by Lisa Plumley
“I . . .” Charley had seemed flummoxed. “I can’t just leave.”
“Sure you can.” Jason had gestured toward the elevator. “We can both leave right now. The meeting’s finished. You can blow off the traditional ‘fuck Jason’ postmortem, right?”
A grin. “That is what we usually say after you leave.”
“I know. So come on!” Jason had urged.
Four minutes later, they’d both hit the street, said their good-byes like teenage miscreants skipping school, and left.
Jason had headed to the airport. While waiting for his plane to fuel, he’d fielded a call from the Guinness people about a potential “partnership opportunity.” Then he’d called Bethany to apologize. She’d assured him everything was fine.
Things had been settled. Not long after that, though . . .
“Chip has done something you should know about,” Charley had told him when he’d picked up another call. “It’s not good.”
“With Chip, it never is. What is it?”
Patiently, Jason had stood in a private airport lounge and listened in disbelief while Charley had relayed the news that Chip had retaliated for Jason’s storming out of the meeting.
First, Chip had updated Alfred Moosby on the “dire situation.” Then he’d threatened to have Jason ousted if he didn’t cooperate fully with a public “apology tour” meant to atone for Jason’s supposed photographic misdeeds.
“I already refused to do that. I’m not apologizing.”
“Evidently, you are,” Charley had told him. “Chip arranged the tour before you even got back from your vacation.”
The bastard. But it was what Chip had done after Jason had gotten back—and subsequently left again—that was worse. He’d upped the ante (and the odds of Jason cooperating) by promising the manager of the Moosby’s toy store in some flyover town called Kismet, Michigan that she’d be receiving a promotion, a featured spot in a “groundbreaking” series of social media ads, and a special congratulatory visit. From Jason. Tomorrow.
Now, tomorrow was today. But a single sundown and a single sunup hadn’t made Jason any happier with the shakedown Chip had enacted. Jason was used to being threatened; he could handle that. He was used to dealing with the media; he could handle that, too. He could even handle the board. What he couldn’t handle was the idea of his kindly retired mentor, Mr. Moosby, worrying about the survival of the business he’d founded.
That’s undoubtedly what he was doing right now, too—despite the phone call Jason had made to Mr. Moosby to reassure him.
Even needing to make that encouraging phone call had rankled Jason. How dare Chip tattle to Moosby about this so-called scandal?
Alfred Moosby hadn’t been involved in the day-to-day workings of the company for years. He did still have influence over Jason, though—because Jason cared about his mentor. If not for Mr. Moosby, his life would have played out much differently . . . with 100 percent more jail time and about a million times less success.
The bottom line was, Jason owed Mr. Moosby. He wasn’t about to let one asshole on his board ruin Mr. Moosby’s retirement.
“If this company winds up in someone else’s hands,” Jason had told Charley, “Mr. Moosby will be devastated.”
“I don’t think you’re going to let that happen.”
Damn right, I’m not. “Where is Kismet again?”
Charley had filled him in on the Kismet Moosby’s. He’d given him all the necessary details about its misled manager, Edna Gresham, too. He’d even e-mailed a photo of Edna, which he’d downloaded from the “Meet Moosby’s” area of the company’s intranet. Now, duly armed with that information, Jason was closing in on Kismet, having driven himself in a rented SUV from the airport in a larger neighboring city.
At least he thought he was closing in. So far it had been nothing but highways, blink-and-you-miss-it small towns, snow-covered pine trees, and a winding country road.
Everything looked the same out here. Rural and quaint.
Jason didn’t mind that so much, though—not now that his head had cleared and he wasn’t ready to go all “Hulk smash!” on his nitpicking board members. Visiting the Kismet Moosby’s didn’t have to be a big deal. It didn’t have to involve an apology, either. What was Chip going to do—spy on him? Not likely.
He’d keep the media tour brief, Jason had decided in the end, with no entourage to slow him down and no handlers—just local papers and TV. Afterward, he’d still have time to continue with his vacation, then enjoy a beachy Christmas family reunion with his parents, sisters, and brother in Antigua.
