Page 2 of Never Kiss a Krampus
“You too, dear.” She paused at the door. “I hope… well. Good luck with everything.”
Then she was gone, and the shop was empty again. Mariah Carey had given way to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” I jabbed at my phone, switching to something quieter. Bing Crosby. At least Bing understood melancholy.
I grabbed my coffee and walked to the front window, looking out at Main Street. Mr. Peterson was arranging a display of rakes outside his hardware store across the way. The café three doors down was setting out their sidewalk sign with the lunch specials. Normal everyday activities.
Except it wasn’t, not really. Main Street used to glow this time of year. Every shop window was a masterpiece, competing in the informal but fiercely contested decorating war. The smell of roasted chestnuts drifted from the corner vendor. There were carolers on weekends, and a massive tree in the town square that the mayor lit with great ceremony the day after Thanksgiving.
This year’s tree was half the size of last year’s. Budget cuts, they said. The garlands strung between the lamp posts looked sparse and bedraggled, and half the businesses had skipped the window displays. The café’s sign advertised hot chocolate, but I’d walked by yesterday and seen they’d stopped using the fancyBelgian drinking chocolate and switched to the powdered stuff. The antique shop down the street had been sold in September and no business had moved in to replace it.
Stop it. Stop seeing doom everywhere.
But I couldn’t help it. Every empty parking space on Main Street felt like evidence. Every “Going Out of Business” sign—and there had been two in the past month—felt like a prophecy. The whole street felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something to break. Everyone was struggling, not just me.
I sighed as I retrieved my notebook from under the counter and started scrolling through my plans for a “Good Deeds Extravaganza” on Christmas Eve—a last-ditch community event I’d been planning for the last month. It was intended to be something that would cut through the mall’s convenience and the internet’s efficiency and remind people that shopping local wasn’t just about buying things—it was about community. About the kind of Christmas magic my grandmother used to talk about. The kind of magic I’d stopped believing in somewhere between the third overdue notice and Mr. Grinchly’s smug smile.
I’d planned a toy drive for the local kids, carolers, and an ice-carving contest. I was hoping that all the shop owners would work together to encourage people to attend. I could provide free gift-wrapping. Mrs. Park from the bookshop could do story time for kids. Giuseppe from the café could provide hot chocolate. The tailor, Mr. Yoon, could… well, I’d figure something out. It would be an experience so magical, so memorable, that people would remember why they loved shopping local in the first place.
For a moment, I actually felt a wave of optimism. But then my email pinged. A message from the bank.
Subject: Appointment Confirmation
I clicked it, my stomach churning.
Dear Ms. Green,
This email confirms your appointment with our loan specialist on December 30th at 2:00 PM to reassess your current situation and discuss options moving forward.
Please bring all relevant financial documentation.
Sincerely,
First National Bank
“Reassess my situation.” In other words, prove I could make payments or they would take the shop. December 30th was less than three weeks away. Three weeks to come up with three months of back payments, two months of utilities, and enough reserve to convince them I was a viable business. Three weeks to pull off a miracle. Would I still have a home, let alone a business, next year?
I made myself a second cup of coffee—regular this time, because I needed to make the fancy creamer last—and tried very hard not to cry into it.
This is fine. Everything is fine. Something will work out.
Gran used to say that. “Something will work out, sweetheart. It always does.”
But Gran had died before she saw her granddaughter running her beloved shop into the ground.
The bells jangled and I straightened instantly, pinning on my brightest smile. “Welcome to Noelle’s Nook! Can I help you find?—”
Mr. Grinchly filled my doorway like a bad omen in an expensive suit.
“Miss Green.” He adjusted his tie, a nervous habit that somehow made him seem more predatory rather than less. His beady eyes swept across my shop with the warmth of a tax assessor. “Quite the… charming establishment you have here.”
“Mr. Grinchly.” I kept my smile in place through sheer force of will. “If you’re here about your offer?—”
“Just checking in.” He stepped inside, his leather shoes squeaking against my worn wooden floors. “The deadline’s coming up fast. I wanted to see how you were… managing.”
Managing.The word dripped with false concern.
“I’m doing great, actually.” The lie tasted like burnt sugar. “Holiday sales are picking up. You know how it is—everyone waits until the last minute.”
“Mmm.” He picked up one of Susan Madison’s hand-painted ornaments, a delicate glass sphere with a winter scene inside. His thumb smudged the surface. “Beautiful craftsmanship. Shame there’s no market for this sort of thing anymore.”
