Page 3 of Naughty Santa

The radio was on, tuned to some country music station, though Sandy kept the volume down low so they could talk.

Paris liked to think of herself as a social girl, the type who could hold her own in any conversation, but she didn’t have a clue what to say to Sandy.

Sandy, however, wasn’t having the same trouble, and Paris realized the other woman was really excited to have her—a complete stranger—there.

“I can’t wait to show you the store. You’re just going to love it, especially at this time of year. I mean it’s Christmas year-round at the Holly Jolly, of course, but we kick it up a notch or twenty in December. Joe, that’s my son, hung the lights last weekend forme because I wanted you to see how pretty the building is all lit up.”

Paris nodded, mainly because Sandy, who would have been an amazing telemarketer, hadn’t left her an opening to reply.

For forty-five minutes, she filled Paris in on all the little stuff she thought she needed to know—about the town, the store, the Christmas party that was coming up in a few short weeks.

The more Sandy talked, the more horrified Paris became. Because it sounded like North Pole, Indiana was trapped in some sort of time vortex where nothing had changed since the fifties.

It also occurred to her, the closer they got to the town, that Sandy thought Paris was moving to North Pole to run the Feed and Seed.

Paris didn’t correct that misconception because, well, dammit, Sandy was super sweet. While Paris would wither up and die in Sandy’s sleepy, snowy hometown, it was obvious the other woman loved it. Paris would have to ease her into the idea of selling the store. Or hell, maybe Sandy would want to buy it herself.

“Lydia would be beside herself if she were here right now. She was so excited to leave you the store. She was so proud of you, sweetie. Used to brag about your business sense. Said you’d gotten that from her. You have a pet store in Los Angeles, right?”

“Pet boutique,” Paris corrected, though she was pretty sure Sandy didn’t realize she didn’t sell animals at the boutique. Instead, she offered a wide array of goods for pet owners, including high-end collars, carriers, clothing, as well as organic dog food and treats.

Sandy glanced down at Louis and smiled. “You love animals. That’s wonderful. Lydia was the same, used to long for a farmhouse in the country, but she and I both knew she was a town girl at heart. Well, here we are. Main Street.”

“This is Main Street?” Paris thought perhaps she had misunderstood. It was a wide, tree-lined street with large Victorian-style homes, many decorated with strings of lights and Christmas figures.

Part of her feared these decorations stayed up all year long. Of course, another part of her hoped they did, because how fascinating would that be?

It was like being on a Hallmark holiday movie set, with the snow and the streetlamps and the big red bows affixed to them. It didn’t feel real.

“Where is Lydia’s house?” Paris asked, taking in one particularly elaborate Christmas display in front of a house that was peeling gray paint the way she had shed skin after falling asleep by the pool in Cabo San Lucas and burning herself to a crisp. The homeowner had giant inflatable decorations peppering every inch of their small front lawn. There was Santa, of course, and his reindeer, but also a snowman, the Grinch, a Christmas tree, the word JOY, a snow globe, and two penguins driving a tractor.

“That one right there.” Sandy pointed to a tiny white house, the smallest on the block. “Next door to the Mills family, who have all those pretty inflatable decorations. The kids just love those things.” Sandy gave her a smile. “They run them all day and night for the whole month of December. Somebody’s got more money than they know what to do with over there, what with an electric bill like that.” She laughed merrily. “We’re all so glad they do.”

“Wonderful,” Paris said weakly. She could barely see Lydia’s house past all the nylon in the Mills’ yard.

“I’ll give you the key to the house when we get to the store, but then I’m so sorry, I’m going to have to dash to a dental appointment. I have an abscessed tooth that is giving me fits.I can barely talk. I’m sorry for not being one hundred percent myself. I’m usually a lot more conversational.”

If Sandy were any chattier, she could be an auctioneer.

“No, that’s totally fine,” Paris assured her. “I’m so sorry about your tooth. I hope the dentist can fix it. And thank you for picking me up at the airport. That was really sweet of you.”

“We all help each other around here. Lydia was like family to me.” Sandy’s voice hitched.

Paris waited respectfully, feeling guilty as hell.

Her first thought when she’d gotten notice that she had inherited Aunt Lydia’s store and house was what a freaking pain in the ass. She viewed it as one more thing to deal with, and then she’d started stressing out, wondering how it was going to mess with her taxes.

Her second thought was to sell them both off at lightning speed without ever laying eyes on them. But then she’d remembered those birthday cards, and now, here she was, sitting in a pickup truck, the reluctant owner of a piece of North Pole, Indiana. Paris figured she at least owed Great-Aunt Lydia a looksie at her life’s work and to take home some of her personal items as keepsakes.

Sandy continued driving. “Anyway, Joe will be here in a bit to show you around and help you take your luggage to the house. I’m sure you’re dying to see the store. I should be back in a couple of hours, God willing.”

Who was Joe? Paris tried to remember what, if anything, Sandy had said about a Joe, but her mind was a sleep-deprived foggy mess. She wanted to ask why she couldn’t go to the house first and maybe sleep for the next twenty-four hours, but Paris had neither the energy nor the heart to change Sandy’s plans. Maybe she could nap in a backroom at the store. How many customers could a Christmas shop and feed store have on a Tuesday at noon while it was snowing?

Apparently, the answer was more than Paris would have expected. Sandy had closed the shop to pick her up, and when she whipped the truck into a spot on the side of the building, they passed several men standing outside the front door, waiting.

“Don’t worry about them,” Sandy assured Paris as she put the car in park. “They’re just stocking up for the storm. We’re supposed to get ten inches overnight. They pre-ordered everything, so you just need to ring them out.”

“Okay,” Paris said dubiously, swallowing as she gazed up at the building. It was a charming two-story brick that had seen better days, with chunks of mortar missing and the chimney crumbling. The sign announcing “Holly Jolly Feed and Seed” looked older than God, though it showed evidence of being repainted, and it hung straight and proud. Each side of the front door had a display window. One was bursting with Christmas kitsch; the other contained an old wheelbarrow filled with a variety of bags of feed in such a way that Paris assumed someone thought looked artful. There was a faded picture of the American flag with the words, “We Proudly Support our Servicemen” printed on it taped in the corner of the window.

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