The Christmas Shoppe (3 page)

To go to the extreme of initiating what sounded a lot like a witch hunt was unsettling. Talking about this poor woman’s long gray hair and strange clothes as if Parrish Springs had some sort of enforced dress code ordinance made Tommy’s skin crawl.

He shook his head as he opened the
Spout
email account. Maybe the bigger story would be to put the spotlight on Councilman Snider. Except that Tommy had attempted something like that years ago. Naturally, Snider had come out squeaky clean while Tommy was the one left with dirt on his face. Oh, Snider forgave Tommy in time. He may have even forgotten all about it by now. But Tommy still had questions about the old codger. Some people softened with age, but George Snider seemed more hardheaded than ever.

Tommy let out a long sigh. What was it with small towns anyway? They seemed to bring out the worst in some people and the best in others. As for Tommy—well, he just tried to keep his head low and remain neutral. It had never been his plan to stick around this long, and although he felt fairly well trapped by this worthless old newspaper business, he still experienced occasional moments when he entertained daydreams of escaping. Especially this time of year.

He stared at the calendar on his desk. It seemed impossible that it was already November. Next week was Veterans Day, and already he could feel the holidays barreling down the track, straight toward him, like a diesel-snorting locomotive going full speed. Tommy was itching to hop that train. More than anything he wanted to get out of town for good . . . or bad or whatever. Christmastime brought too many sad memories to him. Too much loneliness.

Although Tommy knew forty-two was far too young to turn into an old curmudgeonly bachelor, he felt certain he was on the cusp of doing that very thing.

Susanna checked her BlackBerry as she entered city hall. It was barely noon, and already she had more than a dozen messages that would have to wait until she finished with the Beautification Committee. The topic of today’s discussion would be holiday decorations downtown. She was running a couple of minutes late, but these luncheon meetings seldom started or finished on time.

As she entered the meeting room, she was taken aback to see Councilman Snider sitting at the head of the table. Box lunches were just being distributed, and Alice was playing hostess by filling water glasses.

“Glad to see you could make it,” Councilman Snider told her in a slightly sharp tone.

“Sorry to be late.” She smiled at the small group. “I was just helping our newest member of the community settle into the Barton Building.”

“Settle in?” The councilman frowned. “Has it even gone to escrow yet?”

“Ms. Honeycutt made a cash offer. As soon as her check clears at the bank, the property is hers.”

“But not until her check clears,” he stated. “So why, pray tell, is she taking occupancy now?”

“She’s not taking occupancy,” Susanna said. “Not that this has anything to do with this meeting—”

“You let her remain in a city-owned building—”

“Ms. Honeycutt is simply doing some planning and measuring, Councilman Snider. She will return the key to my office when she’s done.” Susanna smiled at Lois Bowers, the head of the committee. “I’m sorry to be wasting so much time on this. Feel free to call this meeting to order if you like.” She wanted to ask why Councilman Snider was present. Especially since, despite the always-open invitation to all council members, he’d never attended any Beautification Committee meetings before. She suspected that he’d shown up for one reason only—to get her goat. Well, just let him try.

After Lois called the meeting to order, they began to discuss whether or not their budget was sufficient to purchase some new energy-efficient decorations for the downtown area lampposts. A manufacturer had approached the city, offering them a “steal of a deal” if they could purchase the materials immediately. It seemed another town had backed out on an order, and the company didn’t want to sit on them for a year.

“We all know we need to do some upgrading, and as you can see by the copies of the brochure in front of you, these lovely Christmas decorations are top-notch,” Lois said. “The question is, can our budget afford them this year?”

“Not
Christmas
decorations,” Janice Myers corrected. “
Winter holiday
decorations.”

“That holiday still happens to be called
Christmas
,” Lois pointed out. And just like that the committee fell into the quagmire that had been disrupting city meetings for several years now—arguing over the separation of church and state. Nativity scenes versus Santa Claus. The usual dividing lines that made so many people act crazy. Susanna had seen it before and wasn’t surprised to see it again.

