The Grump Who Stole Christmas: Kringle Family Christmas Book One

by S Doyle

  Of course. That was fair. She’d flinched at the time constraint, but hadn’t immediately walked away from it, so I was taking that as a good sign.

  “Let’s say 10K to start.”

  Dad didn’t have it, but Ethan, Matt, and I could manage it. I would need to convince them that salvaging the Christmas season would be worth it, but I knew both of them would ultimately concede. Heck, Matt loved to throw money at Dad’s problems.

  “Do you need to see any references? Or I could point you to some past clients...” She trailed off when she saw me shaking my head.

  “No time. Put a plan together. I’ll like it or I won’t. But in the meantime I’ve got ten other things I need to be doing. You’ll email me at this address once you have something for me to look at.”

  This was embarrassing. I’d taken my business card from Hart’s Insurance and written my private email address on the back of it. I didn’t want it going through the inn’s email address, because I didn’t need Dad knowing what I was doing. And work email was obviously out of the question.

  She took the card, acknowledged that she saw the address, and smiled.

  “Looking forward to working with you,” she said confidently as she stretched out her hand.

  I took it and gave it a firm shake. “You don’t have the job yet. Impress me.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  That settled, I was tempted to leave, but she was mid-frappuccino and I didn’t want to be rude.

  “So, how is the rest of your family?”

  She said ever so casually. Maybe a little too casually.

  “Well you know about my dad’s leg.”

  “I ran into Ethan at the grocery store and he told me,” she said. “I always loved your dad.”

  “He was a fan too. I assume you’ll want to stop by at the inn. Check it out, get some ideas.”

  She nodded. “Yes. Definitely. I will come. To see the inn. And your dad.”

  “Matt’s not there,” I said. “At the house. We wanted him to come home and help out but he and my dad…things are never easy between them.”

  “Matt can be stubborn,” Jasmine pointed out. Then she got this faraway look in her eye, like she was remembering what they’d had together. I never knew what went down between them, but I’d always had this sense, at least from Matt’s side, that there was unfinished business there.

  But I had little time for sentimentalities and long-lost love. I had a business to fix, and Jas was at least two-thirds of the way through her frappuccino.

  I checked my watch again. “Okay, I gotta run. I’ve got an interview with two different bakers in town.”

  Jas refocused on me. “You need baked goods for the inn?”

  “Yes. Rhonda, who handled all that for us, retired recently.” Or quit. But retired sounded better.

  “Go ahead and interview them both, but you’re going to want Darlene and Jake.”

  Darlene Hammersmith, the owner of Sweet Bliss, was one of the two interviews I had. The other was Gus Radcliff from Gus and Son’s Bakery.

  Jasmine finished off her drink and stood. “Gus’s operation is bigger, but Darlene and Jake can do everything he can, and her malted brownies are legendary in this area. She bakes and Jake handles the store. Together, they run a solid operation. Trust me.”

  “Okay. Thanks for the heads-up. I’m really looking forward to seeing what you can put together on such short notice.”

  “Me too.” She smiled. But it was a smile that said she was up for the challenge. I liked that about her.

  We shook hands again and I’d started to walk away when she called out. “So you asked Matt to come home and he said no. I just want to make sure I’m clear on that?”

  “Yes. Ethan and I both asked him and he said no.”

  “Okay. I would say have a good day, but if you’re going to try one of Darlene’s brownies that’s already a given.”

  I didn’t eat brownies. I didn’t eat cake or cookies or sweets of any kind. In New York you were expected to look a certain way. Like you were always hungry for…something. A man, power, food. It didn’t matter.

  Now here I was, strolling down main street Salt Springs on my way to a bakery where apparently I was going to buy some brownies.

  In that moment I could feel how my life was suddenly and dramatically on another set of train tracks heading in a different direction.

  I need to turn around. Figure out where I misstepped. Get back what I’d had.

  Except my dad needed me, and my brothers, unbeknownst to them, needed me because I was the only one of the four of us who could make the hard financial calls when it came to the inn.

  Because I was the ice queen.

  6

  Later That Night

  Kristen

  I was so not the ice queen.

  How did I know that? Because I was creeping down the hallway in a pair of flannel pj’s and socks, my hair pulled back in a messy bun, not turning on any of the hallway lights because I didn’t want to wake anyone at one in the morning.

  I had a plan. A plan with many steps.

  Step one, make sure Paul Bunyan saw my boss lady mug in the cabinet.

  I’d made a point during dinner to show him how well I’d cleaned it and put it back in the cabinet in its regular spot.

  My dad looked at me funny, clearly not understanding all the fuss around a simple coffee mug, but he was not aware I was engaged in a silent war.

  Could I wake up extra early and get to the mug first? Sure. But that plan was flawed in many ways. One, I didn’t like waking up early if I didn’t have to. Two, I didn’t want to be the one to make coffee if I didn’t have to.

  Which meant that instead of waking up early, I had to wait until everyone was asleep. Then I could sneak downstairs like I was doing now, and take the mug. This time not leaving it out on my bed stand like an idiot.

