Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Five hours of research and six hours of tossing, turning, and plotting revenge via tinsel—had done wonders for Felicity’s morale.
The Glitter Bomb Incident, as she’d mentally christened it, was her new origin story.
She was no longer just Felicity Adams, decorator for hire, she was Felicity Adams, Agent of Sparkle, a woman so potent with festive energy that a single flick of her wrist could contaminate a federal financial institution. It was a brand.
Armed with this renewed, slightly manic sense of purpose, she marched back into the Frost Pine Ridge Bank.
She’d spent an hour meticulously vacuuming her tote bag and portfolio with a handheld dust buster, but it was a fool’s errand.
Glitter was not a substance; it was a life form.
It multiplied. It migrated. A few iridescent specks still winked from the canvas, tiny, defiant stars.
She’d swapped yesterday’s crimson scarf for a determined cobalt blue and wore practical flats instead of boots. This was a tactical decision. Less clicking, more stealth. Today, she would be a professional ninja of joy.
The bank was just as quiet, just as beige.
Mrs. Finch was already at her post, her bun wound so tight it looked like it hurt.
She gave Felicity a look that could curdle milk.
Across the lobby, the Bench of Unsolicited Commentary was occupied.
Ida and Ruth watched her approach with the keen interest of ornithologists spotting a rare, brightly colored bird.
Grant’s door was closed. She raised her hand to knock, took a breath, and knocked, the sound firm and clear.
“Enter,” the voice commanded.
He was exactly where she’d left him, seated behind his fortress of a desk.
If he’d moved at all in the last eighteen hours, he’d left no evidence.
His desk was still a study in geometric perfection.
She noted with grim satisfaction, however, that a faint, shimmering residue remained on the edge of the mahogany surface, visible from the doorway. The battlefield still bore its scars.
“Mr. Whitaker,” she said, her tone level and businesslike.
“I’ve reviewed my initial proposals and cross-referenced them with the town’s municipal code.
” She strode forward and placed a laminated document on his desk.
It was a copy of the ordinance he’d cited yesterday, with subclause 4.
17b, section iii, neatly highlighted in yellow.
“It states that seasonal lighting is permissible as long as the total wattage does not exceed the recommended load for the building’s pre-1950s wiring.
I spoke with the town clerk. The bank’s wiring was updated in two-thousand-and-eight. We’re clear for takeoff.”
She felt a flicker of triumph. She had done her homework. She had come prepared with facts, with data, with a laminated document. This was Professional Felicity in action.
Grant picked up the sheet, his long fingers tracing the edge as if checking for imperfections.
He scanned it for a moment, his expression unchanging.
“You’ve overlooked section iv,” he said, his voice as dry as old paper.
“The clause pertaining to fixture weight and anchor points on a designated historic facade. Attaching a ‘canopy of lights’ would require drilling, which is expressly forbidden without a permit from the Historical Society, a process that takes six to eight weeks.”
He slid the document back across the desk. Checkmate.
Felicity’s triumphant flicker sputtered and died. Of course there was a section iv. She pasted on a smile that felt like it was cracking her face. “Right. Of course. An oversight.” She pivoted, refusing to show defeat. “Which is why I’ve re-conceptualized the stanchions.”
She reached into her tote and retrieved a miniature prototype she’d hot-glued together last night.
It was a foot-tall candy cane made of PVC pipe, weighted with sand at the bottom and painted with cheery red stripes.
“As you can see, it’s freestanding. No tripping hazard.
The base is wide and stable, and the polyvinyl chloride is exceptionally durable. ”
She was proud of that line. It sounded official. It sounded like something he might understand.
He took the prototype from her. He turned it over in his hands, his inspection as thorough as if it were a counterfeit bill. He tapped the painted surface. “What’s the composition of the paint?”
She blinked. “Red?”
“Is it oil-based? Latex? What is its toxicity rating? If a child were to lick it—and children lick things—what are the potential ramifications? Do you have the material safety data sheet for the lacquer?”
Felicity stared at him. She was having an out-of-body experience. He was asking for the chemical schematics of a Christmas decoration. The man was a human spreadsheet.
“The… children… won’t be licking the stanchions, Grant,” she said slowly, as if explaining a complex concept to a toddler. “Because they’ll be too busy being filled with the unadulterated joy of the holiday season.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Unadulterated joy is not a verifiable crowd-control measure.”
