Chapter 7 #2
By early afternoon, the lobby was starting to look like something out of a snow globe.
The garlands swooped along the walls, dotted with small white lights that twinkled like captured stars.
The main support column was wrapped in a spiral of gold ribbon and more lights, creating a glowing centerpiece.
The teller counter looked elegant rather than institutional, softened by greenery and the warm glow of carefully placed candles (battery-operated, because Grant had drawn a line at open flames near financial documents).
Felicity stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips, surveying their work. Grant stood beside her, his posture as impeccable as ever, but she thought she detected a hint of satisfaction in the set of his shoulders.
“It’s... not terrible,” he said finally.
She turned to him, eyebrows raised. “High praise from the man who once cited municipal code about my fairy lights.”
“That was a safety concern. The string lights were a fire hazard.”
“They were battery-operated.”
“The batteries could have exploded.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I prefer ‘thorough.’”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “You would.”
They stood there for another moment, not quite looking at each other, the air between them humming with something Felicity couldn’t quite name. It felt like the moment before a thunderstorm, when the atmosphere goes heavy and electric and full of potential.
From the bench, Ruth’s voice drifted over, gentle and pleased. “It looks beautiful, dear. Just lovely.”
Ida snorted. “Told you she knew what she was doing, Ruth. Girl’s got vision.”
Felicity felt a warm swell of pride. It wasn’t finished—not by a long shot. They still needed the tree, the final lighting touches, that was currently just a taped-off section of floor. But it was progress. Real, visible, undeniable progress.
She glanced at Grant and found him looking at the decorations with an expression she’d never seen before—something almost like wonder.
“Your father would be proud,” she said quietly, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Grant went very still. For a moment, she thought she’d overstepped, that he’d retreat behind his wall of professional courtesy and freeze her out. But then he took a slow breath and nodded, just once.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice low. “That... means more than you know.”
Before she could respond, the bell above the door jingled, and Felicity turned to see a familiar broad-shouldered figure filling the doorway.
Brice Matthews had arrived.
And behind him, barely visible through the glass, was the shadow of something very, very large.
“Got your tree,” Brice said, his deep voice carrying across the lobby.
Felicity’s heart leapt. Then sank. Then leapt again.
Because through the window, she could see the top of the most magnificent Douglas fir she’d ever laid eyes on. It was also without question much taller than the ten feet they’d agreed upon.
Grant had seen it too. His jaw tightened, his shoulders squared, and Felicity recognized the look of a man preparing for battle.
“Mr. Matthews,” Grant said, his voice calm but with an edge sharp enough to cut glass. “That tree appears to exceed our agreed-upon specifications.”
Brice shrugged, unbothered. “Best one on the lot. Real beaut.”
“It’s at least twelve feet tall.”
“Yep.”
“We specified ten.”
“Must’ve mis-measured.”
The two men stared at each other, a silent battle of wills playing out over the marble floor. Felicity looked from one to the other, torn between panic and a hysterical urge to laugh.
This was going to be interesting.
The door swung open wider, and Meena swept in like a caffeinated whirlwind. She took one look at the tree visible through the window, and her face lit up with the kind of unrestrained delight usually reserved for puppies and winning lottery tickets.
“Oh my God,” she breathed. “It’s perfect.”
Grant turned to her, his expression one of restrained desperation. “Meena, it’s twelve feet tall. It won’t fit.”
“It’s a statement, Grant!” Meena was already pulling out her phone, framing shots through the window. “This is exactly the kind of bold, community-focused visual we need. It says, ‘We’re not afraid to go big! We’re not a stuffy old bank! We’re fun!’”
“We have an eleven-foot ceiling,” Grant said flatly.
“We’ll make it work!” Meena spun to Brice, her heels clicking on the marble. “Mr. Matthews, can you get it through the door?”
Brice looked at her with the patience of a man who dealt with difficult customers on a daily basis. “Ma’am, I can get it through the door. Whether it fits in the building is another question.”
“Don’t call me ma’am,” Meena said automatically. “I’m thirty-two, not sixty. And yes, it will fit. It has to fit. I already posted about it on the bank’s Instagram.”
Brice’s expression didn’t change, but Felicity saw the slightest twitch of his jaw. “You posted about a tree you haven’t seen?”