  But oh, no. The plan was not complete. There was more to it, a second layer. Not only was I going to pull the mug out from under Paul’s nose, I was also going to sneak a brownie when no one was looking.

  As Jasmine had predicted, I’d tasted a sample of Darlene’s malted brownies at Darlene’s bakery. One bite and I’d immediately contracted with her to do the baking for the inn. We’d come up with a number of items, delivery times, and plans for the holidays.

  It was a big ask, but there was no way someone who ate one of Darlene’s brownies was not coming back for more.

  That’s how my mom did it. Made the magic. The decorations, the comfortable furniture, the perfect Christmas touches. Plus homemade baked goods.

  I was still working on the Christmas touch, but at least I’d nailed the homemade baked goods.

  I hadn’t been able to leave Darlene’s bakery without buying a dozen brownies.

  For my dad. For Ethan, too, because I knew he loved brownies, and maybe, when I sat him down and presented him with the hard facts about the business, it would go down easier with malted chocolate.

  The person I hadn’t bought them for…me. At least, that’s what I’d said when Paul asked me I why I wasn’t having one after dinner. Dad and I had split a frozen pizza, because he needed to be off his broken leg, and making frozen pizza was about the extent of my culinary skills.

  Paul had come in from the tree farm and proceeded to make himself a spinach omelet with toast. Apparently his cooking skills seemed limited to breakfast food. I’d been utterly gracious when he spotted the bakery box on the counter, and I’d told him they were brownies and he could have one.

  That’s when I saw it. A look on his face. Something like desperation. Something that suggested he didn’t let himself have brownies very often, but he wanted one.

  It was childish, but in that moment I’d felt a moment of superiority when he caved and took a brownie for himself while I’d abstained.

  My father told me I was crazy for passing up the treat, but Paul understood. Ours was a contest of wills, and mine had been the stronger one in that moment.

&
nbsp; Which was why I’d waited until everyone retired for the night. Why I’d listened for Paul’s steps passing my bedroom down the hallway to Ethan’s room. Why I’d waited patiently for him to go about his nightly ritual before settling into bed and then waited another hour to ensure he was asleep.

  Why I was creeping down the staircase now, careful to put my feet where I knew they would make the least sound. Back in the day, I’d made sneaking in and out of this house after my parents were asleep an art form.

  Not that I ever did anything that bad. Usually I just hung out with my girlfriends, drinking whatever we could pilfer from the family fridge without its absence being noticed. Wine cooloers at best, beer at worst. But there was always that adrenaline rush. Like I was getting away with something because I knew which steps creaked the loudest and which ones would remain silent.

  That same adrenaline rush crept over me now, knowing the mission.

  Take the mug. Eat the brownie.

  I’d made it downstairs and was now headed for the kitchen. Did I turn on the light to see better? It must be a cloudy night because there was no moonlight filtering through any of the windows.

  I was pretty sure once I reached the kitchen I’d be safe to turn on the light over the sink. I made my way directly there, already tasting that brownie and how I might pair it with a glass of milk.

  Flipping the switch, I turned toward the counter where I’d left the bakery box and…

  Screamed!

  “Shhhh,” Paul shushed me. “You’ll wake your dad.”

  He was sitting on the stool next to the counter. He had a glass filled with milk in one hand and a half-eaten brownie in the other.

  My heart pounding in my chest, I took a few deep breaths, then I saw the bakery box was nearly empty.

  My dad had had one brownie after dinner. Paul’d had one brownie after dinner. There were only, one, two three, four…

  “You ate five brownies?” The disgust was evident in my tone.

  He swallowed. “Six, if we’re counting the one after dinner.”

  “What kind of animal are you?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not proud.”

  “Proud? You must be sick to your stomach,” I said.

  “Getting there. Pretty sure this last one put me over the top.”

  “So you snuck down here, in the middle of the night, and basically ate all the brownies. Brownies I bought for my dad, who has a broken leg, and my brother, who is about to get some really bad news.”

  “Sorry?” It sounded like a question, which meant he wasn’t.

  “What were you going to say tomorrow when I found the box half empty?”

  “I had a plan,” he said.

  I crossed my arms over my chest and waited.

  “I was going to say a raccoon got in the house and ate them.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m in a little bit of a chocolate coma right now, so that was the best I could come up with. Look, I have a weakness, okay? I wasn’t allowed to have sugar growing up, so when I’m presented with any kind of treat, I go a little crazy. I thought I could control it. Thought that one brownie at dinner would be enough, but you don’t know,” he said, almost accusing me of something. “You don’t know how rich and chocolatey and delicious it is. So when I came down here and saw the box…I went a little crazy.”

  “A little crazy?”

  “A lot crazy,” he admitted.

  “How did you get downstairs without my hearing you?”

  He smiled then. “Ah-ha, I knew it. You, my friend, are a lousy actress. I could tell you had something up your sleeve. You were planning on waiting until I was asleep to come downstairs and steal my mug, weren’t you?”

  “It’s my mug,” I told him, pointing to my chest. “My mother gave it to me.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” he said, sounding totally sincere. “I didn’t realize it was from your mom. Or that it was important. I thought I was just messing with you.”

  There was another stool pressed up against the counter and I took it.

