impossible?”
“I wouldn’t say impossible, but challenging for sure.” I admit the lure of the hunt appeals to me, but I’ve got to be realistic. Plus I don’t have time to be chasing a unicorn piece like a Vallerton. “It’ll probably lead to a dead end. You might need to scratch that off your list.” I hand him back the paper.
A crooked grin splits his face, and he steps closer. “I used to have an in with Mrs. Claus. She once told me she likes to grant wishes.”
“You’resoout of wishes, pal.” I point at him, nearly skimming his chest. “You’ll be lucky if you escape my naughty list.”
He raises both hands, gaze on mine. “I suppose I deserve that.”
Yeah and much more.
“I really am sorry, Greta. That day was … out of my control.”
“For me too.”
He gives a questioning look.
I glance away. Those details will not be delved into. “At least it all went down at Silver Creek Park and not at the top of the Empire State Building.” Maybe that’s why we didn’t work out. Those women were meeting their soulmates at one of the world’s tallest buildings, and I was meeting Leo at an iron bench with a small plaque reading, “Sponsored by Debbie’s Donuts.” Though Debbie’s maple cremesarefire.
His face is blank, and I gape at him. “Have you not seenLove Affair? An Affair to Remember? Sleepless in Seattle?” I count on my fingers for emphasis. He doesn’t exactly strike me as someone who likes those kinds of movies, but still, the plots are iconic. “The Empire State Building was the meeting place in those films.” A far, far cry from that humble park bench.
“Ah, got it.” His lips bend into a smile, but his eyes don’t share a similar brightness. He seems different. Jaded. Or maybethat’s me. I’m not the same woman who darted down Killer Hill at night.
“I understand if you hate me. I never meant for that to happen, but it’s no excuse.”
“Let’s just forget it, okay?”
