by Vicki Delany
Gord reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it with great ceremony. “Signed and witnessed. Dad instructs me to make all necessary decisions regarding the property and the business.”
“He didn’t mean selling it!” Grace’s cool composure was beginning to crack.
“Not selling. A franchise deal, as I said.”
I spoke for the first time. “Jack hired Mark Grosse. He contracted with Vicky Casey to provide bread and pastries for the restaurant. You can’t change all that on a whim.”
He turned that grin on me. “I don’t have to explain myself, or my father, to you. But I will anyway. When I showed Dad that we could make a lot more money by implementing efficiencies, he agreed. He told me I had a free hand.”
“Jack loves this inn,” Grace said. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Does he?” Irene said. “Or is it you, Grace, who loves it the way it is? Fancy hotel, fine dining, important and wealthy guests.” She glanced around the room, taking in the tea service, the blazing fire, the good furniture, the expensive art. “Quite the lady of the manor, aren’t you?”
“That,” my mother said, “is completely uncalled for.”
Irene snorted. “I don’t think Aline Steiner, the celebrated diva, would be drinking tea with the wife of a Fine Budget franchise owner, do you?”
“Enough,” my dad roared. “Grace, I’d be happy to take you to the hospital. You need to talk to Jack himself.”
“Not so fast,” Gord said. “I insist on being with you if you’re going to discuss business. I’ll tell my associates to come back later.”
“I saw you showing them the gardens,” I said. “They didn’t look like horticulturalists to me.”
“All that property, just lying there covered in snow. Must be worth a fortune. It needs to be put to good use. If there’s one thing Rudolph’s lacking, it’s a big-box store.”
My dad choked, and I threw him a worried glance.
“We invited some folks from Mega-Mart to have a look,” Irene said.
“Are you insane?!” Dad shouted.
“No,” Grace said, “simply greedy.”
“I’m a practical businessman,” Gord said. “You’re not making much of a profit the way the inn’s being run now.”
“We’re making enough to provide an income for us and employment for many people,” Grace said.
“The gardens alone could be sold and . . .”
“Those gardens, this inn, the restaurant, are a vital part of Rudolph,” my dad said. “Of what we are proud to call Christmas Town.”
“Now I get it,” Gord said with a snort of laughter. “You’re Santa Claus. Go back to the North Pole, old man.”
Mom gasped.
“I won’t have you destroying this town,” Dad said. “Ruining everything Rudolph stands for, turning us into another soulless, dying rust belt town. I will stop you. One way or another.”
“That sounds like a threat,” Irene said.
“Take it however you want it,” Dad said.
“Threats or not,” Gord said, “there’s nothing you, or my stepmother there, can do about it.”
Chapter 3
“So there,” Irene said.
She and Gord walked out, leaving a shocked group behind them.
“I’ll take Grace to the hospital,” Dad said.
“That’s not necessary,” Grace said.
“I think it is,” Dad said.
“Did Jack say anything to you this morning when you visited?” Mom asked. “About the business and the property?”
Grace shook her head. Her hands trembled. Her face was shockingly pale, and I remembered she was in remission from cancer. “He didn’t say anything at all. He seemed listless, so uninterested in everything going on around him, I mentioned my concerns to the doctor. He assured me it isn’t unusual for patients who’ve had a close encounter with their own mortality to be withdrawn. I tried telling him that wasn’t Jack, but he brushed my concerns off. You know Jack, Noel, Aline. So full of life and fun.” She burst into tears.
“What sort of business is Gord in?” Mom asked.
“I don’t really know. Something he calls ‘consulting.’ Helping companies buy and sell other companies, Jack told me once.”
“He moved mighty fast,” I said. “He probably already had contacts in Fine Budget Inns and Mega-Mart.”
“And knows how the game is played,” Dad said.
“Gord’s never liked me,” Grace said. “His mother’s influence, I suspect. He rarely visits his father, and when he does they argue. Jack left Gord’s mother to marry me. I didn’t break up their marriage, it was already broken, but that’s not the way Karen saw it. When Karen died two years ago, I’d hoped Gord and his father would get closer, but it didn’t happen.”