“Might I make a suggestion?” Susanna had to speak loudly to be heard above the fray of voices. “How about if we all agree to disagree on what we call that time of year, but focus instead on deciding whether or not we can afford these new energy-efficient candy-cane lights?”

Back on track, they looked over the numbers and finally determined that the new lights would have to wait until next year.

“That is exactly why I’m here today,” Councilman Snider announced.

“Are you going to play Santa Claus and donate the lights?” Lois asked.

He laughed. “Not this time. But I do have a suggestion.”

“Please, share,” Lois encouraged him.

He launched into a long-winded plan about how it was important to involve the local businesses in covering the expense of making the downtown area more attractive and viable.

“Are you suggesting some kind of fee or business tax?” Lois asked with a creased brow. “Because you know we’ve tried that before, George. It might’ve flown back in times of prosperity, but not these days. Money is tight.”

“Our businesses are barely staying afloat as it is,” someone else chimed in.

“We can’t punish them just because it’s Christmas,” Lois added.

“You mean the
winter holidays
,” Janice said. Suddenly they were back at it—Christmas versus winter holidays. Would they never get over it?

“Let’s get back to Councilman Snider’s suggestion,” Susanna interrupted again. She knew a big part of the city manager’s role at these meetings was to play referee and peacekeeper.

“Thank you.” The councilman looked grateful.

“I have some thoughts,” Susanna continued quickly, not allowing him time to push whatever plan he was hatching. “Lois and the others are right. The local businesses can’t afford to bear the expenses of the decorations. But I’ll bet they’d be willing to participate in a downtown fund-raising event. If we got the chamber involved, we might be able to pull it off without any cost to the city either.” She described an event that her previous boss had done to raise money for an urban development project. Just as everyone was getting on board, Councilman Snider decided to play the wet blanket.

“That’s all fine and good,” he said. “But I don’t see why we should let the businesses take a free ride. They need to pay their fair share too.” He turned to Susanna. “For instance, the Barton Building.”

She felt her eyes narrow at him ever so slightly, hopefully not enough that anyone else would notice. “What about the Barton Building?”

“Well, as you know, it’s a real eyesore. Being that it’s at the dead center of town, it’s detrimental to the entire downtown area. Are you suggesting that everyone else should cover the expenses for it? That smacks of communism to me.”

“What expenses?” Susanna asked.

“For bringing it up to standard.”

“Up to whose standard?” she persisted.

“Everyone’s standard. That run-down building needs a good steam cleaning, the trim needs painting, there should be some flower boxes out front, and—”

“I’m sure in due time these cosmetic needs will be addressed.”

“In due time?” He frowned. “Whose doggone due time?”

“In a reasonable amount of time, Councilman Snider. Good grief, you pointed out already that Ms. Honeycutt isn’t supposed to take occupancy yet. Do you honestly expect her to whip that building into shape by tomorrow?”

This aroused a few chuckles.

“I’m just saying that perhaps someone from the city would be wise to go and advise Ms. Honeycutt in regard to the expectations of maintaining a property in the downtown area. After all, she is an outsider. It’s possible that she is unaware of the standards of, say, the Beautification Committee.” He nodded to Lois. “Wouldn’t you think it’s our duty to inform Ms. Honeycutt that property ownership comes with a price?”

“Well, I suppose she should be aware . . .” Lois glanced at Susanna.

“Perhaps you’re suggesting that you, Councilman Snider, should go hand in hand with the welcome wagon, and while they’re giving Ms. Honeycutt a gift basket, you could present her with a spreadsheet for what you estimate her maintenance expenses will amount to in the upcoming year?” Susanna said.

There were some snickers.

“It might not be a bad idea to inform future business owners of what’s expected of them.”

“Which is precisely why we have such things as business permits, Councilman. But that is not what we’re here to discuss today.” She glanced at the big clock on the back wall. “I have another commitment in less than ten minutes. Could we please stay on task?”