They’d already arranged it, down to the Christmas Eve beach bonfire and AM gift exchange. He could be done with this bullshit media tour and back to his regular life in no time.
Jason didn’t want to make an appearance at the Kismet Moosby’s. Or any place else. But he was going to. Because when push came to shove, Jason refused to leave poor Edna Gresham, the Moosby’s “model store” manager, stranded like a jilted bride when the CEO she’d been promised never materialized.
This time, Chip had successfully played him, Jason knew. Because the only thing Jason wouldn’t do for the sake of his own integrity was disappoint someone who didn’t deserve it.
Like Alfred Moosby. Or Edna Gresham.
Edna Gresham was probably thrilled about her store’s supposed “model store” designation. But Jason suspected that moniker was nothing more than a ploy. It was a cheap shot designed to strong-arm Jason into making an appearance in the most wholesome store in the whole chain. Being there was supposed to convince Moosby’s most traditional and conservative-minded customers that their CEO was just an average Joe . . . someone who could truly relate to them and their everyday lives.
The truth was, Jason could relate to them more than they knew. But he wasn’t interested in making his business personal.
All he wanted to do was get in, make Edna Gresham happy with her store’s “model success,” then get out. Simple as that.
Because while it was officially true that Edna had somehow turned her store into Moosby’s most unlikely top earner, that wasn’t the reason Chip had designated the Kismet Moosby’s a “model store.” That wasn’t the reason Chip had chosen it for Jason’s initial appearance, either. He’d chosen it first because of its wholesomeness—and second because of its isolation.
While stuck in Podunk Kismet, Jason wouldn’t be able to do much to prevent Chip’s next move. Chip would have free rein to do all he could to convince the board to (finally) fire Jason—something Chip had spent years gunning for. Jason knew that as plainly as he knew, while driving down the snowy rural road leading to Kismet, that Californians like him weren’t exactly at ease behind the wheel in the snow. But his hands were tied.
He couldn’t let down Mr. Moosby. Or disillusion Edna Gresham. But he could go along with the board’s plan . . . to a point.
After he’d taken a few requisite PR photos and shaken some hands, he’d be in a better position to bargain with his board members. He’d give a little. They’d give a little. Things would be fine. Moosby’s would continue racking up profits while making kids happy, and Jason would probably . . . still feel dissatisfied.
Hell. Reminded of the sense of discontentment that had dogged him for the past year or so, Jason frowned at the rustic outskirts of town as he steered his SUV around the lakefront.
All around him, ramshackle houses hugged the snow-covered hills. They huddled closer together as he neared the town center, but all Jason saw was his own life skating on past him.
Meetings and presentations and endless strategizing didn’t satisfy him. Neither did arguing with executives or dealing with his board members’ ongoing obsession with increased profits.
He hadn’t gotten into the toy business for this. He’d gotten into it . . . well, he’d gotten into it by accident, Jason admitted to himself as he drove past a kitschy gas-station-turned-diner. He’d gotten into it because Mr. Moosby had taken a chance on a scrawny kid
with a bad attitude and an unrealized yen to do more than just screw around. These days, Jason wasn’t scrawny anymore. But he wasn’t idealistic anymore either.
The realization bugged him.
He switched on the SUV’s stereo to forget about it.
A Christmas carol blasted from the speakers. Jason swore under his breath and turned off the stereo, shaking his head. He was already over Christmas and everything that came with it.
For him, the holidays had lost . . . something. When he was a kid, the Christmas season had meant family, treats, and hoping for a cool new toy under the droopy-needled family tree. It had meant something special. However corny it sounded, Jason had looked forward to it. He’d looked forward to surprising his mom and dad, pulling pranks on his brother and sisters, even seeing far-flung relatives. These days, though, Christmas was just another retail season—the most critical one. These days, Jason spent the run-up to Christmas strategizing with his team and uncovering new ways to pull customers into the Moosby’s stores that dotted towns and cities all over the globe. End of story.