We headed for the front closet and donned coats, gloves, hats, and boots.
“Why don’t you let Merry drive you home, Aline?” Dad said. “I can bring Grace back here after we’ve been to the hospital, and pick up your car. That okay with you, Merry?”
“Happy to,” I said.
Snow was spilling out of a dark sky. The lights in the hotel and the gardens glimmered with holiday magic, but none of us were in a particularly festive mood.
“I’m going to cancel our hotel and dinner reservations for tomorrow,” Mom said. “I’m sure I can find someone to give the opera tickets to.”
“Are you sure?” I said. “Maybe it’ll all get cleared up.”
“If Jack does come to his senses and tells Grace he isn’t going to let Gord sell the place out from under them . . .”
“A franchise opportunity,” I said.
Mom huffed in disapproval. “. . . Gord will be furious. I don’t want Grace to be alone. I don’t trust that man.” She pulled out her phone and pressed buttons. “Your father is with her now, and I’m going to make a dinner reservation at the inn for tomorrow. Rumors will be circulating and Grace will want to put up a brave front. Are you seeing Russell this weekend?”
“Why would I be doing that?”
“You two seemed to be hitting it off recently. He’s handsome, eligible, gainfully employed. And you are over thirty, dear.”
Russ Durham was the new editor in chief of the Rudolph Gazette. As well as the virtues Mom listed, he was charming and flirtatious and had expressed an interest in me. But I was hesitant, unsure. I suspected Russ was the sort of man who flirted as easily as he breathed.
Then there was Alan Anderson, our town’s toymaker. Alan was a highly skilled woodworker, and he crafted everything from furniture to jewelry, from decorations to toys, much of which I stocked in Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. He often played Santa’s helper and delighted the children in his toymaker getup, using a feather-topped pen to write their gift wishes on a long scroll of paper. Alan and I had dated briefly in high school, but after graduation we went our separate ways. Now that I was back, I sometimes thought I’d like to pick up where we left off. But he was quiet and shy, and I didn’t know where we stood.
Perhaps I was afraid of finding out we didn’t stand anywhere.
“If you must know,” I said to my mom, “I have no plans to see Russ. Or anyone else.”
“What are you doing, then?”
“The shop’s open late tonight, and tomorrow I’m planning a quiet Sunday evening at home alone. Get caught up on some things.”
“You can come to dinner with us.”
“I don’t . . .”
But Mom was already speaking into her phone. “I’d like to make a reservation for tomorrow evening, please. We’ll be five. Oh, I see. Perhaps you could check again. This is Aline Wilkinson calling, and Grace Olsen will be among our party. Yes, eight o’clock will be fine.” She hung up.
“Five?”
“Noel and I. You and
Grace. I thought I might invite Alan to join us. He spends too much time alone in that workshop of his.”
I took my eyes off the road and looked at my mom. She was staring out the window, her face deep in thought.
* * *
Betty Thatcher scurried into Mrs. Claus’s Treasures the moment I stepped foot across the threshold. I’d dropped Mom at home and headed back to the store to help Jackie until closing. Jackie immediately asked me if it was true the Yuletide was going to be demolished for a big-box store, and Betty heard her. “He’s selling the inn!” she screeched.
“Not selling it,” I said. “Looking into a franchise opportunity. And that remains to be seen.”
I don’t think she even heard me. “The Yuletide’s a valuable Rudolph tradition. What’s Rudolph without the Yuletide?”
“They say the new chef has been fired.” Jackie pouted. “I didn’t even have a chance to properly introduce myself to him yet. He’s super hot. I wonder what it’s like dating a man who can cook.”
“Who cares about some cook,” Betty said. “I can’t believe Jack would sell the inn. Tell your father to do something, Merry.”
“It’s not up to my dad to do anything,” I said. “Anyway, it’s not Jack but his son, Gord, who wants to sell. And he’s not selling the inn itself, but some of the property. And he hasn’t fired the chef, either. At least not yet.”
