Page 9 of Mad About Yule

I wait a second for her glare to die down. When it becomes clear that isn’t going to happen, I explain. “I could improve them if I make them 3D.”

“They are 3D. They’re real houses, not just front façades.” She pokes a finger at the pile of papers as though I didn’t just look through her three-dimensional designs.

I take a deep breath, glowering at her a touch so she’ll chill out. Which of course, she doesn’t.

“Thefrontscan have more depth,” I explain. “Bump out the section beneath the awning here, or make the painted dormer real on this one. It will add dimension to the designs and give you a little more realism.”

Her angry veneer melts away. “Oh.”

“It looks like you were just planning to paint on all the designs, but I can make frames around the windows and doors to give them depth, too.”

She looks from the sketches to me. “I didn’t want it to be so elaborate my volunteer couldn’t do it.”

“Maybe it would have been too much for your previous volunteer, but you’ve got me now.”

Her little frown says that’s not as reassuring as I’d intended.

“Well. It’s a really good idea.” That faint praise sounds like it was offered at gunpoint.

“I know.”

Her mouth thins. “You’re so humble.”

“I’m not familiar with that word.”

“You haven’t changed much, have you?”

I toss her my most charming grin. “I haven’t had any complaints.”

She rolls her eyes. “I feel like you throw your suggestion box straight into the trash. If you need more supplies, Luke at Bridger Hardware is donating all that stuff. Don’t go overboard or anything, but he’ll help you out.”

“I won’t abuse his generosity by stocking up on plywood for the year.”

I get back to my notes for the buildings, trying not to think too hard about what my old construction crew would say about me buildingelf houses. A year ago, I did custom carpentry for multi-million dollar houses. Now, I’m the guy people call when they want a life-sized gingerbread house.

Not exactly moving up in the world.

“I’m going to get my tools out of my truck.”

“You brought your own tools?” Hope looks like I just told her Grandma got run over by a reindeer.

“You should thank me.” I hook my thumb at the ratty selection of tools by the so-called workbench. “Using any of those comes with a serious risk of electric shock. You don’t want me to wind up in the hospital next to your original handyman, do you?”

She tries to look stern. “I’m still debating.”

I walk out the warehouse door smiling to myself. Working with her might be more fun than I’d thought. Too bad about the wholeengagedthing.

I let the cold mountain air fill my lungs, pushing any regrets about her out of my mind. Coming back here wasn’t my plan—the grief of losing my dad still rattles through me, knocking me flat on my back and putting a lump in my throat—but I can’t deny Sunshine has a certain draw.

Not enough for Hope’s grand scheme of pulling in thousands of tourists, though. Between mountain bikers on McKenzie Peak, boaters on Jasper lake, and fly fisherman on the Olallie River, we get a good amount of outdoor tourism, but events like she’s planning? They haven’t made it happen yet.

Sure, Portlanders like vintage these days, but not enough to drive four hours to the middle of the state for it. Maybe she’d get a few hundred from Bend, but when the day comes to light up the tree and sing all the songs, safe bet she’ll wind up disappointed by the low turnout.

Everything inside me bristles at attaching myself to a project destined to fail, but like I said, my mom asked. She believes in this thing, and wants me to see it through. I can’t let my family down again.

And hey, at least I’ll get a reprieve from working with my brother for a few weeks.

I park closer to the warehouse now that I know where I’ll be spending my days and cart my things inside. Getting down to business, I pull off my coat and start measuring and cutting two-by-fours to form the first wall.

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