by Loree Lough
“I’ve been trying to find help for nearly three months. Hope you’ll have better luck than I did.”
“Me, too, ’cause the idea of sitting inside all day, every day, makes my hair stand on end.”
“What hair?” she teased.
Bryce laughed, savoring the bittersweet moment. He sure was going to miss her! “Maybe while you’re in Florida, you can get work in one of the beachfront comedy clubs.”
She ignored his feeble attempt at humor. “I know you’ve never been the ‘stay indoors’ type, but it might be good to try it on for size. Maybe it’ll knock that chip off your shoulder.”
“Chip? What chip?”
“Oh, please.” Olive began moving snow globes from the counter to a shelf along the side wall. “You haven’t been yourself since you walked through that door a couple weeks ago, wearing that patch and a Captain Hook attitude.” She shook her head. “I know it hasn’t been easy, dealing with the fact that you’ll never see out of that eye again, but even you have to admit, things could have turned out worse.”
Lots worse, he admitted, remembering all the soldiers who had fallen while defending their country. And some of those who’d made it home would spend the rest of their lives in wheelchairs or struggling to adjust to prostheses that replaced lost limbs. Bryce felt the heat of shame creep into his cheeks. “I didn’t realize I was behaving like…I never meant…” Had his demeanor really made others think he felt sorry for himself? Bryce sure hoped not. “It isn’t the blindness that bothers me,” he said dully.
Olive turned, a snow globe in each hand. “Oh? Then what?”
How could he admit how much he disliked being back here, where every man, woman, and child—whether born in North Pole or visiting by choice—loved the town where it was Christmas, twenty-four-seven, three-sixty-five? He didn’t bother voicing his hearty objection to the sell-sell-sell attitude surrounding the day on which the Lord was born, because on a practical level, even he had to admit how much the whole Christmas thing had pumped up North Pole’s economy. Besides, his attitude toward God and religion had taken a big hit during the past few years, so it seemed hypocritical, even to him, to use the over-commercialization of a holy day as his excuse.
Bryce took a deep breath and decided to follow her example of doing the right thing, simply because it needed to be done. “So, what can I do to help?” Might as well dive in headfirst. He’d been home nearly two weeks and hadn’t done a real lick of work to help her out. If he hoped to sell the place and make a profit, he’d better learn the ropes while she was still around to teach him, because the lessons he’d learned as a kid, working beside his parents, had long ago retreated to the dark recesses of his memory.
On the heels of a muffled yawn, she said, “A shipment arrived this morning, and I haven’t had a chance to unpack it.”
He paid little attention to the dark circles under her eyes. His aunt often spent all-nighters reading novels by her favorite authors. He’d tried the “Even a powerhouse like you needs a good night’s sleep” speech, but since it had always fallen on deaf ears, Bryce didn’t bother now. Instead, he stood at attention and snapped off a smart salute. “Captain Stone, reporting for duty, ma’am!”
Olive snickered. “There’s the clipboard,” she said, nodding toward a peg on the wall, “and a pen. Now get crackin’, soldier!”
He hung his baseball cap on the hook behind the door as she added, “And when you’re finished with that, get busy writing a want ad.” Almost as an afterthought, she tacked on, “’Cause I’m leavin’ next week whether you have help or not. Got it?”
“If anybody answers it, will you do the interviews?”
Olive harrumphed. “ ‘If,’ the biggest little word in the English language.”
As Bryce headed for the back room, he envisioned the first line of the ad: WANTED: PART-TIME MANAGER. Just don’t send me a woman, Lord, he prayed, because of all the things Bryce didn’t need right now, yet another heartache topped the list.
Chapter Two
Squinting, Sam adjusted the visor to cut the sun’s glare. If only her rowdy brothers could see her now, steering a twenty-five-foot RV down a major highway with the skill of a professional semi driver.
They’d given her a hard time on Easter Sunday, when the family had gathered at her parents’ house for dinner. Scott, the eldest, had dropped his fork when she announced her plans.
