For as long as there was the mall, there was Wood World. Its lengthy motto was carved in—what else?—wood and displayed in the front window.
WE SELL WOODWORK, WOODWORKING TOOLS, WOODWORKING SUPPLIES, WOODWORKING PLANS, AND WOODWORKING KITS FOR THE PASSIONATE WOODWORKER.
“Please tell me one of your exes was a passionate woodworker,” I said.
“Plenty of my exes knew how to passionately work their wood…”
I gagged. Drea hawnked with wicked amusement.
The sign was Wood World’s only form of promotion. And yet, this funny, fuddy-duddy little shop had survived since 1976, when trendier neighbors—a studio offering disco-dancing lessons that turned into an all-Smurf store that turned into the local headquarters of the Tiffany fan club—had died. It was one of those super niche stores that never advertised because their devoted customers wouldn’t shop anywhere else. Three of those devoted customers—all in flannel shirts despite the heat but rolled high enough to reveal their forearm tattoos—were having a very animated discussion.
“As an accent wood, it don’t get much prettier than purpleheart,” said Gray Flannel.
“Only commercial wood in that color,” said Blue Flannel.
“Hard as hickory, but pricey,” said Green Flannel.
“That’s because it comes from the Amazon,” said a heavy-set man with a snow-white prospector’s beard. His flannel shirt was red. He looked way more like Santa Claus than the guy the mall hired every year to play the part for family photos.
“Sylvester,” Drea said as she pretended to examine a birdhouse. “The owner.”
“How do you know his name?” I whispered.
“You seem to forget that I grew up here,” she said, meaning the mall. “And you don’t have to whisper because he can’t hear us over the music.”
After a few minutes of boisterous discussion, the three men in flannel departed with Wood World shopping bags. That left us alone with Sylvester, who hadn’t gotten up from his stool. He hummed along with the John Denver song about country roads that was playing just a little too loud for anyone who wasn’t already half deaf, whittling a block of wood with one of the hundreds of knives of varied sizes and sharpness that were available for purchase. If Sylvester hadn’t so readily evoked the twinkly eyes, merry dimples, rosy cheeks, and cherry nose of the famous Christmas poem, I would’ve been terrified.
“So, what’s our strategy?” I asked Drea.
Drea admired the smooth curves of a cutting board. “The truth.”
“The truth? What do you mean the truth?”
“I mean, the truth,” she said simply. “We tell him we want to pry up the floorboards behind the cash register because we’re on a treasure hunt.”
“Why would he let us tear his store apart?”
“He might not,” Drea said. “But he is an elder. He deserves respect, not bullshit. Plus, he has been on this earth long enough to see right through any scam. So, let’s just be direct. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you had your heart set on seducing him,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows. “But I have to warn you, he’s been happily married for fifty-five years…”
I poked her with a salad spoon. She poked me right back with a fork. Our jousting got Sylvester’s attention.
“Can I help you ladies with something?”
His voice was rich and warm and southern by way of the North Pole. It was sweet potato pie and gingerbread. Hummingbird cake and candy canes. Peach cobbler and eggnog.
“Hi, Sylvester,” Drea began, “you don’t know me but…”
Sylvester might have been half deaf, but he definitely wasn’t blind. His eyes got even twinklier when Drea approached his stool.
“Now, you just stop right there, young lady. Of course I know you. You’re Gia Bellarosa’s girl.”
“Drea.” She extended a hand and fluttered her eyelashes girlishly.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? I got a feeling it got nothing to do with y’all taking up woodworking as a hobby.”
Drea gave me a pointed look. See? I told you he was no bullshit.
“Well, you see, Sylvester,” Drea began, “my friend Cassie and I— Have you met Cassie?”
I stepped forward and extended my hand.
“How do you do?” I swear I nearly curtsied like a debutante at a cotillion.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Cassie,” said Sylvester, giving my hand a shake.
“We’re on a treasure hunt,” said Drea.
Sylvester bent forward and stroked his beard.
“Go on,” he said.
Then Drea went on to explain how we’d been going from doll to doll to doll, to clue to clue to clue, to store to store to store, until the latest doll and latest clue had led us here, to his store.
“We don’t know what’s at the end of it,” she said. “I think there’s fortune to be found. Cassie here”—she jerked her head in my direction—“doesn’t think we’ll find anything.”
“Well, surely you must think there’s something to be found,” Sylvester said to me. “Otherwise why go on looking?”
“Because she makes me do it,” I answered.
“Well, now,” Sylvester said, setting his hands to rest on the curve of his stomach. “I don’t believe that for a second.”
Drea shot me another look. Told ya. No bullshit.
She spread the birth certificate on the counter, pushing aside a bowl of key rings carved into shapes of assorted beach creatures. A starfish. A dolphin. A seagull.
“Now, according to this map,” she said, “the next clue is located…”
Sylvester went behind the register and stomped the floorboard twice with his boot.
“Right here.”
“Yep,” Drea said.
Sylvester stroked his beard and looked back and forth between us, like he was sizing us up. Then he let loose a laugh that came from way down in the deepest part of his belly.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!”
And, yes, it shook like a bowl full of jelly.
“Let’s find some buried treasure!” he said joyfully.
Sylvester had all the right tools for prying up the floorboards with minimal damage. When a big enough gap was made in the planks, he shined a flashlight into the crawl space.
“Whoo-wee!” he whooped. “I’m rich!”
“I knew it!” Drea jumped up and down. “We’re rich!”
“Oh, really?” Sylvester said. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law…”
Just when I thought we were about to get into a battle with Santa Claus over buried treasure, Sylvester hauled his discovery from the crawl space. And I swear, Sylvester was so pleased to bring this black-haired, brown-eyed boy into the world, you would’ve thought he was Xavier Roberts himself.
“Another clue!”
Okay. So I was little excited too. And that excitement quickly turned to annoyance when I attempted to read the birth certificate out loud.
“En Tat-wuss Yoo-gain?”
En Tatws Ugain was the funkiest name we’d come across so far.
“That’s Welsh,” Sylvester said, tapping on the box with a chisel.
“You speak Welsh?” Drea and I asked simultaneously.
“No.”
Drea and I sagged together, both of us unreasonably let down by what would’ve been an unreasonable coincidence. Sylvester let our disappointment sink in for just a second or two more before giving us a mischievous grin.
“I don’t speak Welsh,” he said. “But my wife, Evelyn, does.”
I swear to God, it couldn’t have felt more magical, not even if he had put a finger to his nose and swooped up the nearest chimney.