Ginger (Marrying Miss Kringle)

by Lucy McConnell

  “Well, I, I am searching out volunteers to help with the new backdrop for our Christmas Eve with Santa.” Susan shifted from foot to foot, not unlike a seven-year-old child waiting their turn on Santa’s lap.

  “Sounds lovely. What can I do?”

  Susan blinked. “Are you serious?”

  Ginger nodded enthusiastically. Helping with a Santa program or platform or whatever would be a valuable way to spend her extra time in Clearview.

  “Um, sorry,” Susan stammered. “It’s just that I usually have to twist a few arms to get any help around here.”

  “What? That can’t be true. Everyone’s been so nice.” Kazu, from the Trading Post, had donned his coat and carried her cookie-making supplies to her snowmobile. He’d even secured them with twine. Trudy, at the café, had offered her a free breakfast—which she’d declined because she was too nervous about meeting Patrick Greggory Scott to eat a thing.

  Susan rolled her eyes. “Yeah—if you’re a twenty-something bombshell.”

  Ginger scrunched her nose. She wasn’t what she’d consider a bombshell. Lux was the effortlessly pretty one. Frost had an amazing figure, complete with can-climb-a-mountain-and-not-break-a-sweat-but-still-looks-like-a-girl muscles. But her mother had taught her to accept a compliment with a smile. “Thanks?”

  Susan considered her, the wheels in her head spinning fast enough that Ginger wanted to grab on to the porch rail and hold on. “Maybe we can put that to good use,” said Susan.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you have a few minutes to spare—maybe half an hour?”

  Any reason to put off an uncomfortable and nerve-racking experience of explaining to a man that if he doesn’t marry her, Christmas will be ruined for the rest of eternity. “Sure.”

  Susan put her arm around Ginger’s shoulders and ushered her towards Jeans ’N’ Things. “You are so sweet. I think this is going to be our best year for volunteers ever.” Opening the door, Susan waved to the owner. “Wood, I’m going to leave Ginger here at the sign-up table for a bit while I run an errand.”

  The middle-aged shopkeeper with a denim apron and large ears lit up. “It’s okay by me.”

  The interior of the store was even darker than outside, where a nearly full moon hung over Clearview. Ginger blinked several times to adjust to the dim lighting provided by two sconces. Across from the door was a wall of cubby holes. Each cubby held a different size of jeans in every size from three months to husky man in a variety of blues. To the left were a few clothes racks. Here, Ginger found the source of plaid flannel most people wore. Frost would recommend burning the place down and starting over in the fashion department. Her motto was “Bling makes everything better.”

  Ginger liked the soft fabrics and muted colors. They brought a sense of home and comfort. She could imagine snuggling up to a certain Alaskan man in one of those shirts in the family room. Jumping out of her daydream, she focused on Susan.

  “What, exactly do you want me to do?”

  Placing Ginger directly behind the folding table with a red tablecloth and a clipboard, Susan gave her a thumbs-up. “Invite people to sign up to volunteer. With any luck, we’ll turn your half hour of time into a full day’s worth of hard labor.”

  Ginger leaned over the table and whispered, “What people?” The shop was as empty as the workroom the day after Christmas.

  Susan winked. “They’ll come—don’t worry. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she said before bustling out into the cold like a harried holiday shopper on a mission.

  Ginger made eye contact with Wood and shrugged.

  He smiled, his weathered face crinkling like day-old caramel frosting.

  Feeling the need to break the ice, Ginger said, “Your store is lovely. I especially like the jeans with the feather design on the pockets.”

  “I don’t sell many, bein’ as there aren’t a lot of women up here.”

  “My sister Stella would love those.” Ginger surveyed the other items on sale. “Oh, and Robyn would adore that light-blue leather jacket. Hmm. Frost could use that messenger bag with all the pockets. She’s constantly organizing stuff.” Try as she might, she couldn’t see anything for Lux. Not letting that deter her, she grinned. “I’m excited to do some holiday shopping. Although if things stay slow at the sign-up table, I might as well get it done.”

  “Don’t you worry.” Wood winked. “You’re gonna be plenty busy in no time.”