“Are you crazy?” he’d asked. Then right on down the table it went, with Seth, Shane, Steve, Spence, and Stu nodding like a row of bobble-heads. Only her youngest brother—named Bill when her mom had run out of S names—had given Sam a thumbs-up.
“Dad,” Scott had implored, “talk some sense into her!”
“Don’t look at me,” the family patriarch had said. “She’s more stubborn than your mother. When she makes up her mind to do something…”
Sam had read all about the candy-cane-striped lampposts and fire hydrants that decorated North Pole, but seeing them in person as she rolled into town nearly took her breath away. An excited giggle escaped her throat as she slowed to gaze at the gigantic Santa statue. In Sam’s mind, this was the perfect place to settle down.
From the day in second grade art class when she’d created her very first Nativity card, Sam had always felt an intense passion for Christmas. It had been Sam who’d roused the Sinclair family’s holiday spirit every year by decorating the house. She’d have started the day school began in August, if her mom would have allowed it, but she curbed her enthusiasm by beginning on Thanksgiving night. By the time she’d turned twelve, her dad had put the brakes on the ornaments and garlands Sam bought with her babysitting money.
“You’ve filled every nook and cranny in the house with doodads and knickknacks,” he’d told her. “If this keeps up, we’ll become known as ‘That Crazy Christmas Family’!”
When she got a place of her own, Sam quickly filled the basement of her townhouse with snowflake-decorated boxes of Christmas adornments. Selling them to make the move to Alaska had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done.
The whole mess surrounding her move faded from memory as she drank in the sights. She’d have more than enough time to muse about it once she settled in at her new job.
Thoughts of running her own kitchen energized her despite the dozen hours she’d spent behind the wheel. She had worked long and hard, earning her bachelor’s degree in culinary arts, and growing up the only girl among seven siblings had helped her develop traits her classmates envied, such as leadership skills and a natural ability to make and maintain peace.
Two years as the assistant chef at a popular Baltimore eatery whetted her appetite for bigger, better things, and after much thought and prayer, Sam began a serious search for a kitchen of her own. When she found nothing in the area to suit her background or her dreams, she paid a visit to church and fired a heartfelt plea heavenward, asking God to lead her to the place and the work He thought best fit His plans for her life.
As it turned out, the Lord made His will known in the dentist’s office, as Sam watched a home and garden show on the fuzzy screen of the TV affixed to the reception room’s ceiling. When the program featured an annual ice sculpture festival in North Pole, Alaska, it was all she could do to tear her eyes from the glittering pictures when the hygienist called her name. Then, while waiting for the doctor to give his final approval to her newly shined molars and bicuspids, Sam paged through a travel magazine and nearly squealed out loud when colorful photos of the town leapt from its center pages.
Sam couldn’t wait to get home and type “North Pole, Alaska” into her computer’s search engine. Item after item popped up, each making her more certain that God wanted her there. She didn’t question why the Lord would invite a girl who’d never been a fan of cold weather to a place like this. But if He wanted her in North Pole, then her new motto would be “Alaska, here I come!”
And now, as she turned off the motor, the excitement that had been building during the long t
rip to her new home threatened to flag her as a wet-behind-the-ears youngster—the last image Sam wanted to project when meeting her boss for the first time! So she darted into the back end of the RV for a quick change of clothes and some fresh makeup, praying the entire time that Mr. Edmunds would recognize, as they talked, that she only looked younger than her twenty-six years. Grinning as she fluffed her curls, Sam told her reflection, “Doesn’t matter what he thinks today, because tomorrow—and every day after that—you’ll show him what you’re capable of!”
Donning a beige suede blazer, Sam grabbed her purse and headed for the lobby, whistling “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” as she marched up to the counter. She was greeted by a freckle-faced young man who matched her smile, tooth for tooth. “Do you have a reservation, miss?”
“No, but I do have an appointment with Mr. Edmunds.” She glanced at her watch. “Ten o’clock.” And she was right on time.
