Page 10 of Chloe

There’s a warmth in his voice, a depth of emotion that catches me off guard. “That sounds... nice,” I say, unsure how to respond to such an open display of sentiment.

Oliver seems to shake himself out of his reverie. “It was. But hey, that’s what Christmas is all about, right? Creating those kinds of memories, spreading joy to others.”

I nod noncommittally, but inside, I’m conflicted. The warmth and genuine happiness I see in Oliver’s eyes as he talks about family and traditions stir something in me, a longing I thought I’d buried long ago.

As we continue our tour of the store, I pay more attention to the customers, to the way they interact with Oliver and his staff. There’s a sense of community here, of belonging, that I’ve never experienced in my world of boardrooms and business deals.

We’re examining a display of handcrafted ornaments when I notice Oliver’s shoulders slump slightly. “These are beautiful,” I say, picking up a delicate glass snowflake. “But they must be expensive to stock.”

Oliver nods, a shadow passing over his face. “They are. And to be honest, they’re not selling as well as I’d hoped. With the new big box store that opened on the outskirts of town, we’ve been struggling to compete on price.”

I feel a pang of sympathy, surprising myself. “That must be difficult,” I say softly.

Oliver shrugs, trying to put on a brave face. “We’ll manage. We always do. The store’s been through tough times before.”

But I can see the worry in his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands as he carefully rearranges the ornaments. For the first time, I understand the actual cost of maintaining this old-fashioned approach to business.

“Oliver,” I say hesitantly, “have you considered... I mean, there are ways to modernize your operations that could help cut costs without losing the personal touch. My app, for instance—”

Oliver holds up a hand, his expression a mix of gratitude and resignation. “I appreciate the thought, Chloe, I really do. But Hanks’ Department Store isn’t just a business. It’s a piece of Benton Falls history, a legacy my grandfather started. I can’t just change everything to chase profits.”

I want to argue, to explain how he could preserve the store’s character while still turning a profit, but the look in Oliver’s eyes stops me. There’s a determination there, a belief in something greater than just the bottom line, that I find both admirable and frustrating.

As we make our way back to the front of the store, I’m struck by the contrast between Oliver’s financial worries and the joy he clearly finds in his work. He stops to help a young boy pick out a gift for his mother, spending several minutes crouched down at the child’s level, listening intently to his thoughts on what his mom might like.

The scene stirs something in me, a memory of my own mother, of the few precious Christmases we had together before she passed away. I remember the way her eyes would light up at the simplest gifts, how she always said it was the thought that counted.

For the first time in years, I question my beliefs about money and happiness. I’ve always equated financial success with security, with worth. But watching Oliver, seeing the genuine connections he forms with his customers and the pride he takes in his work, I wonder if I’ve been missing something all along.

As the day winds down and the last customer leaves the store, Oliver turns to me with a tired but genuine smile. “Well, Ms. Anderson, what’s the verdict? Have we managed to sway you to the charms of old-fashioned retail?”

I laugh softly, surprised by how much I’ve enjoyed the day. “I’ll admit, there’s something special about this place. But I still think there are ways you could improve your operations without losing that charm.”

Oliver nods, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe you’re right. I suppose I’ve been so focused on preserving the past that I have given little thought to the future.”

We stand in silence for a moment, the soft glow of Christmas lights reflecting off the polished wood counters. I’m acutely aware of Oliver’s presence beside me, of the warmth radiating from him in the quiet store.

“Thank you for today,” I say finally, surprised by the sincerity in my voice. “It’s given me a lot to think about.”

Oliver’s smile widens, reaching his eyes and making them crinkle at the corners. “Well, that works both ways, Chloe. You’ve certainly given me some food for thought as well.”

As I prepare to leave, bundling up against the cold night air, Oliver hesitates, then says, “Benton Falls really shines at Christmas. A lot of fun things to do. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

I pause, my hand on the door. My first instinct is to decline, to retreat to the safety of my grandmother’s house and my familiar world of spreadsheets and profit margins. But something stops me—the memory of Oliver’s kindness, the warmth of the store, the unexpected joy I found in simply being part of something larger than myself.

“Uh... maybe you will,” I say finally, offering Oliver a small smile.

Stepping out into the chilly night air, snowflakes swirling around me, I look back at the store. Through the frosted windows, I can see Oliver moving about, straightening displays and tidying up. The sight stirs something in me, a warmth that has nothing to do with the cozy interior of the store.

Walking home through the quiet, snow-covered streets of Benton Falls, I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted inside me. The twinkling lights of the houses I pass, the distant sound of carols drifting from an open window, even the crunch of snow beneath my feet—it all seems somehow more vibrant, more alive.

And as I reach my grandmother’s house, the Christmas lights twinkling merrily in welcome, I realize that maybe, just maybe, there’s more to life than balance sheets and profit margins.

Maybe, somewhere between the shelves of Hanks’ Department Store and the snowy streets of Benton Falls, I’ve begun to rediscover a part of myself I thought was long lost. A part that remembers the joy of giving, the warmth of community, and the magic of Christmas.

As I unlock the door and step into the warmth of the house, I hum a Christmas carol under my breath. And for once, I don’t try to stop myself.

Five

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