Page 6 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"What continent? The one with no standards?"
She laughs and pours fresh coffee without asking. "You're funny. We don't get a lot of funny here. We get earnest. We get cheerful. We get Teddy Wickham, who thinks puns are the height of comedy."
"Sounds dire."
"You have no idea. Last week he spent twenty minutes explaining why 'snow joke' is hilarious. Twenty. Minutes."
I take a sip of the fresh coffee. It's still terrible, but at least it's warm terrible.
"First time in Snowfall Creek?" she asks, though her expression says she already knows everything, including my blood type and my third-grade report cards.
"Yes."
"Business or pleasure?"
"Suffering, apparently."
"That's just the coffee. The rest of the town is quite pleasant. Very... authentic."
The way she says 'authentic' makes me think she's really saying 'weird’.
"Any recommendations?"
"Avoid the gas station coffee. It's like drinking regret with a motor-oil aftertaste. The Daily Grind is acceptable if you like your coffee with a side of gossip. Giuseppe's has food that will make you cry actual tears of joy. And The Jolly Trunk has the prettiest owner in three counties."
"That's a recommendation?"
"In this town? That's a selling point, a tourist attraction, and at least two committee discussions."
She moves on to terrorize other customers with day-old coffee, and I return to my observations. This whole town operates like a living museum of How Things Used to Be. It's practically begging to be dragged into the twenty-first century.
Which is exactly why Pierce Industries wants it. And exactly why I'm here pretending to be someone named Holden Clark, who definitely doesn't have a trust fund or a Harvard MBA or a father who literally died at his desk clutching quarterly reports.
I spend the morning walking the perimeter, cataloging every inefficiency. The vintage toy shop particularly offends my business sensibilities. Prime real estate wasted on dusty nostalgia that probably nets five percent of what a Starbucks could generate.
Through the window, I catch a glimpse of green. Not just any green—the exact shade of Christmas elf costume green. The owner, Wren, is wearing a sweater with a reindeer on it. The reindeer appears to be winking. Or having a stroke. Hard to tell with knit goods.
She's in the window adjusting a display of tin soldiers with the focus of a neurosurgeon, occasionally stopping to have what appears to be a full conversation with them. At one point, she salutes one of them.
I should document this. A prime example of small business inefficiency—owner talking to inventory.
Instead, I wonder if she names them.
Get it together, Holden.
A "Help Wanted" sign at Gallagher's Garage catches my eye. Hand-written on what appears to be a pizza box lid. Because nothing says "professional employment opportunity" like grease stains and pepperoni remnants.
The garage smells of motor oil and broken dreams. A man emerges from under a Ford that probably remembers when Roosevelt was president—Teddy, not Franklin.
"Help you?" His voice is friendly but assessing.
"Saw your sign. I’m Holden."
"The pizza box? Yeah, we're very professional here. Last week's special was 'Buy 10 oil changes, get free breadsticks.'" He uses an old-looking rag to wipe the grease off his hand and sticks it out to shake mine. “I’m Finn. Nice to meet you, Holden.”
Reluctantly, I shake his hand. "Did anyone take you up on that pizza offer?"
"No, but Mrs. Chang asked if she could substitute mozzarella sticks."