As the boy left to announce her arrival, Sam gave the lobby a quick once-over. From where she stood, she could see the sandwich board inviting hotel guests, tourists, and North Pole residents into the Silver Bells Restaurant. No doubt Mr. Edmunds would give her a tour of the kitchen, to ensure that tomorrow, she’d be familiar with—
“Miss Sinclair, I presume?”
Sam spun around and met the bespectacled eyes of a tall, gray-haired gentleman. “And you must be Mr. Edmunds,” she said, extending a hand.
After giving it a hearty shake, he invited her to sit in one of the wingback chairs near the huge stone fireplace. “Can I get you something to drink while we talk? Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate?”
“No, I’m fine, thanks.” Sam would much rather just get down to business, so that when she called her family later, there’d be plenty of good news to report.
“I don’t quite know how to tell you this,” Edmunds said as she took a seat. “There seems to have been a terrible misunderstanding.” He rubbed his chin then adjusted his eyeglasses. And on the heels of a heavy sigh, he said, “I’m afraid the chef’s position has been filled.”
Sam’s heart pounded. Surely he was mistaken. Or maybe she’d misunderstood. Or he’d misunderstood. Sam opened her purse and withdrew the letter he’d sent weeks ago to accompany their employment contract. Why, he’d even gone to the trouble of writing out directions to help her get from the Alaska border to North Pole!
He nodded sheepishly at the document in her trembling hands. “I…I’m terribly sorry, Miss Sinclair, but it seems my authority as manager here has been, shall we say, usurped.” A stern frown sketched a furrow between his eyebrows. “Dan Brooks, the hotel’s owner, gave the job to his nephew.”
“B–but…but I’ve come all the way from Maryland for this job!” She tapped the letter. “We…we have an agreement!”
Edmunds leaned forward, as if that alone could make up for what he was about to say. “No one feels worse about that than I do.”
“I can think of one person who’s sorrier,” she muttered. Then brightening, Sam sat up straighter. “Surely if we remind Mr. Brooks that you wrote this letter as his representative…”
Again, Edmunds’ pained expression silenced her. So Sam shook the letter. “I can’t believe a successful businessman such as Mr. Brooks would think his nepotism outranks a written commitment. I’m all for people helping family members, but…”
The expression on Edmunds’ face silenced her and told Sam what words needn’t: “Dan Brooks is a powerful and stubborn man. Once he’s made up his mind…” A one-shouldered shrug punctuated his statement.
Ordinarily, Sam was calm and even-tempered. Everybody said so. But these were hardly ordinary circumstances. “I considered this a binding contract, Mr. Edmunds. I took you at your written word, sold my townhouse—and everything in it—gave up my car, spent weeks on the road making my way here in time for this meeting.” Suddenly, she was on her feet, pacing the plush carpeting between her chair and his. “This is highly unprofessional and…and dishonest!” she steamed. “And if you don’t mind my saying so, it’s downright mean, to boot!”
“You’ll get no argument from me, Miss Sinclair. Jobs here are hard to come by. Still, I hope you’ll understand when I say my hands are tied.”
For a reason she couldn’t explain, the adage “You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar” popped into Sam’s head, followed quickly by “Never burn your bridges.” Maybe God was trying to tell her that, somewhere down the road, Mr. Edmunds—or even Mr. Brooks—could help her secure other employment in North Pole. And she would do her level best to get a job here and make things work out. Because the idea of calling her parents and brothers, telling them she’d fallen flat on her face, on the very day she arrived…
Sam shivered involuntarily at the thought and squared her shoulders. “Mr. Edmunds, do you see that RV in the parking lot?”
He followed her gaze then nodded.
“That’ll have to be my home until I can find another job.” Flies and honey, she reminded herself, and sweetened her tone. “So, is it all right if I run an extension cord to an exterior outlet, just until I get on my feet?”
On his own feet now, he grabbed her hands. “So, you intend to stay in North Pole?”
Lifting her chin, Sam crossed her arms over her chest. “Yes, sir. I most certainly do.”
He drove a hand through his hair. “Well then, of course it’s all right! Anything I can do to make you more comfortable, just say the word.”
