Page 11 of It's the Worst Time of the Year

“It’s incredible,” Bailey whispered. “It’s like someone prepared for this exact situation or planned the ultimate Christmas party.”

“Or both,” I replied, standing up. “But who?”

“Someone did,” came Edna’s voice from the top of the stairs. We turned to see her descending as gracefully as she could in her gigantic boots that made her appear like she was wearing sheepdogs on her feet.

“You knew about this?” Bailey asked, astonishment coloring her tone.

Edna nodded enthusiastically. “Of course! I’ve been preparing for the Christmas Cat Sanctuary for years. You can’t run a festive haven for rescue cats without supplies. I stored everything here in anticipation of acquiring the manor.”

Theodore’s voice boomed from the top of the stairs. “You’ve been trespassing?”

Edna placed a hand on her hip, her eyes flashing. “It’s not trespassing if it’s meant to be mine, Theodore.”

“That’s not how the law works,” he snapped, his face turning an alarming shade of crimson. “This property is under foreclosure! You had no right to store your...your junk here!”

“Junk?” Edna gasped, clutching her tinsel scarf as if personally affronted. “How dare you! These are carefully curated items for the betterment of our community.”

Theodore stormed down the stairs, his polished shoes clicking sharply against the stone. “You’ve been undermining the entire process with these ridiculous plans. And now we’re stuck here because of your foolishness!”

“You’re stuck here because you didn’t check the weather report,” Edna shot back, her voice rising. “And you wouldn’t know a good idea if it bit you on the nose. This town needs something special, not another soulless commercial development!”

“Enough,” Bailey interjected firmly, stepping between them like a referee separating two boxers. “Arguing isn’t going to solve anything.”

I moved to stand beside her. “Agreed. We need to make the best of the situation. Edna, your supplies might just save us from freezing tonight.”

Theodore huffed but didn’t argue further, though his glare could have melted the snow outside.

“Jacob, do you think you can get the generator running?” Bailey asked, her eyes meeting mine with a hint of pleading.

I gave her a reassuring smile. “I can certainly try.”

“Always the hero,” she teased lightly.

“Just trying to impress,” I quipped, winking at her.

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips.

I crouched beside the generator, brushing off layers of dust and cobwebs. It was an old model—sturdy but archaic. I flipped open the control panel, scanning the wiring and gauges.

“Think it’ll work?” Bailey asked, kneeling beside me.

“With a bit of luck and maybe a Christmas miracle,” I replied.

She held her flashlight steady, the beam illuminating the tangle of wires as I worked. Our shoulders brushed, and I was acutely aware of her proximity—the subtle scent of vanilla and something uniquely Bailey.

“Remember when we fixed up that old lawnmower engine for the science fair?” she mused.

I chuckled. “You mean when you insisted we could turn it into a mini go-kart, and we ended up nearly setting your backyard on fire?”

She laughed, the sound echoing softly. “Good times.”

“Indeed.” I found the fuel line, giving it a tentative tap. “Well, let’s hope this goes better than that.”

After a few adjustments, some muttered curses, and a hearty tug on the starter cord, the generator coughed to life. It sputtered for a moment before settling into a steady hum.

“Ta-da,” I announced, grinning triumphantly.

“Impressive,” Bailey said, her eyes shining. “Maybe you have hidden talents after all.”

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