  Once Wood’s attention went back to putting price tags on leather gloves, Ginger stepped around to the front of the table. Tipping her head this way and that, she envisioned a pine garland covered in gold ribbon, silver bobbles, and red holly berries. Within seconds, she’d pulled the garland from her purse and draped it expertly. Next, she placed a two-foot pine tree with corresponding ornaments and twinkle lights on the table top. Finally, a snow globe the size of a bowling ball gently played “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” opposite the tree. Brushing off her hands, Ginger surveyed her handiwork.

  Wood let out a whistle, startling her. “Looks a bit cheerier in here.”

  Ginger smiled. She’d been drawn in by her task; decorating for Christmas was kind of her thing. Well, one of her things. Back home, she was always the one who picked out the tree and wreaths for the doors. “Thank you.”

  “You always carry a tree in your purse?” he asked. His dark eyes bore into her with the patience of a man who was willing to wait for answers and the knowledge of one who had seen things he couldn’t explain. He was, what her mom would call, a lone wolf. It was difficult to put an age to him. The weather could age a person twice or thrice faster than necessary. Wood had the wrinkles of a seventy-five-year-old, but he moved like he was in his forties.

  She tucked her hair behind her ear. Santas weren’t supposed to lie. It was another one of those things in the creed. No breaking promises to children, no lying, no feeding cookies to the reindeer—it gave them stomachaches—and no telling people about magic. Although, she wasn’t above creative truth telling. “It folds up smaller than you think.” She harnessed a smile and hoped he’d let it go.

  “Huh.” The grunt came out sounding more like I don’t believe you, but I’m not sure I believe myself either. Magic had that effect on people. Usually, a semi-believable excuse was good enough to throw them off track. They wanted to believe in rational excuses because … magic? Magic was the stuff of legends and fairy tales and children’s stories. In the grown-up world, magic was forgotten.

  “Me first!”

  “No, I’m already in line.”

  “Ya are not!”

  Three men burst through the door, acting more like kiddies at the top of the sledding hill than customers in a clothing store.

  Ginger put her hand out to protect the snow globe, just as the largest one in the bunch planted his rather hefty boots in front of her table. Swiping his forest-green hat off his head, he grinned. Or rather, Ginger assumed he was grinning. His bottom lip had been cut open, the skin around it dry and swollen, and his left eyebrow sported an impressive goose egg colored blue by a bruise that made it difficult to determine if he was smiling or grimacing in pain. “Name’s Scooter Stevensenson.”

  The other two sagged as Scooter made his introduction.

  Ginger, on the other hand, perked right up. Scooter Stevensenson, the fifth name on her list! Here she’d been all nervous about meeting the doctor, and Scooter practically drops into her lap. Not right in her lap—she still had to ask him to marry her. Clutching the clipboard, she studied the rough-and-tumble group.

  The men gathered right up on Scooter’s heels, eager as beavers to observe the conversation. Ginger swallowed and held out her hand. “Ginger Kring—” Her eyes cut to Wood. Better not use her real name. He was already suspicious enough. Besides, if Quik could go by one name, so could she. “Ginger.”

  “Go on,” egged the man to the right. He had on a leather hat lined in red plaid and a jacket to match. Tonrar. The name came to Ginger in a flash. His name meant dev
il, and she hoped he hadn’t earned it.

  Scooter puffed up his chest. He was a big guy, bigger than Joseph, and that was saying something. “Ginger, I was hoping I could, well, that you would, I mean, if it’s not too much trouble.” He twisted his cap between his large hands. “I wanted to sign up to help with the Santa stand.” Letting out a heavy breath, he put both hands on the table and leaned forward. “The mayor’s wife said you were over sign-ups.”

  Ginger smiled. “I am—at least for the next fifteen minutes.”

  “Hey Scooter, that’s not what you—” Tonrar cut off as Scooter’s boot landed on his foot.

  “I’m getting there.” Scooter smiled at her.

  Ginger smiled and handed Scooter the clipboard. “As you can see, we need several volunteers to haul the materials from the hardware store up to the church and then several more with carpentry skills.”