Fortunately that seemed to shut him down. At least for now. She could tell by the reaction of Lois and the other committee members that she’d just gained some of their respect. Even though that was edifying, she suspected that she’d won only the first round in this particular battle. Who knew how many rounds this old guy could go for?

The Veterans Day Parade had always been an important event in Parrish Springs. The tradition began in the 1950s, before Tommy was born. As a child, he’d watched both his grandfather and his father marching in their uniforms. He had always imagined that one day he’d march in the parade too. That, like so many other things, had never happened. By the time he was old enough, Tommy had no interest in going off to war—unless it was to report on it. Being a foreign correspondent had always appealed to him. But over the years, he’d seen enough on the History Channel to know that the old adage was true. War really was hell. That seemed confirmed further when he saw Coral Phillips riding on a float today.

Last summer, he’d included a bit about Coral’s return from Afghanistan in his Armed Forces Updates column, saying she’d been injured by a roadside bomb and was receiving medical treatment in Virginia. This was the first time he’d seen her in person. What he saw choked him up so badly he was forced to look away. Coral had been only seventeen when she’d worked as an apprentice for him at the paper. She’d wanted to be a journalist someday, but her family was short on college funds. Even though Tommy offered to help her out in that department, she’d fallen for the old GI Bill lure and shipped off to Afghanistan. Well, maybe Uncle Sam would see to her college education after all. And maybe he could give her some artificial limbs while he was at it.

Just as the high school marching band started playing “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” Tommy turned away and ducked back into the newspaper office. That was more than enough parade for one day.

Even with the doors closed, he could still feel the thudding beat of the big bass drums reverberating through his chest. He hurried to his office, closed the blinds and the door, put in his earbuds, and cranked his iPod to the Bee Gees. He wasn’t proud of the fact that it took these sappy soft rock songs from his childhood to get him through the day sometimes. But it was cheaper than therapy and safer than bungee jumping. He had to get out of this town before it made him crazy . . . or crazier.

Taking a deep breath and humming along to “Staying Alive,” Tommy opened his laptop computer and stared blankly at his screen saver, watching the same electronic fish doing the same electronic things . . . for years. He really needed to switch to another screen saver . . . one of these days.

Tommy didn’t have any urgent projects to finish—no heavy edits, no fires to put out, nothing was pressing today—but that was expected since the weekly paper had just gone out yesterday. The same paper that was probably lining the bottom of a number of the town’s birdcages by now.

He used to obsess over the pathetic waste of perfectly good trees just to make stupid newspapers. Then he switched to a green paper manufacturer. This company used a combination of poplar trees, grown exclusively for pulp on a tree farm. “Not only are these happy trees beautiful to see from the road, they improve the air quality too,” the salesman had assured him. After these happy trees were chopped down and reduced to mulch, they were combined with a variety of other recycled materials and ultimately turned into newsprint, which would end up being recycled all over again. Unless they went on to some other inglorious tasks like wrapping up dead fish, lining pet cages, joining compost piles, or starting cozy evening fires now that the air was getting colder.

Tommy had devoted an entire issue of his paper to living green. He’d even gone as far as to suggest that he might turn the
Spout
into an online paper, but the good people of Parrish Springs kindly told him to forget it. They claimed they liked the feel of a real newspaper in their hands, flipping through the pages with their morning coffee, enjoying the smell of the ink, clipping the retailers’ coupons. Besides, as Gladys Lepenstein pointed out, not everyone had access to those fancy-schmancy computers in the first place. So there you go.

Tommy clicked on his notepad (on his fancy-schmancy computer) to see if there was anything there that he’d forgotten or neglected to do. He was reminded that he still hadn’t made a point to meet the mysterious Matilda Honeycutt. That was partly due to busyness, partly to procrastination, and partly because he felt sorry for her. The poor woman had been in the Barton Building for only about a week and already she was catching flak. He’d heard her name come up in a number of conversations, and although it was often paired just with natural curiosity, sometimes it was paired with criticism and hostility.

