Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Grant Whitaker had never worked on a Saturday with quite this much energy in the building.
It was barely nine in the morning, and the bank was already humming. Customers weren’t just conducting business—they were lingering, pointing at decorations, taking photos of the too-tall tree that dominated the lobby.
He stood near his office door, watching Felicity arrange folding tables along the wall.
She’d arrived at eight-thirty, arms full of tablecloths and signage materials, moving with focused efficiency.
She wore jeans and a dark green sweater, and she knew exactly what needed to be done and in what order.
It was, he had to admit, impressive.
“The quarterly reports are on your desk,” Mrs. Finch said beside him. “They require your signature by Monday.”
“Thank you.”
She followed his gaze to Felicity. “She’s here early on a Saturday.”
“The auction preview display needs to be ready. Ms. Patel is still collecting donations, but Ms. Adams wanted to showcase what we have so far—build anticipation.”
“Hmm.” Mrs. Finch’s tone was impossible to read. “At least she’s taking it seriously.”
The closest thing to approval Grant had ever heard her express about Felicity.
The door opened, and Meena swept in with a wheeled cart stacked with boxes.
“First batch! Grant, I need your signature on the intake forms. Felicity, this is just the start—I’ve got meetings scheduled with three more businesses this week.
But these should give people an idea of what to expect at the gala. ”
They began unloading. A weekend getaway package. A handmade quilt with an intricate snowflake pattern. Gift certificates to local businesses.
Then Meena pulled out a taxidermy squirrel wearing a tiny Santa hat.
Silence.
“Is that...” Felicity began.
“A red squirrel,” Meena confirmed. “Donated by Harold Gunderson. Quote, ‘a fine example of traditional Vermont taxidermy artistry.’”
Grant stared at it. “We cannot auction roadkill.”
“It’s not roadkill. It’s ethically sourced.”
“What does that even mean?”
Felicity had her hand over her mouth, clearly suppressing laughter. “It’s... rustic. Very authentic Vermont.” She picked it up, examining it seriously. “This could be a conversation starter. We’ll put it at the end—the quirky closer. People will love it.”
“People will question our judgment.”
“People will laugh. And then they’ll bid on it because it’s ridiculous and memorable.” She set it down gently at the far end. “Trust me. This will get talked about more than the quilt.”
Grant looked from the squirrel to Felicity to Meena, both entirely too pleased. “I’m documenting this decision. When the health department shuts us down, I want proof I objected.”
“Duly noted,” Felicity said, making an exaggerated checkmark in the air.
They spent the next hour organizing the preview display. Each item was logged, numbered, and arranged with small signs that read, “Gala Auction Preview.” Felicity had created elegant placards explaining that this was just a sampling, with more items to be revealed on gala night.
“It’s smart,” Meena said, taking photos for social media. “Creates buzz, gets people talking about what else might be available. FOMO marketing at its finest.”
Grant found himself falling into the rhythm of it—the methodical cataloging, the spatial problem-solving. It wasn’t unlike his usual work, just with more festive subject matter and a significantly higher probability of encountering deceased wildlife.
What surprised him was how natural it felt working alongside Felicity.
She’d ask his opinion on placement, he’d offer suggestions about traffic flow.
He’d point out they needed bid sheets; she already had them prepared.
They moved around each other with an ease that shouldn’t have been possible after only a week.
“You’re good at this,” he said.
She looked up, surprised. “At what?”
“Organization. Logistics. You have a system.” He gestured at the tables. “It’s effective.”
A genuine smile spread across her face. “Was that a compliment, Mr. Whitaker?”
“It was an observation.”
“An approving observation?”
“An accurate one.”
“I’ll take it.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re not bad at this either. The spatial reasoning stuff.”
“I’m a bank manager. It’s part of the job.”
“Not really. Most bank managers don’t help set up auction displays on Saturdays.”
“Most bank managers don’t have you working in their building.”
The words came out before he could stop them. Felicity’s cheeks flushed, and she looked away, suddenly focused on straightening an already-straight sign.
The moment stretched, warm and uncomfortable. Grant became aware of how close they were standing, of the faint citrus scent of her perfume, of the way the morning light caught in her hair.
The door opened aggressively.
Mrs. Patterson bustled in, followed by four other women. “Grant! We’ve come to see the tree properly! The girls wouldn’t believe me when I described it.” She gestured to her companions. “This is Dorothy, Helen, Margaret, and Susan. The Frost Pine Bridge Club.”
“Welcome,” Felicity said warmly. “Please look around. And this—” she gestured to the new display tables “—is a preview of some of the auction items. There will be many more at the gala itself.”
“An auction!” Dorothy examined the quilt with interest. “Oh, this is lovely. Who made this?”
“The craft guild. It’s a one-of-a-kind piece.”
The women circled the lobby, admiring the tree, examining the auction preview, taking photos. They stopped at the taxidermy squirrel, and just as Felicity predicted, it generated delighted laughter.
“Harold’s work?” Mrs. Patterson asked knowingly.
“Indeed,” Grant said.