  “You ought to talk to Joseph; he’s real handy when it comes to building,” offered Tonar with a glare at Scooter.

  “I don’t think she needs to look much farther than right here.” Scooter signed his name. “I’ll get those supplies up to the church.”

  “Thank you, Scooter.” Ginger reached into her purse. “If you’re going to be moving all that wood, you’ll need a new pair of work gloves.” She held out the leather gloves. They were soft as butter yet sturdy enough to hold up.

  Scooter reached for them tentatively. “I can’t—”

  “You can.” Ginger pressed them into his palm and held on to his hands with both of hers. His hands were warm and comforting, eliciting all sorts of friendly feelings but not one feeling past friendship. “And you will. A good deed shouldn’t go unnoticed.”

  Scooter gulped. “Can I take you to dinner?”

  Blinking, Ginger couldn’t believe how easy Scooter made setting up a date appear. Here she’d spent the last hour fretting over a way to ask out Doctor Patrick Greggory Scott, and Scooter just blurted it out like he’d asked her if she had a pen. Her body reacted exactly the same way it would have if he’d asked to borrow a pen—the turtledoves in her stomach were snoozing away.

  “Um.” She hesitated.

  “Thursday night Trudy makes a roast beef special that’s top notch,” Scooter added.

  The two men behind Scooter nodded their heads.

  “I guess that would be all right,” Ginger agreed, feeling a bit of the holiday weight lift off her shoulders. She’d been here almost a week, and this was her first official date—with a list man, too.

  Scooters whole countenance enlarged, which made him roughly the size of Noah’s ark. “Great. That’s great.” He shoved his hat on his head.

  The front door opened and a baldheaded man with a tiny nose popped his face in. “Hey, Scooter. The doc just got back if ya want him to look at that lip.”

  Ginger’s stomach did an involuntary back flip. The doctor was in town. Using the table, she steadied herself as her knees had suddenly become inept.

  Scooter looked from her to the door as if he wasn’t sure he was ready to leave yet.

  “How did you hurt your lip?” she asked.

  “I was cutting down a tree, and the wind picked up, blowing it right in my face.”

  Ginger’s hands flew to her mouth. She’d been practicing with the winds in her spare time. Had she caused that? “I’m so sorry.”

  “It happens.” Scooter brushed off her worry. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Ginger.”

  “Of course, Mr. Stevensenson.” Ginger vowed to practice only at night and as far north as possible from here on out.

  He stepped towards the door, and the two guys who had come in with him moved to follow.

  Hoping to salvage something of this disastrous morning, Ginger called out, “Excuse me, fellas.”

  They stopped in their tracks.

  “There’s several spots still open on the construction crew.” Ginger held up the clipboard and gave them a bright smile.

  “I don’t know.” Tonrar scratched his chin. “You gonna give us gloves too?” He winked to let her know he was jesting.

  Ginger’s smile blossomed from forced to true. She could hand out new gloves to the whole work crew and not break a sweat. But there was a speck of an idea. “How about lunch with all the fixin’s?”

  “Just you and me?” He stepped in front of his friend, who wilted as pathetically as a cast-off teddy bear. In fact, he kind of reminded Ginger of a teddy bear with his small black eyes and bushy dark hair. She didn’t think anyone could have that much hair in a lifetime. Rip! His name was Rip.

  Ginger grinned. The name thing was coming much easier. All she had to do was really look at someone and the information popped forward. “The whole crew. We’ll make it a party.”

  Rip perked up. “We haven’t had a real party around here in years.”

  “Then it’s about time. I’ll bring the food, the decorations, and the sweets; you round up the muscles.”

  “Done.” Rip pulled his coat close and barreled out into the cold, Tonrar right on his heels.

  Ginger added their names to the list with a flourish.

  Susan blew through the door. “I heard about the party.”

  That was fast. She’d have to remember that not much happened around here that didn’t get passed along.

  “I think it’s an outstanding idea. I’ll put it out on the radio tonight, and we’ll see if we can’t get a few of the homesteaders to come in and help too.”