He set the candy cane down, aligning it perfectly with the edge of his desk blotter. It looked ridiculous and festive in the sterile landscape of his office, a tiny, cheerful prisoner of war.
“Perhaps,” he said, in a tone that suggested conciliation but felt like surrender, “we should move this assessment to the lobby. To evaluate the… available space.”
Felicity agreed, mostly because she needed to escape the beige vortex of his office before she started screaming. As they stepped out, the ambient noise of the bank seemed to dip, as if everyone was holding their breath.
“See, a few simple touches are all we need to start,” she began, her voice regaining its optimistic bounce.
She unspooled a string of warm, white fairy lights, the kind that glowed like captured starlight.
“Just a simple string, draped right here along the back wall, behind the teller line. It’s subtle, elegant, and provides a welcoming glow. ”
She found a nearby outlet behind a sad-looking fern and plugged it in. The wall was instantly transformed. The soft light warmed the cool tones of the room, casting a gentle, inviting halo. Even she was surprised at how much difference it made.
From her station, Mrs. Finch watched the proceedings, her lips pursed into a thin line of disapproval.
“It adds warmth, don’t you think?” Felicity asked, turning to Grant.
Before he could answer, Mrs. Finch emerged from behind the counter, clutching a stack of deposit slips. Her path took her directly toward the fern. With a small, theatrical little gasp, her sensible shoe caught on the extension cord.
The cord ripped from the socket. The warm, inviting glow vanished.
“Oh, my heavens!” Mrs. Finch declared, patting her chest. “I nearly took a tumble. All this unsecured wiring. It’s a terrible liability.” She shot Felicity a look of pure, unadulterated triumph before bustling away, leaving the dead string of lights pooled on the floor.
It was sabotage. Blatant, unapologetic, A-grade sabotage. Felicity seethed.
From the bench, Ida’s voice cut through the quiet. “If you ask me, what this place really needs is mistletoe.”
Ruth patted her arm. “Now, Ida, let’s not be hasty.”
“Hasty? It’s a holiday tradition!” Ida declared, projecting for the entire lobby. “A nice, big sprig of it. Right over the main teller window. Imagine the fun! Mrs. Finch would have suitors lined up to the door.”
Mrs. Finch, who had just returned to her post, looked as if she’d swallowed a wasp.
Grant’s face, already a study in neutral gray, somehow lost even more color. He turned his head just enough to address the peanut gallery. “Forced romance over checking deposits is not part of the holiday campaign.”
His deadpan delivery was so perfect, so utterly devoid of humor, that a laugh escaped Felicity before she could stop it.
It was a sharp, helpless bark of a laugh, and it felt like a betrayal to her own mounting frustration.
He glanced at her, and his stormy eyes held a flicker of something she couldn’t name—not annoyance, but something closer to surprise.
It unnerved her more than his constant disapproval.
“Fine,” she clipped, scooping up the useless string of lights.
“No lights. Let’s discuss organic materials.
I suggest garlands. Thick, beautiful, fragrant pine garlands from Brice Matthews’s tree farm.
Supporting a local business—a family-run, third-generation Frost Pine Ridge institution.
It is the literal dictionary definition of ‘Hometown Heart.’ It’s a story.
It’s community. You can’t file a risk assessment against community. ”
She thought for a glorious second that she’d finally broken through. He was quiet, his eyes on the sample of dark green boughs she’d placed on his desk. He even reached out and touched one of the needles.
“The sap,” he said finally, his voice low and solemn.
She waited. Surely there was more.
“It’s viscous,” he continued. “It will adhere to clients’ coats, to the carpet, to documents.
The needles, even from the freshest pine, will inevitably shed.
This requires additional custodial hours, which is an unbudgeted operational expense.
The pine dust and pollen can become airborne, circulating through the HVAC system and triggering potential allergic reactions in both staff and clientele.
And the scent, while pleasant to some, could be overwhelming to others, constituting an assault on the senses. ”
Felicity stared at him. “You just described the smell of Christmas as a physical attack.”
She felt something inside her snap. Not explosively—just a quiet click, like a door closing. The boundless ocean of her optimism had finally hit the Great Wall of Grant.