She considered asking him if he knew a good lawyer in town but shot him a half grin instead. “Maybe you can vouch for me if I need a personal reference.”
“But of course I will!” He turned her hands loose as the freckle-faced kid signaled to him. Reaching into his suit coat pocket, Edmunds withdrew a dinner coupon and scribbled something on the back. “This will entitle you to free meals for as long as you need them.” Pressing it into her hand, he added, “And if anyone in the restaurant questions you, send them to me.”
Oh, right, Sam thought, send them to the guy with no power. Besides, why would she want to eat in the place where the new chef was eighteen, if that? “Thanks,” she said as the threat of tears prickled behind her eyelids. Before they could spill down her cheeks, she headed for the door, wondering how in the world she could have misread God’s signals so badly.
“Miss Sinclair,” called Edmunds, “wait, please…”
She held her breath and willed the tears to subside as he caught up with her.
The hotel manager handed her a copy of The North Pole Daily Star. “Perhaps you’ll find something to your liking in the want ads.”
Sam murmured a less than enthusiastic “Thanks” and tucked it under her arm before shoving through the big glass doors. Please, Lord, she prayed, just let me make it to the RV before the waterworks start.
Bryce paced the well-worn hardwood floor at Rudolph’s, hoping a qualified assistant would soon materialize. Because if he had to spend one more ten-hour day cooped up in this cramped, cluttered gift shop, frustration might just drive him out the door, where he’d bellow like a wounded bull moose. And in a town like North Pole, that just might invite trouble…of the four-hoofed kind.
He’d placed the want ad in the paper just as Olive had suggested. So far, his poor aunt had suffered through four dead-end interviews. The first was a housewife who spoke so softly, Olive found herself nodding even though he couldn’t make out a word the woman said. And while the arthritic man with the cane spoke more than loudly enough, Olive admitted it wasn’t likely the poor fellow had the stamina to last even one hour, let alone six hours, five days a week.
The high school kid who showed up fifteen minutes late for the scheduled appointment showed some promise, and Olive said she might just have hired him…if his mom hadn’t tagged along and recited her son’s long list of extracurricular activities. Then Buster, the town drunk, came in to say, “I might-could squeeze in a couple-few hours a day…if the li’l woman approves.” As it turned out, Olive hadn’t needed to turn Buster d
own, because the little woman didn’t approve.
By the end of the second week of interviews, Bryce gave some serious thought to boarding up the place and heading for Quantico. Last he heard, the Communications Specialist position the marines had dangled like a carrot was still available. Not his favorite option, but better than no options. Hard as it was to admit, working Rudolph’s beat sitting in a windowless office eight hours a day. Still, if he could figure out how to cope with the confinement of a desk in a windowless Quantico office for a couple of months, maybe he could pull in a favor from his buddy the lieutenant general and snag a choice reassignment that didn’t involve florescent lighting….
Bryce’s email program pinged, announcing an incoming message. As he spun his desk chair around to face the computer, he prepared himself for yet another disappointing want ad response. Instead, he grinned at the brief letter of introduction.
Dear Mr. Stone, it began, I have read with interest your listing in The North Pole Daily Star and would appreciate an opportunity to speak with you at your earliest convenience about the advertised management position. If, after reviewing my résumé (attached), you feel I’m qualified for the job, feel free to contact me at this email address to schedule an interview. I am available to begin work immediately and look forward to hearing from you soon. And it was signed, Sam Sinclair.
“Hot dog!” Bryce exclaimed. He hastily pecked out a reply message inviting Sam to come in for an interview with Olive that very afternoon at three. If that was too last-minute, he typed, Sam could suggest a better time tomorrow. Hopefully, he thought as his forefinger mashed the SEND button, good ol’ Sam was still at his computer and would confirm the appointment. Soon.
“Hot dog!” he repeated when, a moment later, the machine alerted him to Sam’s response: I look forward to meeting with you today at three. He printed out the attached pages, left a phone message for Olive that spelled out the details, and headed for his garage workshop. Though he hadn’t read Sam’s résumé, something told him the guy would be perfect for the job.
