Christie Ridgway - Must Love Mistletoe

“But boss lady, it’s Christmas time.”

“Good, Byron,” she praised, nodding. It wasn’t clear to her if his brain was merely water-logged or if he was just plain dumb. “And we’re a Christmas store, so that means we’re busy and I need you to do your job.”

Byron gave her his puppy-dog eyes. They’d worked on her during his first couple of shifts, but now she knew better. He didn’t have a big paper due the next day or an important exam first thing in the morning. As far as she could tell, he wasn’t even enrolled in any institution outside of the School of Surf Wax.

So she wasn’t giving in again. She wasn’t giving in to one more thing! Not to impulse, not to hormones, not to puppy-dog eyes, emergency requests, or guilt-tinged obligations. She was here, saving the family farm, and wasn’t that enough?

The rattle of jingle bells drew her eyes to the door. An older man entered, just as “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town” piped through the store’s speakers. Oh right, she muttered silently. Santa Claus, my sorry behind.

Instead of red felt and white fur, the man coming through the door wore a blue-and-gold cap that read “U.S. Navy Retired.” And she doubted he was bringing her anything she wanted for Christmas. Yesterday this very gentleman had phoned to set up this afternoon’s meeting, letting her know it was “imperative.”

“Hey,” Trin said, sotto voce. “Is it my imagination or what, but does that guy look like General Waverly from White Christmas? He’s got the exact same military posture and military haircut.”

Bailey looked over at her friend. “What are you talking about?”

“You know, the classic White Christmas. In the movie, there’s that old World War II general who Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye put on that show for in Maine.”

“Vermont.”

“I think it’s Maine.”

“Trust me,” Bailey said. “It’s Vermont.”

Trin scowled. “I thought you hate the holiday and everything that goes along with it.”

Turning away from her friend, Bailey forced a welcoming smile, though instinct was telling her she should be anything but. “Captain Reed,” she said with a little wave. “Or should I be calling you President?”

He strode toward her, chuckling. “Bailey, I’m the president of the chamber of commerce, not the United States, as you very well know.”

“Your orders sounded mighty presidential over the phone yesterday.” But when she’d asked him why they had to meet, he’d held out his reasons for the face-to-face.

“I like to do these things in person when I can,” he said, still smiling.

These things? That didn’t sound good. “Well, I don’t have much time, we’re busy here, and”-she broke off as she realized that Byron had slipped out after the newcomer’s arrival-“we’re shorthanded.”

Next chance she got, she was going to smear suntan oil on the surface of Byron’s old-school longboard. It was a surfer’s prank guaranteed to give him a cold dunking when he tried to stand on his first wave of the day. She hadn’t grown up half Gidget for nothing.

The captain drew out a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of his sport coat. “Don’t worry, I won’t take up much of your time.”

Bailey eyed the paper. “What do you have there?”

“First off, I just want to extend the chamber’s appreciation for stepping forward, Bailey. We understand you have your own job, but this is important too. To your family and the community at large.”

She didn’t bother wondering how he knew so much about the circumstances. Coronado comprised a mere seventy-five hundred households-and due to the military presence, that meant significantly fewer were full-time civilians. Those civilians were the kind of people who reveled in the small-town atmosphere that included plenty of small-town gossip.

“We knew we could count on you, Bailey. We’re all glad you didn’t turn your back on The Perfect Christmas. It’s a landmark.”

“An institution.” She should have turned her back on it. That would have been the easier path. But the weight of tradition and her innate firstborn perfectionism had rendered her genetically incapable of allowing the decades-old family business to fail on her watch. She’d had to at least try to make it better.

“I’m doing my best until the twenty-fifth,” she said, making clear she had her limits, though. “After that…”

The captain beamed through her warning. Bailey supposed she was glad someone still felt like smiling. She could barely breathe for the weight of the albatross.

Which only got heavier as he held out the paper in his hand.

“What’s this?” she asked, afraid to take it.

He still wore his charming smile as he forced the sheet into her hands. “The chamber events scheduled for the store.”

