Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Betty
Narrator: He should have seen it coming, chasing after the girl he stalked last night.
That was never going to end well, but if there’s one thing we know about Max at this point, it’s that he’s determined.
If he feels there’s a threat to his farm, he’ll take care of it.
If only his imagination wouldn’t run so wild, then maybe he wouldn’t be in such a situation.
Then again, what kind of story would this be if Max didn’t let his imagination take control of his actions? A pretty boring one if you ask me.
“You doing okay?” Uncle Dwight asks as he takes a seat next to me on the bench, handing me a cup of hot cocoa, which he retrieved from the log cabin near Santa’s house in Ornament Park.
I learned today that it’s called Ornament Park because from overhead, it looks like an ornament, with Santa’s house—a.k.a.
the home of Bob Krampus—at the head. And it’s quite the festive setup, with wreaths and garland strung from every lamppost, a stage near Santa’s house, which is decked out in five-foot green and red metal presents, at least—from what I can see—five Christmas trees, and signs with arrows pointing visitors in the direction of where to find businesses and activities.
If you’re looking to get into the Christmas spirit, Kringletown is the place to be, with its Bavarian-style buildings, brightly colored garlands, and perfectly manicured evergreens. Not to mention the vendor village behind the Myrrh-cantile is like a mini–German Christmas market, just adorable.
I take a sip of my hot cocoa, loving the hint of raspberry flavoring. “Yeah, a little shook but doing okay.” I turn toward Uncle Dwight and ask, “Why didn’t you tell me that Evergreen Farm belonged to the Maxheimers?”
“Guess I didn’t think to talk about ownership.”
“I know, but this morning, when you were saying the Maxheimer guy was dangerous, you could have said it then.”
“Perhaps,” he says, staring off toward the stage where a family of nine have lined up from smallest to tallest, all wearing gold choir robes with white triangular collars.
“So why didn’t you?”
He lets out a sigh and then looks down at his cup.
“Atlas, that’s his name. Atlas Maxheimer and I have a long history.
You could say we’ve been enemies since high school, and I was trying not to bring that animosity into our project.
I didn’t want to thrust my opinions and judgment on you, as I wanted you to form your own opinions while living here.
I guess he took his anger to the next level, making it hard to keep the two things separate now. ”
“Oh, I didn’t know. What did he do?”
Uncle Dwight shakes his head. “Nothing that you need to know.”
“I mean, I kind of want to know if his business is something you want to challenge. I think it will help me feel, I don’t know, maybe less guilty.”
“He attacked you, and you feel guilty?”
I sigh. “You know what I mean. If I had a little bit of fodder, maybe I would feel more inclined to seek revenge for you.”
He slowly nods his head. “Without getting into details, he sort of messed around with my relationship with Jessica.”
My brow knits together. “Like, he made a move on her?”
“Not really, but let’s just say it wasn’t great what he did. Really, uh, really made me lose hope.”
I press my hand to his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I know how much Jessica meant to you.”
“She meant the world,” he says softly, thinking about his girlfriend from high school. His girlfriend he lost to cancer.
“So there’s animosity there,” I continue, not wanting to dwell on something that makes him so sad. “Does he feel the same way about you? Like is the enemy status reciprocated?”
“Oh yes,” Uncle Dwight says with a nod. “Very much so. And now that he tried to break into your cottage, I feel more animosity toward him than before.”
“Well, you don’t need to worry about me. I can handle my own.” Though his comment about them being enemies since high school is a little suspicious. Surely he’s not using me to perpetuate this rivalry, is he? “I need to ask you a question.”
“Anything,” he says as the choir finishes singing “O Holy Night.”
“This project, this farm you want to create, is it your form of revenge?”
He sips his hot cocoa and then asks, “Would that be a problem?”
Okay, not going to deny it.
I lean back on the bench, thinking about it.
I’m not someone who tends to fall in line with the angry side of the world.
I’m not the grump; I’m the sunshine. I always have been.
I’ve walked through life pretty oblivious to a lot of things, so joining in on someone else’s vendetta doesn’t exactly feel right to me.
But . . .
In a short amount of time, Uncle Dwight has done a lot for me.
He’s reinstated some of the confidence I’ve lost, just by believing in me.
He’s offered me a paycheck, a home, and a new chapter.
Sure, it’s now clear that it’s because he’s seeking revenge on someone who has hurt him in the past, but it’s still a lot more than anyone has ever done for me.
And I can . . . skirt around the revenge a little. I wouldn’t want the same business plan as Evergreen Farm, which is why I’ve asked about their vendors and their suppliers. I’d want to provide something different. So maybe I can get away with doing this while helping Uncle Dwight at the same time.
I turn to him. “No, that won’t be a problem.”
A large smile passes over his lips. “That’s really good to hear. Really good.” He stares off toward the choir. “Now we have to come up with a name.”
A girl with bright red hair steps forward, performing a solo in “Carol of the Bells,” her mouth moving a mile a minute as she sings the soprano part. Her angelic voice pulls me in as I listen to the lyrics.
“What about . . . With Joyful Ring Farm?” I turn to Uncle Dwight.
“It can be themed around ‘Carol of the Bells.’ The shops and food trucks can be called things like . . . Bringing Good Cheer and Meek and the Bold. We can have a section with bells, where people try to ring them to the tune of the song—could be a kids section; that’s something Evergreen Farm is lacking.
It could be like . . . a pumpkin farm but for Christmas.
And instead of cutting down all the trees and replanting them like Evergreen Farm, we can offer fake Christmas trees, although I know of a better supplier than they’re using.
We can have a choir who goes around, caroling to groups, all dressed in the old-timey garb.
There can be a playground and a zipline through the trees, maybe a ropes course as well, and you go through, ringing the bells at each station you complete.
We can have vendors as well, but we’ll pull from real Christkindlmarkets.
We can lean into reds and greens, with gold only being in the bells that are found throughout the farm.
We can have scalloped edges and rickrack trim decorations and Christmas quilts.
Genuine crafting stations. None of these quick kid crafts.
True sewing crafts. It can be a place where people stay for an entire day, never getting bored, because they’re going from one activity to the next.
And instead of gingerbread, we can make Schneeballen. ”
Uncle Dwight blinks a few times. “Um, wow, that was a lot to take in all at once.”
“Sorry,” I answer bashfully. “When I’m struck with inspiration, my brain kind of moves fast.”
“I can see that. Well”—he lets out a deep breath—“I actually love it all. Love it. I think it’s unique and different but will bring in a new crowd, and I think . . . that’s something people will appreciate. I only have one question.”
“Yes?” I ask.
“What the hell is Schneeballen?”
I laugh. “They’re a German deep-fried pastry that’s extremely popular during the Christmas season. It would be the perfect thing to set us apart, because there are so many varieties of the dessert, you can play on some of the more popular flavor combinations with a general base of fried pastry.”
“Well then . . . I think we have the start of a business plan.”
“I think we do.” I smile. “Now . . . to do a little more recon . . .”