Betty glared at me. “That miserable lowlife. I remember Gord Olsen well enough. He was always up to no good. Like boy, like man.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “Sorry, Betty, I don’t have any more information.”
“Your parents are close to Grace and Jack, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Could you let me know, Merry, if you hear anything more?”
“Sure,” I said.
Betty struggled to force the words through her lips, but I waited patiently and at last she managed, “Thank you.”
“Why do you suppose she cares?” Jackie said after the door had slammed shut behind Betty. “Fine Budget Inn or Yuletide, it should be all the same to her.”
Community spirit was not Betty’s strong point.
“Maybe her feelings go back a long way,” I said. “She’s the same age as Jack, her son, Clark’s around the same age as Gord. The families probably knew each other. Betty obviously doesn’t like Gord, even all these years later.” I glanced at my watch, wondering what was happening at the hospital. The chimes over the door sounded, and this time, instead of a furious Betty Thatcher it was, thankfully, a group of eager shoppers.
For the rest of the day, Jackie and I went about our business, helping customers, ringing up sales, smiling, and being friendly. We were too busy for me to spare any thought about the goings-on at the Yuletide.
I was standing at the door, waving off the last group of stragglers, about to flip the sign to “Closed” when I spotted other business owners coming out of their own shops and heading my way. No one was smiling, and their faces were dark as they muttered to one another.
I wondered what was up, and then, to my considerable surprise, they streamed into Mrs. Claus’s Treasures, demanding to know what was going on at the Yuletide. Word had spread that I had the inside scoop.
Which, come to think of it, I did.
“Two men came into my place for lunch,” Andrea Kenny of the Elves’ Lunch Box said. “They wore business suits and sunglasses. They looked totally out of place.”
Rachel McIntosh from Candy Cane Sweets nodded. The look on her face was a sharp contrast to the necklace made of real candy canes bound with red ribbon that was part of her work uniform. “Mark my words, they’re up to no good.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.” Sue-Anne Morrow, a town councillor and our acting mayor, had seen the delegation heading my way and popped in to find out what was going on.
Two men having lunch in a friendly diner in a small town on a Saturday afternoon shouldn’t be terribly suspicious, but Andrea and Rachel did have a point. Rudolph was a family-friendly destination. We catered to women in shopping groups, families with kids who wanted to see Santa Claus and his helpers, and even honeymooning couples finding the Christmas atmosphere romantic. But men, on their own?
“Maybe they wanted to get a break from their shopping wives,” I said without much conviction.
“They had,” Andrea said, “briefcases and papers and iPads, spread out all over the table. They talked in low voices and made lots of notes. I just happened to be bringing their sandwiches to their table when I overheard the words, ‘no competition.’ They clammed up the moment they realized I was standing there. What do you think of that?”
“Mega-Mart,” Rachel said with a shake of her head that had the candy canes clanking. “People are saying they’re from Mega-Mart. Is that right, Merry?”
“My aunt’s the bookkeeper at the inn,” Jackie said. “She told my mom she’s really scared. If Fine Budget takes over, they’ll bring their own staff in and fire people who’ve been working at the inn for years.”
“They had a fancy wedding there last week,” Rachel said. “I supplied all the favors and the table decorations. I made the centerpieces out of candy canes, my chocolate snowmen were at every place setting. Vicky baked an elaborate wedding cake and she provided gingerbread cookies for the favor bags. No other place in Rudolph can host that sort of big, extravagant wedding.”
“Young couples with money to spend won’t be having their weddings at Fine Budget, I can tell you,” Jackie said. “I’ve been thinking of having my own wedding at the Yuletide. I’m going to have it in the spring, when the gardens are at their best.”
“You’re engaged!” The women squealed. I refrained from rolling my eyes.
“Well, no,” Jackie admitted with a grimace. “Not officially. I’m expecting Kyle to pop the question any day. Of course, when he does, I haven’t decided what I’m going to say. I’m not ready to . . .”
“The gardens,” Rachel moaned. “They’re so popular, and not only for weddings. In summer, folks love taking a tour of the gardens and then popping into town for an ice cream.”