“Events? What events are those?” she asked, but slowly opened the paper. It outlined the next days until Christmas.

Santa Storytelling Hours.

Christmas Movie Nights. Which apparently included dessert.

Tea for the walking tours on Saturday mornings.

Her head shot up. “We can’t possibly do this. I don’t have the time or the extra employees necessary.”

She’d pressed Byron and his twin, Brontë, to find her additional help, but they were more interested in the state of the surf than the state of the store’s staff. “I’m sorry, but The Perfect Christmas will have to back out of these events this year.”

He was already shaking his head. “I know it might be difficult, but the flyers have been posted all over town for weeks. Concierges in the big hotels have organized groups of interested guests to attend together. We can’t disappoint the tourists. It’s our livelihood.”

Behind her, Trin was whispering in appalled tones. “Bailey, he’s a veteran! You can’t let the general down. Who’ll bring snow to Maine?”

Vermont.

Albatross.

She tried picturing Byron in the dry-cleaner-wrapped St. Nick costume hanging in the back office. Yo, dude. Have yourself a cool Yule.

Bailey groaned. On her watch it was going to be the Big Kahuna playing the Big Claus. Terrific.

But despite that, with Trin whispering behind her and the chamber’s representative wearing an expectant smile in front of her, she discovered she couldn’t say no to the gen-captain. President. Whatever.

Whatever was wrong with her?

She still didn’t have the answer to that question at 11:58 p.m. that night. Back from the store but unable to sleep, she was wide awake when the phone rang in her old room. Channeling her inner teenager, she automatically picked up the receiver on the little table beside her bed.

Her spine jerked straight against her skinny pillow when she heard the voice on the other end.

And she couldn’t say no to that person either.

Bailey Sullivan’s Vintage Christmas

Facts & Fun Calendar

December 6

In 1843, British businessman Sir Henry Cole asked artist John Calcott Horsley to print some Christmas cards. One thousand cards were printed in black and white and then colored by hand. The cards, which depicted a happy family raising a toast, were criticized by some for promoting drunkenness.

Bailey had showered after coming home from work and scrunched her hair dry, but she had to shimmy out of her flannel sleep pants and cotton-knit tank top. Considering the circumstances, she yanked on her black jeans, her stiletto-heeled black boots, then pulled over her head a tight black camisole followed by a looser, see-through silk one of midnight blue with black sequins sewn along the edge of the vee neckline.

Without billy club or badge, but with two layers of brown-black mascara and plum-rose lip gloss, it was the best rescue uniform she could come up with on short notice. It said, “I’m a kick-ass babe and I’m in charge.”

Or so she thought until she strode into the unfamiliar bar on the nontourist side of town. Simply named Hart’s it was located at the far corner of a small strip mall, next to a darkened nail salon. She’d gone through the single-wide, dinged-metal door with confidence.

But as she stepped into the low-lit room that smelled of beer and loud aftershave, rocked by the noise and the vibration of a pumping bass line beneath the soles of her boots, her bravado drained right out of her.

Had she ever walked into a bar by herself?

Certainly not one like this.

Though women accented the room here and there, it was mostly filled with men. Young men with shorn hair and muscular bodies. Military men, she deduced, who liked their beer and their raucous music. In one dark corner a few couples moved on a scarred dance floor. In another, dueling pool tables glowed green under drop lights.

When a knot of tough-looking men turned to check her out, she almost backed through the door.

But she’d promised Mrs. Jacobson to retrieve Finn and bring him back safely. How could she fail an eighty-something-year-old lady who had crocheted the receiving blanket she’d been bundled into for her trip home from the hospital?

Then there was Finn himself, of course. She couldn’t help but be concerned about him after his grandmother said he’d called, clearly inebriated. She didn’t want him driving himself home. The elderly woman swore she’d have gone after him herself, but she’d recently given up her license.

Bailey didn’t want Finn driving himself home either. She owed him that, at least. After all, it was Finn who’d held her hair off her face and out of the gutter when she’d puked up wine coolers until her belly button hurt.

Seventeen and stupid.

Now she was twenty-eight and on a rescue mission.