It wasn’t hard to imagine where this negative flak was generating from. Not blatantly, of course, but Councilman Snider had numerous friends. Some in high places and some in low. It was Tommy’s guess that some of Snider’s friends owed him favors. Consequently, there had been three strikingly similar letters to the editor in the past few days, all regarding the city’s sale of a particular piece of property and whether or not that sale was handled in a respectable manner.

Tommy had just laughed and placed the letters in his “under consideration” pile, which usually ended up in the trash basket. But it irked him that Councilman Snider was being so underhanded. He was tempted to go over and meet that Matilda Honeycutt in person—and he would welcome her to Parrish Springs. If she struck him as a good person, perhaps he’d even write a friendly article about the town’s newest resident, encouraging the good people of Parrish Springs to make her welcome too. After all, if the pen was mightier than the sword, surely it must be mightier than the sharpest tongue as well.

After the parade festivities were over and the town quieted down to its usual subdued self, Tommy told Helen that he was going out. He didn’t want to tell her his destination because he’d already heard her making some comments about Ms. Honeycutt too. Not the mean-spirited kind that George Snider was so fond of, but Helen had mentioned the newcomer’s strange fashion sense more than once. Maybe it was just a female thing.

Tommy crossed the street and noticed that the windows looked cleaner and the lights were on inside. He tapped a few times on the door, but no one answered. Since the door was unlocked, he let himself in. “Ms. Honeycutt?” he called. “Hello?”

“What’re you doing in here?” a small, dark-eyed woman snapped. She had on blue jeans and a sweatshirt, and her hair was tied back with a bright purple bandana, similar to what his mother used to do with her hair when he was a small boy. But this woman was scowling at him, looking like she might even smack him with the rag mop she was clutching to her chest.

“I’m looking for Ms. Honeycutt. I wanted to—”

“Can’t you see we’re not open for business yet?”

“Well, yes, but I—”

“And can’t you see I’m trying to mop this floor here?”

He looked down at the wet wooden floor. “Oh, no, I didn’t—”

“No, I expect you didn’t! Look at those dirty footprints you left too.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe I should stop by another—”

“Maybe you should just get on your sorry way.”

“I’m going.” He attempted a smile. “Sorry about—”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, mister.”

He just nodded, gingerly backing out the door, but the next thing he knew he bumped into someone, stepping right on their foot. The shriek of a feminine voice confirmed to him that this was just not his day.

“Excuse me!” He stumbled to regain his balance, nearly knocking over the dark-haired girl who was looking at him with a mixture of shock and pain. “I’m so sorry.” He knelt down and looked into her face, then peered down at both her feet, which were still intact. “Did I hurt you badly? Anything broken?”

She mustered a smile, and her brown eyes twinkled. “No, I’m okay.”

“You’re sure?” he asked. “Because I know these big size thirteens could seriously injure someone. I got kicked out of dancing lessons when I was twelve because I stomped on too many little girls’ toes.”

The girl actually laughed, and he felt better. “Really, I’m okay.” She pointed down. “These are pretty sturdy shoes.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“Who are you anyway?” She peered curiously at him.

He pointed to the newspaper office across the street and formally introduced himself.

Her dark eyes grew large. “You run the
whole
newspaper?”

He laughed. “Yes, the whole thing.”

“Do you ever hire kids?”

“Hire kids?” He frowned, imagining child laborers hidden in some dark attic.

“You know, to deliver your newspapers. My cousin has a paper route in Idaho, and I’ve always wanted to have one too.”

“How old are you?” he asked in a businesslike voice.

She stood up straighter. “Ten and a half.”

“I’m sorry, but my paper carriers have to be eleven.” He gave her a sympathetic smile.

“My birthday’s in April.”

“Then you check with me in April.” He grinned. “I told you my name. What’s yours?”

