Page 92 of Mad About Yule

“When did you do all this?”

“The last few days. When I saw you hadn’t updated the festival’s socials, I knew I needed to step in.”

Well. That’s cold water on my appreciation. “Why don’t you send them to me, and I’ll post some this week?”

“Just give me all your permissions, and I’ll take over.” She picks up a pen like I’m going to spill all the passwords here and now.

Her offer makes me shrink a little, like tinsel too close to a fire. “Lila, I can do this.”

“Can you? What are you doing this week?”

“I’m going to paint the last Winter Wonderland house, help string up lights through town, and work with the crew decorating the big tree on Friday.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Is that it?”

I sag against the chair. I’ll also meet with the choir director, the Christmas market set up crew, the volunteers manning the refreshment booths, and finish my toy display in Henderson’s window. Plus about a hundred other tiny little things that don’t seem like much but add up to one huge commitment.

“And don’t forget your store,” she adds. “You’ll be spending some time there, too, I assume.”

My smile is faint but genuine. It means a lot that she included The Painted Daisy in my responsibilities.

“When we start posting all of this, you’re going to get messages. Lots of them. Question after question asking for specifics. Are you going to have time to answer them all? Do you really want to blow people off right when you’re catching their attention?”

Like Ada’s granddaughter who isn’t sure what time everything starts. My sigh sounds a little too much like a wailing Jacob Marley. Lila’s right. So is Griffin, and Mom, and Ada and Isabel, and half the town—I can’t do it all by myself. Not well, anyway. Not the way I want to.

“Just let me help,” she says in a small voice. “I’m kind of invested in this thing now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve been trying to make tech nerds sound cool and professional for years. Working on this is actually fun.”

Lila’s true, happy smile sweeps away the last of my resentment. Letting her work on this with me won’t take away from my success. It can only make the festival better. She knows social media better than anyone else I could ask. I shouldn’t be fighting something that will ultimately bring more people into town.

“Okay,” I finally say.

“Okay? You’ll let me help?”

I’m not sure how working together will go, and Mom will probably go bananas when she finds out Lila’s on board, but it’s the right thing to do for the festival.

“Yes. You can help.”

She squeals and throws her arms around my shoulders. “Finally! Give me all the permissions, I want to get started tonight. I’ve only got a week to turn things around.”

I remind myself she means well and start writing everything down.

THIRTY-TWO

GRIFFIN

Cribs area lot harder to put together than you’d think.

Caleb’s collapsed in the rocking chair, and I’m sitting on the floor against the wall, sweating through my shirt. He wouldn’t admit how long he’d wrestled with the crib pieces before he called me for my opinion. Frankly, it’s embarrassing how long it took both of us looking at the instructions before we finally got the thing together.

“I still don’t like that.” Caleb points a finger around the beer he’s holding at the lone washer on the floor in the center of the room.

I take a long pull of my beer, my supposed payment for my supposed help tonight. “It’s probably fine.”

Was it an extra? Or did we miss a step somewhere, and the crib’s going to fall apart one day with his baby in it? I’d be worried, too. I’m not eager to tear the whole thing down to double check, but it’d eat at me if that were my kid.

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