“Never mind the gardens.” Jayne Reynolds, owner of Jayne’s Ladies Wear, was next through my doors. “I can’t compete with a Mega-Mart! I try to keep my prices reasonable, but they’ll drive me out of business. Sue-Anne, surely the town can do something.”
Sue-Anne shook her head. “There isn’t much we can do. The property is zoned commercial. As long as no one’s talking about putting a housing development or a factory there, it’s out of our control.”
“Hold on here,” I said. “You’re getting ahead of yourselves. It might never happen. Grace doesn’t want to sell, and that has to mean something. You know she and Jack run the inn together, although she pretends he’s in charge.”
The women nodded.
“Now,” I said, “I need to be heading home.”
One by one they left, muttering to themselves. Soon only Jackie and I remained in Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. “Leave the vacuuming until tomorrow,” I said. “I’m bushed.” I went into the back, switched off the lights, powered down the computer, and got my coat. The main room of the shop was lit only by the lights on the tree, which would stay on all night, a night-light behind the counter, and the subtle decorations in the window. Jackie was a dark shape staring out into the now-quiet street.
For the first time ever, I didn’t find my shop at night to be a warm, comforting place. I had tried to sound optimistic and cheerful in the face of the women’s concerns, but when they left they took my jolly mood along with them. “Go home, Jackie,” I said, more sharply than I had intended.
She turned to me. “You’ll be okay, won’t you, Merry? My job’s safe, isn’t it? I mean, you sell nicer stuff than they do at Mega-Mart.”
“Sure,” I said. “Not to worry. It’s all a misunderstanding. My dad went to
the hospital with Grace to sort it out.”
Jackie gathered up her own things and left. I locked the door after her and set off home. The sidewalks were empty and lights were being switched off in all the shops. As Jackie had said, I was in a better position than many shop owners to face competition from Mega-Mart. I sold mostly artisan goods. My merchandise wasn’t cheap but it wasn’t overly expensive, either, and I catered to mid-level spenders. Betty Thatcher’s Gift Nook, on the other hand, would likely be one of the first places to close. She sold the same inexpensive, mass-produced goods Mega-Mart did. And they’d sell them at a cheaper price.
Mrs. Claus’s Treasures wouldn’t be immune from the fallout from the big-box store, though. There was nothing worse for business than a Main Street of boarded-up shops.
“Merry! There you are.” My landlady, Mrs. D’Angelo, greeted me as I trudged up her neatly shoveled sidewalk. She lived on the ground floor of the house, and I lived in an apartment on the second floor. Mrs. D’Angelo’s mission in life was to know every single thing going on in Rudolph, New York. And that included everything going on in the lives of her tenants. I suspected she’d been lurking at her front window waiting for me to arrive. Enveloped warmly in a shawl, she’d come out to stand on the big wraparound porch. “My phone’s been ringing off the hook all day.” She waved a thin, sleek, latest-model iPhone at me. Technology was Mrs. D’Angelo’s lifeline. “What is going on, Merry?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“My brother’s brother-in-law’s uncle owns the Carolers Motel. He says they’ll never be able to compete with Fine Budget, not with their national advertising campaigns.”
I buried my head into the collar of my winter coat.
“Tell your father I said he has to do something,” she shouted to my disappearing back. “I’ve been trying to get Noel all day but it keeps going to voice mail. And now his voice mailbox is full!”
My dad, I knew, also loved technology. He was particularly fond of the caller ID display.
As usual, my mood lifted the moment Mattie heard my footsteps on the stairs and let out a joyous, welcoming woof. I let him out of his crate and allowed myself to be enveloped in exuberant leaps and a barrage of slobbering licks. I wiped drool off my face and followed the bouncing dog back down the stairs. I snapped his leash on and we went for a long walk in the park. Fresh, untouched snow crunched under our feet. It was well after dark, and the night was clear. A silver sliver of a moon hung over the dark waters of Lake Ontario, stars filled the sky, and the lights of the town’s Christmas tree and the gaily decorated houses sparkled in the distance.
