Page 1 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
Chapter 1
Wren
The stack of overdue notices on my counter has achieved sentience and is currently judging my life choices. At least that's what it feels like as the pile somehow manages to look disapproving while completely blocking my grandmother’s favorite music box—the antique carousel with hand-painted horses that dance to 'The Christmas Waltz.'
The universe, apparently, majored in ironic symbolism with a minor in kicking people when they're down.
"Miss Holloway?" The voice cuts through my financial spiral like a hot knife through my already melted dreams.
Miranda Fletcher stands in my doorway looking like she stepped out of a "Success for Bankers" catalog—navy suit pressed within an inch of its life, hair that defies both gravity and the December slush, and a folder under her arm that might as well have a skull and crossbones on it.
"Miranda!" My fake smile could power a small city—or at least convince someone I'm not internally screaming. "What perfect timing! I just got in the most amazing collection of vintage ornaments from the Brennan estate. There's this Victorian angel that would look absolutely stunning on yourtree. You know, the tree in your house where you live, far away from here."
"Wren." Her tone could stop a charging reindeer mid-prance. "This isn't a social call."
The cheerful bells above my door jingle as she closes it, and I swear they sound sarcastic. Even my door hardware has turned against me.
She surveys my shop with the clinical detachment of someone mentally calculating liquidation values, and I can practically see the dollar signs reflected in her eyes. Prime real estate: check. Vintage fixtures that hipsters would kill for: check. Inventory that could fetch decent prices if you market it as ‘artisanal nostalgia’: check and mate.
"I've tried to give you time," Miranda continues, pulling out The Folder of Doom with efficiency that probably gets her Employee of the Month every month. "But three months behind on payments? The loan committee is asking questions I can't answer anymore. Well, I could answer them, but 'She has a really sweet personality, and her grandmother was lovely' apparently isn't considered valid collateral."
Three months. The words echo in my head like a bad remix of my worst nightmare. Three months since my last decent sale, unless you count Mrs. Henderson's pity purchase of a wooden yo-yo she claimed was for her nephew. Mrs. Henderson doesn't have a nephew. We both knew it. We maintained eye contact while she lied. It was a beautiful moment of human compassion.
"January is just around the corner," I try, straightening a display of hand-carved nutcrackers that are already straighter than my sexuality was before Tom Hiddleston existed. "Holiday sales will pick up. They always do. Remember two years ago? I made enough in December to cover three months of?—"
"That was before Amazon started offering same-day delivery on vintage-style toys made in factories that can produce your entire inventory in twelve minutes."
"But mine are actually vintage?—"
"The bank can't run on authenticity, Wren."
I want to argue that authenticity should be currency, that memories should have monetary value, that the look on a child's face when they wind up a music box for the first time should be legal tender. But I also want to not be homeless, so I keep quiet.
"How long?" My voice comes out smaller than the miniature tea set in aisle three.
"Three weeks. December 23rd. If you can't bring the account current by then..." She doesn't finish, but her expression says it all.
December 23rd. Two days before Christmas. Because the universe subscribes to the Grinch school of timing. Merry Christmas, Wren! Here's homelessness wrapped in a foreclosure bow!
The bell chimes again, saving us from more awkward financial reality, and Delia Ashworth glides in like she's auditioning for ‘Elegant Seniors of Vermont Weekly.’
"Miranda. Wren." She manages to make our names sound like she's identifying suspects in a lineup. Her gaze takes in Miranda's power suit, my stress posture, and what I'm pretty sure is a new stress pimple forming on my chin in real-time.
"Business meeting?" she asks, though we all know she already knows. Delia probably knew about my financial troubles before I did. She has a sixth sense for gossip and a seventh sense for other people's misfortune.
"Just finishing up." Miranda gathers her torture implements—I mean, documents—with practiced efficiency. "Think about what I said, Wren. Three weeks."
She evacuates as if she's afraid poverty is contagious, leaving me alone with Delia, who approaches my counter with the measured pace of a predator who knows the prey is cornered.
"Difficult conversation?" She runs one perfectly manicured finger along the edge of the carousel music box, and her expression shifts to something almost human.
"Your grandmother let me wind this once," she whispers. "Such a lovely melody. Of course, that was back when the shop was thriving. When it had... proper management."
"I'm managing properly," I defend, though we both know I'm managing about as well as the Titanic managed that whole iceberg situation.
"Managing, perhaps. But not thriving. A young woman, alone, trying to maintain a traditional business in changing times... it concerns people."
"Mypersonalrelationship status has nothing to do with my ability to run a business."