  Ginger bit her lip. “Do you think they’ll come?”

  “If we’re offering a home-cooked meal? You bet.” Susan narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “You did offer to cook lunch, didn’t you?”

  Ginger smiled. “You bet. And there’ll be plenty to go around. How many should I plan for?”

  Susan picked up the sheet. “With these three, we’ll have eight, maybe ten.”

  Checking the clock on the wall, Ginger slung her purse over her shoulder. “I’ll plan on a dozen. I have to get going now; I have an appointment.”

  “Go! You’ve been very helpful.” Susan beamed at the table decorations. “Can I leave this up?”

  “Sure.” Ginger hurried to the door, but paused before opening it. “I was just thinking, it might be nice to ask the local ladies to contribute in some way. I’m sure many of them have carpentry, painting, and decorating skills.”

  “And it would be a nice draw to bring in some of the single men.”

  Ginger winked. “You said it, not me.”

  Susan laughed. “You’re a sly one. I’m glad you’re on my team.”

  “I’m always on Team Christmas. Bye.” Ginger pushed open the door before the turtledoves in her stomach got out of control. Watching for traffic, which meant snowmobiles, dogsleds, and people bundled up to their eyeballs, she marched toward Dr. Patrick Greggory Scott’s office with determination.

  “Holy holly. Here goes everything.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Out of habit, Joseph flipped on the radio to listen to the morning broadcast while he worked in the shop. Most of the time, the information was a repeat from the night before coupled with a weather report, but every once in a while there was a call for help from a neighbor or an unexpected supply plane landed.

  The usual delivery schedule was Tuesdays and Fridays, or as needed—meaning if there were enough goods to fill the plane, William, the pilot, would make the trip. However, once in a while an entrepreneurial spirit would bring up a shipment of unusual products, like DVDs, kitchen wares, or clothing. Sure, the local stores carried a selection of products, but the variation was determined by how much shelf space they had available. When one of these planes showed up, they emptied out pretty quick, and Joseph wanted first picks for Layla’s Christmas gifts should one arrive. Static played as he changed the burr in his rotary tool, and Layla set up in her corner.

  Now that she’d been here for almost a week, he couldn’t imagine his life without her. Yeah, they were still making some adjustments, but the solitary life of a bachelor no l
onger appealed to him. He wanted a family, his family. And that meant Layla, and to some respects Ruth, if she ever showed her face again. He had a feeling it would be years before she made her way back to Clearview. The thought brought melancholy with it, and he set to work to chase off the blues.

  Finally, Hank, the DJ, came on. “Welcome back to Trout105.3. I’ve just been handed a paper from the mayor’s office. On December 9, there’ll be a Santa Social at the church. All those able to help build the new platform for Santa’s workshop are invited. The lovely Miss Ginger Bringle—”

  Joseph cringed. He could have sworn her last name started with a K, or was it a G …?

  “—has offered to make lunch for the volunteers.” Hank hit the mic somehow, and there was a boom followed by a squeal that could strip bark off a tree. He tended to do that when a call came in. “Sorry folks, you know I get nervous talking to people on the phone. I’ve got a caller on line one—go ahead.”

  “Yeah, this is Rip. I was in Jeans ’N’ Things this mornin’ and saw Scooter ask Ginger out. He’s done his askin’, so whoever is next in line, you’re up.”

  Joseph’s jaw dropped. They are not discussing this on the open radio! It was bad enough the men were lining up like a group of kids waiting for their chance to see Santa; there was no sense in embarrassing the whole town over it. Wherever Ginger was, he prayed she wasn’t listening.

  “Shoot. First Quik and now Scooter,” said Hank, although he really didn’t sound all that upset. “Sounds like she’s shootin’ in a barrel.”

  “Don’t know why you care—you’re married,” Joseph grumbled at the radio. He glanced over to see if Layla had heard; he wasn’t used to having someone in his workshop when he talked to himself. Or, in this case, Hank. She was busy sharpening her yellow crayon. The noise-canceling head phones were doing their job nicely.

  “I didn’t say she turned Scooter down—just that he’d asked,” replied Rip.