  “It’s not important. I mean, it is, but it’s not that important. I was just messing with you too, I suppose.”

  “Want a brownie?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “It was part two of my dastardly plan.”

  He nodded. “Eat the brownie, steal the mug.”

  “Something like that,” I muttered.

  He got up and walked around the counter to the cabinets above the sink. He pulled down a tall glass, then walked over to the fridge. He filled the glass with milk and then set it down in front of me.

  “I knew you wanted that brownie earlier tonight,” he said. “You were trying to act all disinterested, but as I noted, you’re not that good of an actress.”

  “I don’t eat sugar,” I said, haughtily.

  That’s what I always said when anyone offered me dessert. You couldn’t be a hard ass in Manhattan and eat sugar. At least I didn’t think so.

  It seemed so silly now.

  “Yeah. Me either.”

  “You still have a chocolate ring around your lips,” I told him. “Brownie crumbs are literally in your beard.”

  He laughed then as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and I couldn’t help it. I laughed too.

  He sat down on the stool again and finished the last of his brownie while I bit into mine.

  “Oh, God. This is so good!” I moaned.

  “Sugar makes you soft.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Are you saying I’m going to get fat eating one brownie? Because, hey pot—”

  “No,” he said, cutting me off. “It’s what my father used to say. Sugar makes you soft. He’d say it all the time when I was a kid. No cookies, no candy. I used to go to other kids’ birthday parties and when the moms offered me cake I had to say, ‘No, thank you’ when all I wanted was a piece of fucking cake. It wasn’t for any sort of health reason, either. It was about denial. Sacrifice. He said he was making a man out of me.”

  I nudged his shoulder. “You were just a boy. You weren’t supposed to be a man yet.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought too. That and my dad was an asshole. Which is probably a little TMI. Sorry I ate all your brownies, Kay-Kay.”

  I grimaced at the nickname and decided to get even.

  “I hate to tell you this, since it appears you have very little impulse control when it comes to sweets, but Darlene is going to be supplying the inn with baked goods from now on. Cakes, cupcakes…”

  “No,” he said, and closed his eyes on a soft groan.

  “Cookies. Blondies. These homemade peanut butter chocolate candies.”

  “Please, stop.”

  I laughed again, but I did stop. I ate my brownie and drank my milk, and it was strange, but I sort of enjoyed his company. Like we were both stepping out of our expected roles and doing the thing we knew we shouldn’t be doing. Together. It was nice.

  How long had it been since I spent time with someone who wasn’t working for me? Although I quickly remembered, technically Paul was working for me. For the family, anyway.

  “So what bad news do you have to tell your brother?”

  I looked at him like I didn’t follow the question.

  “You said your brother is about to get really bad news.”

  “Oh, did I say that?” I asked, purposely not answering. “Can I ask you a question? What do we pay you? I couldn’t find your salary accounted for in the books.”

  He let out a sigh. “You don’t.”

  “We don’t pay you?”

  “No.”

  “You just run the tree farm out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “I never said I had a good heart,” he grumbled. “You give me food and lodging. Pops is going to sell me a piece of property around the cabin. When I’m done renovating it, I’ll move out there. That in exchange for managing the farm.”

  “Yes, but how are you going to live?”

  “I’ll make do. The point is I want
to live simply. A roof, a reliable car…”

  “You drive a Tesla,” I pointed out. Reliable was like the last thing someone thought of when they thought of a Tesla.

  “It’s good for the environment,” he said. “I’m an arborist, remember?”

  “That’s it then? That’s the plan? Live simple and manage the trees.”

  “Can you think of something better?”

  “Yes,” I said, nearly offended. “Everything would be better. A better job, a real salary, a home, a family.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to have those things,” he pointed out. “In fact, once the cabin is finished I’m going to start looking.”

  “Looking for what?” I wanted to know.

  “A wife.”

  My jaw dropped. I knew this because he used his knuckles under my chin to shut it. “You don’t just go looking for a wife. Like it’s some kind of position that has to be filled.”

  “People do it all the time,” he argued. “What the hell do you think the dating apps are for?”

  I cocked my head and gave him a look.

  “Fine, some people use the apps for other things. But some people use them when they want to get serious. I’m thirty-nine. I’m ready to settle down. Devote myself to a wife and kids.”

  “Even though you don’t make any money,” I reminded him.

  “Money is overrated.”

  “Money is freedom,” I corrected him.

  “You’re a bigwig in New York City, probably make a shit-ton of money. Do you feel free?”

  The obvious answer was on my lips. Of course, I was free. I had an apartment in New York with over one thousand square feet. I didn’t have to take the subway if I didn’t want to. Ever. I could order in food every night. What was that if it wasn’t freedom?

  I swallowed and felt a lump in my throat.

  “What bad news do you have to tell your brother?” he pressed.

  I let out a sigh, and slumped over, the brownie suddenly a heavy weight in my stomach.

  “The inn is in bigger trouble than I thought. And it’s not just the last few seasons. It’s been a sinkhole for money for years and I don’t know if I can save it. Which means I might have to tell my brothers and my father we either have to sell it or risk my father losing everything. How is that for bad news?”