Page 117 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“Good,” he says with a smile. “I’d like to start giving you more responsibility. You up for that?”

I blink, sure I’ve heard him wrong. “Yes, sir.”

“Glad to hear it. I’d like to try you on finish carpentry. When I hired you, you said you had experience.”

“I do.” I learned carpentry with my dad, and he was bitterly disappointed when I refused to take over the family construction business…until I was forced to and ran it into the ground. I’ve spent more time than is probably healthy wondering what he’d think of his son scraping for jobs. Part of me is glad he’s not alive to see it.

“Good,” he repeats, nodding. “I’ll start you at the Hudson house next week. You’ll work with Darren installing cabinets and trim.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Chuck studies me for a long moment and then starts to walk away. But he only takes a few steps before he stops and turns back. “Jace?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Keep an eye on the equipment, will you? I heard a saw went missing.”

Was this all an act so he could get me to lower my guard? But before he walks out the door, I find myself telling him that I will. For a couple of seconds, I just stand there soaking it all in—Chuck not blaming me for the saw. Chuck offering me a promotion. Butterfly Buddies calling for a reference. Does this mean they’re actually going to let me volunteer?

When I getoff a few hours later, I check my phone in the cab of my old pickup. Sure enough, there’s a voicemail from Butterfly Buddies.

As my truck warms up, I return their call. An older woman answers and introduces herself as Susan Duckworth. She immediately asks if I can come in today for an interview.

“I know this is short notice,” she says in a kind voice, “but we’ve had several new applicants, and we’re short volunteers.”

“Yeah,” I say, still in shock. “I just got off work. I can be there in an hour.”

“Splendid,” she says. “I’ll see you then.”

Fast forward an hour, and I enter the waiting room in my best pair of jeans and a button-down shirt. There are adult-sized and child-sized chairs, all empty. In the corner, there’s a tacky white plastic Christmas tree, and a peeling plastic menorah sits on a table beside it. It’s not exactly the kind of scene to spread holiday joy, not that I find the holidays joyful anymore. I guessat least they tried. A twenty-something woman is sitting at a desk behind a glass partition, so I walk over. She gives me an appreciative smile as she opens the window.

“Jace Hagan,” I say. “I’m here to see Susan Duckworth.”

The door next to her workstation opens, and a cheerful woman with snow-white hair steps into view. “Jace. I’m so glad you could come on such short notice.”

She looks me up and down, appearing slightly taken aback. I sent a photo of myself with my application, but I’m not surprised by her reaction. I know how I look. I’m tall, and I have broad shoulders and big arms, both from my job and from working out. It’s probably for the best my tattoos are currently covered by my shirt and jacket.

When people find out I’m a felon, they’re usually intimidated, but Susan, despite knowing my history, quickly sheds her surprise at my appearance and gives me a bright smile.

“Somebody’s been eating his Wheaties,” she teases.

I offer her a tight smile and extend my hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Thank you for inviting me in.”

“And polite too. I think we’ll get along just fine, Mr. Jace. Follow me.” She leads the way down the hall and into a small office. As she circles the desk, I take in my surroundings. The whole office is covered in ducks. Rubber ducks, ceramic ducks. Photos of ducks line the walls and are perched on top of her hutch. She takes a seat, then motions to the two chairs that face her. “Close the door and have a seat.”

I do as she asks, then rest my hands on my knees, surprised by how nervous I am.

“I see you’ve noticed my ducks.”

“Kind of hard not to.”

She releases a laugh. “Touché. Someone bought me a duck as a gag gift after I got remarried about fifteen years ago, and now Ijust keep getting them.” She leans closer and whispers, “I much prefer cats.”

I grin. “I have a cat. Bingo.” Then I add, “He came with the name, and I didn’t change it. He’s a rescue.”

It’s a wonder I’ve said so much without being asked a single question. I learned to keep my mouth shut in prison, and the trait kind of followed me back into society.

“I’d love to have a cat, but my husband’s allergic.” She rests her hands on her desk and looks me in the eye. “I confess, your application has been passed around the office over the last few weeks. There are some of us who weren’t keen on letting you volunteer.”

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