She frowned. “I’m not really supposed to talk to strangers.”

He nodded. “That’s sensible. I’m sorry to have initiated a conversation like this, but after trampling you the way I did, it seemed an apology was—”

“Megan,” she said quickly.

“What?”

“My name is Megan.”

“Oh. Is that your last name?”

She shook her head. “No. It’s my first name.”

“Pretty name. Pretty girl. And now I will be a gentleman and let you go on your merry way.”

“I was just going in there.” She jerked her thumb toward the Barton Building.

“In there?” He cocked his head to one side. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“I just got thrown out of there.”

She peeked through the glass door then laughed. “Abuela threw you out?”

“Abuela?”

“That’s Spanish for
grandma
.”

“Oh.
That’s
your grandma?”

“Yeah. She’s working for Matilda.”

He considered offering his condolences but thought better of it. “Well, just so you know, she’s mopping the floor right now, so you might want to step carefully if you go inside.”

Megan laughed. “I’ll bet she bit your head off.”

He nodded. “Pretty much so.”

“Well, if you met Abuela, I guess you’re not exactly a stranger.” She waved toward a dark-haired woman about a block away from them, walking their way. “And that’s my mom.”

He studied the woman. Average height, slender, wearing stylish jeans and heeled boots with a bulky cable-knit cardigan. She seemed vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her, although she seemed the kind of person you wouldn’t easily forget. He couldn’t help but notice that the closer she came, the prettier she appeared. “Hey, is your mom the new city manager?” he asked Megan.

“Yeah. It’s a holiday, so she’s got the day off. No school today either.” Megan jogged toward her mom, grabbed her hand, and pulled her toward Tommy. “I just met the guy who runs the newspaper,” she said, “and he’s going to give me a job on my next birthday.”

“What?” The woman looked suspiciously at him.

“She wants a paper route,” he explained. “I told her I can’t hire her until she’s eleven.” He stuck out his hand for Susanna to shake. “I’m Tom Thompson. I accidentally stepped on your daughter’s foot while I was making a swift exit from—”

“He was coming out of Matilda’s. Abuela had just bit his head off for walking on her clean floor. It’s no wonder he smacked into me. I’m pretty sure he was running for his life.”

“Oh dear.” Megan’s mother laughed. “Well, I think our paths have crossed before, but I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Susanna Elton, the new city manager.”

“Yes, I know I’ve seen you at some meetings, but I just didn’t recognize you in your civilian clothes.”

She looked down and grinned. “It’s my day off.”

“I’ve been meaning to do a more complete piece on you in the newspaper,” he said, “but . . . well, I guess I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. Sorry about that, Ms. Elton.”

“Oh, that’s okay. And you can call me Susanna. Everyone else does.” Her eyes twinkled. “Am I mistaken, or do you go by Tommy rather than Tom?”

He grinned. “That’s true. My father was Tom. I got Tommy, and I guess it just stuck.”

“I think Tommy is a cool name,” Megan chirped.

“Mr. Thompson to you, sweetie,” Susanna told her daughter.

“Anyway, I would like to do a piece on you, uh, Susanna. You’ve actually made history in our town.” He turned to Megan. “Did you know that your mother is the first woman to manage the city of Parrish Springs?”

“Really?” Megan looked suitably impressed.

“It’s true.” He turned back to Susanna, trying to prolong this pleasant conversation and wondering why he hadn’t taken the opportunity to get acquainted with her before. Probably just part of his general funk. “Anyway, I really have no good excuse for not doing a piece on you sooner.”

“Oh, I’m sure you must be quite busy running a newspaper.” She studied him closely.

“So they say.” He shrugged. “But being your own boss makes it easy to slack off sometimes.”

“And you can’t fire yourself,” Megan pointed out.

“Sometimes I’d sure like to.”

“Speaking of firing someone . . .” Susanna peered through the plate-glass window. “I should apologize for my mother-in-law’s ill temper. She’s a dear, but she has a rather short fuse.”