Not that it was tough getting people to come into Moosby’s and spend. His stores were unique in their ambiance—more like personalized boutiques than warehouse behemoths, with curated selections to match. They were also relentlessly ubiquitous. They had been ever since Jason had taken the company public.
One newspaper article had dubbed Moosby’s “the Starbucks of the playground set.” Jason figured that was an accurate take. Each Moosby’s tried to be its neighborhood’s Moosby’s, a place to hang out and discover what was new in the world of fun.
At least that was the theory. Jason had quit going into his own stores a while ago now. Being there felt like work in a way that left him wanting to punch something. Or run away. Or sit in a corner and refuse to play nicely with the other kids on his Moosby’s board. He was ordinarily an easygoing guy. So he didn’t understand why his own retail empire had that effect on him.
He tried not to think about it. Mostly, he succeeded.
Except when Christmas carols jabbed into his brain space and forced him to remember. Then, Jason couldn’t forget that, among other things, he spent every year turning Christmas into a retail battle. He morphed kids’ letters to Santa into double-digit profits for his company. And he didn’t blink while he did.
Not that there was anything wrong with that. His family, friends, and board members would have been the first to tell him that kids needed toys anyway. That the thousands of Moosby’s team members he employed needed jobs. That it wasn’t hideously cynical to start thinking about the holidays fourteen months in advance . . . and hearing cash registers ka-ching! with every carol.
All the same, these days, Christmastime made Jason feel claustrophobic in a way that nothing else did. If he was lucky, Edna Gresham wouldn’t have gone over the top with her store’s holiday decorations. He’d be spending a few days there while shooting the first ad. He didn’t want to be confronted with a bunch of jingle bell hoopla from the instant he arrived.
On the other hand . . . who was he kidding? He was about to meet a gray-haired, twinkly eyed, quilt-making, small-town toy store manager. The schmaltz levels were going to be sky-high. According to Charley—who’d looked into the situation after Chip had confessed that he “didn’t even know the name” of the manager he’d promised to promote—Edna Gresham had sidestepped retirement more than once to continue managing her Moosby’s store.
At least his managers were happy to keep working at Moosby’s. Jason didn’t know what was the matter with him. All he wanted was to have fun and make sure other people did too.
How had that plan gone so cockeyed on him?
Lost in thought while staring down a snow flurry, he almost drove straight past Kismet’s Main Street. It was a good thing he hadn’t sneezed. He’d have missed the town center altogether.
It was pretty small by international (or L.A.) standards. But it was decked out with storefronts and sidewalks and old-fashioned lampposts wrapped in holly and blinking Christmas lights. It was populated with bundled-up shoppers carrying bags of gifts. It was scenic and snow dusted and cozily charming.
It was, to Jason’s disbelief, like something out of a Hollywood production of a Dickens story . . . except it was real. It smelled real (like gingerbread). It looked real (like sleigh bells and fire hydrants disguised as red-and-white candy canes). It sounded real (like Christmas carols being pumped into the streets via carefully disguised municipal speakers). It even felt real, as Jason waited at an intersection for a group of children—merrily costumed as Santa’s elves—to cross the street.
He blinked, but they were still there. One of the kids gave Jason a wave. He lifted his gloved hand from the steering wheel and waved back, watching as the redheaded, pigtailed littlest elf scampered in her friends’ wake. Behind her, an adult chaperone brought up the rear. She glanced at Jason. She did a double take. She smiled at him. He gave her a nod. Her smile broadened.
Uh-oh. He wasn’t here to make friends. Especially female friends. He’d grudgingly promised the board—via Charley—that he would do whatever he could to rehabilitate his tarnished public image. While he was in Kismet, Jason had to be firmly on the straight and narrow. He couldn’t risk another scandal.
Not if he wanted to keep his company, he couldn’t.
For Mr. Moosby’s sake, he had to do better.
Deliberately, Jason glanced down at his SUV’s console, as if something there had caught his attention. The chaperone hesitated.
After a few seconds, she meandered disappointedly away.