“That man.” But she was smiling. “Well, it’s certainly memorable.”
“The ballroom is what I’m most excited about,” Helen said. “Nobody’s been in there since the incident of ’99!”
“There was no incident,” Grant said wearily. “There was a minor plumbing malfunction.”
“Can we peek?” Mrs. Patterson asked hopefully.
“Not until the gala,” Felicity said firmly. “That’s going to be the big reveal. The whole space transformed. You’ll have to wait like everyone else.”
“Oh, you’re cruel!” But Mrs. Patterson was grinning. “Fine. Keep your secrets. We’ve already bought our tickets, anyway. The entire bridge club. Eight tickets total!”
After they left, more groups came through—the Elm Street Book Club, the Ladies’ Auxiliary from the Methodist church. All wanting to see the decorations. All examining the auction preview with interest. All excited about the mystery of the ballroom.
All purchasing tickets.
By noon when the bank closed, Grant tallied they’d sold more tickets in three hours than in the entire previous week.
“Did you see their faces?” Felicity said, locking the front door.
“The anticipation about the ballroom is perfect. Nobody can see it now—it’s locked up, the heaters are running, it’s this mystery space.
On gala night, when those doors open...” She made an expansive gesture. “It’s going to be stunning.”
“The ticket sales are promising.” He checked his phone. “Sixty-three percent capacity.”
“That’s amazing! We might sell out.”
“That would simplify the catering calculations.”
She laughed. “Only you would think about catering calculations right now.”
“Someone has to.”
“I know. That’s what makes us a good team.”
Team. The word settled between them, casual and weighty. They were a team. Somewhere between the tree disaster and the ballroom cleaning, they’d become partners.
The realization should have concerned him. Instead, it felt inevitable.
Leo appeared from the corridor that led to the ballroom, work boots tracking snow. “Just stopped by to check the heater readings. Everything’s running smoothly—the ballroom’s coming up to temperature right on schedule.”
“And the floor?” Grant asked.
“Drying perfectly. And the big tree’s scheduled for Monday delivery.” Leo nodded with satisfaction. “You won’t be disappointed. Fourteen-footer, full and balanced. Blue Spruce to go with Felicity’s vision.”
“For the ballroom,” Felicity clarified, seeing Grant’s expression. “Not another lobby tree. One twelve-foot disaster was enough.”
“It wasn’t a disaster,” Grant said. “It was... memorable.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
After Leo left, they stood in the lobby, surveying their work. The preview display looked professional and inviting. The decorations sparkled in the afternoon light. The bank felt alive in a way it hadn’t in years.
“We should finish up,” Grant said finally, needing to break the moment. “I promised to bring coffee Monday morning. What time will you be here?”
Felicity’s smile was like a sunrise. “Seven-thirty. If that’s not too early.”
“It’s perfect.”
She gathered her things, and he walked her to the door. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of winter rose.
“See you Monday, Grant,” she said—the first time she’d used his first name without the formal Mr. Whitaker.
“Monday,” he agreed, watching her walk to her car.
He stood in the doorway longer than necessary, his mind chaotic with thoughts he didn’t want to organize.
Back in his office, his phone rang. Unknown number, Boston area code.
He almost didn’t answer.
“Grant Whitaker.”
“Grant.” The voice was smooth, familiar, unwelcome. “It’s Victoria.”
His entire body went still.
“Victoria.”
“I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time. I’m in Vermont, and I heard through the grapevine about your project at the branch. The Hometown Heart initiative?” Her tone was light, teasing. “I was surprised. Grant Whitaker hosting community galas. That doesn’t sound like you.”
Something under her words—not quite criticism, but close. An implication that this was beneath him, out of character.
“The bank is hosting a fundraiser,” Grant said. “Community engagement. Corporate directive.”
“Of course. Corporate directive.” A pause. “Still, I’d love to see what you’re working on. For old times’ sake. Maybe coffee while I’m in town?”
Every instinct told him to decline politely.
But he heard himself say, “Let me check my schedule.”
“Perfect. It would be good to catch up, Grant. It’s been too long.”
After they hung up, Grant sat staring at his phone. His carefully ordered world felt suddenly unstable.
He hadn’t thought about Victoria in months. After her ultimatum and his choice, he’d carefully boxed up everything associated with her. The relationship had been neat, professional, and ultimately hollow. When it ended, the primary emotion was relief.
So why did hearing her voice make him feel all kinds of unwanted feelings?
Through the window, he could see Felicity’s car pulling away, her hand raised in a final wave.
His phone buzzed with a text.
Victoria: How’s Tuesday for coffee? Dying to see this gala project. Sounds absolutely charming.
Grant stared at that word—charming. Everything that mattered to him was charming in Victoria’s vocabulary. Quaint. Small. Beneath serious consideration.
He typed back: I’ll let you know.
As he drove home through quiet, snow-dusted streets, Grant couldn’t shake the feeling he was standing at a crossroads, and choosing the wrong path would cost him something he’d only just begun to realize he wanted.
Eleven days until the gala.
Everything was about to get significantly more complicated.