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“It has to be another note, right?”
He pulls his finger away. “You read it.”
“No, you. Finders, readers.”
He blinks. “Good one.”
“Thanks.”
Sawyer groans. “This is going to be a long Christmas break.” He places a finger under the dry edges of the envelope, making a snapping sound as it breaks free.
In Eleanor’s perfectly written handwriting, it says,
Dear Sawyer and Dawson,
I’m so glad to see that you both made it to Cherry Creek for Christmas. In order to open the gift’s first padlock…
“Wait. It’s locked?” I tear the paper off the box, unveiling a plastic storage container with a built-in padlock. “Seriously?” We keep reading.
You must complete challenge one: go to the academy and dance in Cherry Creek’s production of The Nutcracker Suite.
Sawyer throws the note down. “No way.”
I pick it back up and keep reading Eleanor’s words out loud.
Way, Sawyer. And I know what you’re both thinking. Why, Eleanor, neither of us does ballet, or performs for that matter. Yes, I know this about the two of you, but fortunately for you, I got permission from Françoise, the director of the play, because I was dying. She and I agreed you could both be mice, a role that requires the minimum level of skills. Skills that you two will learn together. But don’t think you’re getting off easy—at the end of the performance, Sawyer, you’re going to have to lift Dawson into a twirl that must earn cheers.
“This is not a fun game, Eleanor.” Sawyer flops his head back, but then we both continue reading.
You have a few days to learn this dance, so I suggest you put this note down and get your bums to the studio and learn your part so that you may wow the crowd. All the proceeds from ticket sales go to cancer research. And just so you know, if you’re thinking about trying to get out of this, I was going to play the role of Clara this year, so I want my big moment to be yours. Don’t let me down, I’m watching from above.
Love you to the moon and beyond,
Eleanor M. Quinn
Sawyer pinches the bridge of his nose. “If she wasn’t dead, I’d kill her.”
“Me too.” We both stand and stare at the box for a moment as Eleanor memories swirl around us. “But we’re doing this, right?”
Sawyer nods. “Heck, yeah, we’re doing this.” He walks away and starts shuffling through the stack of boxes in the corner of the attic. He raps his knuckles on the box. “What do you think is in here?”
“Something to remind us of Eleanor? Memorabilia? Or a million dollars because she was a secret bank robber.”
“I’d rather have the memento. Remember Eleanor’s handmade Christmas ornament? The green dog she made out of clay in third grade?”
“Yes.” I smile. It was a tiny replica of the Shih Tzu dog she wanted from the shelter, but textured with leaves and painted green because she wanted to name it Broccoli.
Sawyer says, “We can’t find it, and we wanted to keep the tradition and put it on the town tree. Maybe it’s in the box.”
I join him. “It’s kind of a big box for an ornament.”
“Probably. But I’ve run out of places to look.”
After Eleanor made the ornament, she decided to hang it on Cherry Creek’s Christmas tree downtown on Christmas Eve that year, then made a wish that the dog would be hers. Apparently, her parents couldn’t say no, so, sure enough, they secretly adopted the dog that afternoon before the shelter closed for the holiday break. Of course, Eleanor named him Broccoli.
Every year after, Eleanor always hung the dog ornament on Cherry Creek’s Christmas tree on Christmas Eve, even though the official tree decorating ceremony for the town is on Thanksgiving Day. For everyone else, after they finish their Thanksgiving dinner, they make their way to the front of the courthouse where families bring special ornaments to hang on the tree. My family used to hang ones that belonged to my grandparents when we lived in town, but that was years ago now.
But not Eleanor. She did it her own way, like everything else in her life. Eventually, the entire Quinn family joined her in the tradition, making new ornaments for new wishes.