Phew. Close one. He couldn’t risk encouraging an encounter that might become problematic. For him—a born-again Mr. Rogers type from this moment forward—even the most innocent actions could be misconstrued. Jason had done what he could to make sure the chaperone didn’t feel personally dissed—which was why he’d pretended to have been distracted—but he had to be more careful next time. He couldn’t keep doling out nods willy-nilly.
From now on, Jason had to live like a monk. A toy-shilling, public-pleasing, squeaky-clean monk. Once he reached Moosby’s, he knew he’d be home free. There wouldn’t be any temptation on the horizon when he met Edna Gresham. She was older than his own mother and probably just as sharp. If Jason stuck by Edna Gresham’s side for the duration of his visit to Kismet, it would be like having his own personal (improvised) chaperone.
He’d be smart to take advantage of that.
Vowing to do just that, Jason angled into a street-side parking space. He got out to feed the meter, only to realize it was already paid up. All the way to the top. Underneath its green time remaining indicator, someone had attached a hand-written note affixed with multiple rows of clear packing tape.
Parking paid for courtesy of Moosby’s Toy Store. Happy Holidays!
Hmm. Squinting down the block—way down the block—to where the Kismet Moosby’s toy store stood, Jason frowned. This was not company-sanctioned policy. As far as he knew, no single Moosby’s store was authorized to dip into their petty cash this way.
Paying for one or two spaces directly in front of Moosby’s would have been one thing. That encouraged customers to come in and browse freely. Paying for parking spaces all the way up and down Main Street, from the antique stores on one end to the colorful banner promoting the annual Kismet Christmas Parade and Holiday Light Show on the other, was something else again.
That’s what Jason could see, too, now that he understood what those small, taped-on pieces of holly-bordered card stock were, stuck onto every parking meter in sight. If the Kismet Moosby’s was spending its record profits on homegrown promotions like this, they might be posting a net loss in the end.
Well, it was a good thing he was here then, wasn’t it?
He’d obviously spent too much time avoiding his own stores. Starting now, Jason Hamilton was going all in. He was going to rehab his image, save the stores that Mr. Moosby had entrusted him with, and post a record-breaking holiday sales s
eason.
He was going to do it while behaving himself perfectly, too, he vowed as he sucked in an invigorating lungful of wintery air. If Chip Larsen and the board thought they could break him, they’d better think again. Because this time, Jason was . . .
. . . being followed?
Catching a hint of movement from the corner of his eye, he glanced backward. Nada. That was weird. He could have sworn he’d seen someone trailing him—parking a few cars back, getting out almost simultaneously, then staring intently up and down the street . . . exactly the way he’d done while examining the meters.
Now, though, all Jason saw was Christmas. The storefronts nearby were decked out with lights around their windows. The windows themselves depicted holiday scenes, too, painted with impressive artistry and/or childlike ebullience. The window nearest him had been done by “Miss Tate’s class” at Kismet Elementary; the one he passed next credited a local artist.
As he crunched his way down the iced-over and recently salted sidewalk, encountering cheerful town residents as he went, Jason spied flyers for sleigh rides at The Christmas House B & B, for a gingerbread house construction gala, and for a neighborhood Christmas light show. He heard jingle bells and laughter, Christmas carols and cars driving past, and the unmistakable whine of a fire engine’s siren . . . which turned out to be part of a “kids’ fun ride” event for charity. Jason saw a telltale banner on the next slow-moving fire truck being driven by Santa himself. He smelled peppermint and chocolate fudge, and—growing stronger as he neared Moosby’s—gingerbread, too.
If someone was following him, they were getting a hellaciously holiday-ed up experience while they were at it.
It was just as well that Jason considered himself immune to Christmas and all its trappings by now. Because otherwise he might have been softened up by all the jolliness and bright-eyed people he encountered in Kismet. As it was, he could see all the holiday things for what they were. Manipulations. Efforts to instill positive feelings in shoppers—which they would then transfer to stores . . . along with their remaining cash and credit.