“I posted about the concept of the tree. The aspirational tree. The tree that represents our commitment to—” Meena waved a hand. “You know what? Just bring it in. Grant, measure the ceiling.”
Grant pulled out his phone with the grim efficiency of a man who knew this was a losing battle but was going to document it, anyway.
“Ceiling height in the designated tree corner is eleven feet, four inches. Minus the tree stand, minus the star topper, that gives us a maximum functional tree height of ten feet, eight inches.”
“So it’ll fit!” Meena said triumphantly.
“That tree is twelve feet tall.”
“Then we’ll trim it. Problem solved.”
Brice, who had been silent during this exchange, finally spoke. His voice was low and flat. “Ma’am, you want me to cut a foot and a half off the top of a Douglas Fir?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what I want.”
“That’ll kill the tree’s symmetry. Ruin the whole shape.”
“Then angle it so the ceiling covers the awkward part.”
“That’s not how trees work.”
“Well, make it work,” Meena snapped, her patience finally fraying. “That’s your job, isn’t it?”
Brice set down the hand truck he’d been holding with exaggerated care. “My job is growing and delivering trees. Not defying the laws of botany and interior architecture.”
“Your job is whatever I need it to be to make this event a success,” Meena shot back.
They were standing closer now, both bristling, the air between them crackling with antagonism. Brice was over a foot taller than Meena, but she didn’t back down an inch, her chin tilted up, her eyes flashing with challenge.
Felicity glanced at Grant, who was watching the exchange with the expression of a man who’d just realized he was living in a sitcom and hadn’t been given the script.
“Perhaps,” Grant said carefully, “we should discuss this rationally. Ms. Adams, what’s your professional opinion?”
All three of them turned to look at her. Felicity felt the weight of the moment—the perfect tree that was too tall, Grant’s barely suppressed anxiety, Meena’s unwavering determination, Brice’s stoic irritation.
She looked out the window at the tree. It was magnificent. Full and lush, with that perfect triangle shape that only came from years of careful growth. The kind of tree that stopped people in their tracks. The kind of tree that made you believe in magic, just a little bit.
“Bring it in,” she said.
Grant’s head snapped toward her. “Ms. Adams—”
“Bring it in,” she repeated, more firmly. “We’ll make it work. We’ll trim it if we have to, or we’ll angle it, or we’ll... I don’t know, embrace the asymmetry. But that tree is perfect, and it’s going in this lobby.”
Meena grinned. “That’s my girl.”
Brice just grunted, which Felicity knew was his version of agreement.
Grant looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he let out a long, slow breath—the sound of a man surrendering to forces beyond his control.
“Fine,” he said. “But if it damages the ceiling, I’m documenting it.”
“Of course you are,” Felicity said, trying not to smile.
Brice and his assistant—a younger man named Marcus, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else—maneuvered the tree off the truck.
It was even more impressive up close, a twelve-foot monument to the glory of Vermont forestry.
They’d wrapped it in netting to contain the branches, but even compressed, it was massive.
“Kevin!” Grant called to the terrified-looking young teller. “I need you to help Mr. Matthews with the base.”
Kevin approached the tree the way one might approach a live bear. “Yes, sir. Um. Where do I...?”
“Just grab the trunk and push when I tell you,” Brice said.
They began the delicate process of angling the tree through the door. Brice took the base, Grant and Kevin positioned themselves in the middle, and Marcus guided the top. Meena stood to the side, phone out, documenting everything for what she called “behind-the-scenes content.”
“Angle it left!” Meena called.
“My left or your left?” Marcus yelled back.
“There’s only one left!” Meena snapped.
“Then why didn’t you just say left?”
“I did say left!”
Brice’s voice cut through the bickering like a knife. “Everybody shut up and push on three. One... two...”
They pushed. The tree scraped through the doorframe with an ominous grinding sound. A shower of pine needles rained down on Grant’s head. A dusting of ancient plaster from the doorframe settled on his shoulders like the world’s least festive snow.
“Keep going!” Meena encouraged. “You’re doing great!”
“This is not great,” Grant muttered, but he kept pushing.
The tree cleared the doorway and entered the lobby. For a moment, it hung suspended in an awkward diagonal, too tall for the space, its top branches scraping the ceiling. More plaster dust drifted down.
And then—because the universe had a sense of humor—physics reasserted itself.