Chapter 5
Five
Luke
If purgatory exists, it looks (and smells) exactly like the Silver Bell Falls Tree Lighting Ceremony.
I arrive at six p.m. sharp—a coerced agreement is still an agreement, and I am a punctual professional—only to be assaulted by merriment on a scale that’s obnoxious.
And potentially illegal…
There are village sound ordinances, after all. Surely, those are still in effect at the most “magical time of the year.”
Magical…
My lip curls.
I’m not sure what’s “magical” about what the decorating committee has done, but…to each their own.
The town square has been transformed into a snow globe of almost maniacal holiday abundance.
Every surface is strangled in warm white lights and thick pine garlands dotted with red bows.
The central gazebo looks like it’s being eaten alive by festive greenery, and the tree is so overburdened by ornaments, there’s a serious chance it might not remain upright for the entire season.
That would be a shame…
If it all just came…crashing down.
With that wistful fantasy front-of-mind, I set off through the crowd in search of my jailer.
I weave my way through the teeming mass of humanity, an obstacle course of shrieking children, drunk skiers laughing too loudly over their beers, and locals enthusiastically complaining about the tourists.
A queue snakes from Santa’s red velvet throne inside the gazebo, all the way to the snow-covered playground fifty feet away, carnival game booths line the square’s perimeter, and food trucks rumble on the cordoned-off street in front of the theater.
The air is thick with the cloying scent of sugar and smoked meat, a festive smog I can feel coating the back of my throat.
I scan the area near “Santa’s village” again, searching for a small woman with an outsized capacity for coercion.
Finally, I spot Holly on the other side of the gazebo, near a three-sided shelter similar to the one protecting the chainsaw artist’s manger scene from the elements.
A portable heater glows on one side of the space, a Candy Cane Village backdrop hangs on the back wall, and a folding table overflows with various pet costumes and props.
But the most compelling part of the tableau is the woman in a red-and-white striped sweater, long, brown braids, and a red hat with a pom-pom on top, chatting with a beefy man in a green flannel.
Her cheeks are pink, her blue eyes sparkle, and her fleece leggings hug her curves in a way that leaves much less to the imagination than the reindeer costume from last night.
The realization that Holly’s even more attractive when clothed like a reasonably sane person is an unhelpful data point my brain supplies without my permission.
I file it away under ‘irrelevant.’
Just as irrelevant as the jealousy teasing at the base of my brain as I watch her laugh at something the lumberjack has just said. He snickers along, his lips peeling away from his teeth like a donkey, hungry for a treat.
I decide I hate him. Intensely.
A decision that feels even more justified as he has the gall to pat Holly’s head before waving goodbye and disappearing into the crowd.
What is she? A small dog?
A baby goat from the petting zoo behind the manger?
I glare at him as I start toward the pet portrait shelter, barely managing to compose my expression into something slightly less than feral before Holly spots me and thrusts an arm into the air. “Luke! Over here!”
I nod, clenching my jaw as her boisterous greeting catches the attention of several locals on their way to the caramel corn booth. They shoot curious glances our way, eyebrows bobbing in the universal sign for “wonder what’s up between those two?”
Wonderful.
Now there will be gossip of a romantic nature.
Or perhaps not. Not if Holly already has a donkey-faced, head-patting lumberjack to keep her warm at night…
“There you are!” She opens her arms wide, greeting me with what looks like an offer of a hug that I’m not sure how to engage with.
Or that I want to engage with at all.
I avoid the pressure by making a show of lifting the toolbox I was told to bring between us. “Where should I put this?”
“Oh, anywhere.” She waves toward the prop table.
“Under there will be fine. Turns out, we won’t need it.
My friend Candy’s boyfriend, Chris, was here early and offered to tighten all the screws on the booths and fix that broken step I was telling you about.
” She glances over my shoulder. “He just left, actually. Just a few seconds ago. What a shame. I would have loved to introduce you. I bet you’d get along fantastically. ”
“No, we wouldn’t,” I say, more pleased to learn that the lumberjack belongs to some other, unfortunate woman than I should be.
Holly arches a brow, but she’s clearly fighting a smile as she admits, “No, probably not. Chris isn’t giving anyone a run for their money when it comes to rhetorical debate, and I bet you enjoy an intellectual sparring session with your beer and buddy time.”
“I don’t have beer and buddy time,” I say. “I’m far too busy. I actually have some work I could be catching up on now, before the Japanese market opens. If my services aren’t required tonight, after all, I’ll just—”
“Nope! Don’t even think about trying to weasel out,” she cuts in, still grinning like she’s having the time of her life. “You’re mine for the night, Mr. Ratcliffe, and I intend to put you to work. Come on. Let’s get you settled.”
Refusing to thinking about being “hers for the night,” I follow her over to the folding table, stowing my toolbox beneath the bright red tablecloth.
When I stand, she rests a familiar hand on my arm that doesn’t feel nearly as out of place as it should.
“Okay, this will be your station,” she explains, motioning to the tabletop, where squeaky toys shaped like holiday characters, a basket of elf and Santa hats, and a tub of dog treats sit beside the pile of costumes of various sizes.
“Your job is to help me dress the dog or cat, then use the props to get their attention while I shoot. You’ll also be in charge of costume and accessory cleaning between sessions and treat distribution at the end of each. Sound good?”
“No, it doesn’t.” I do my best to conceal my horror at the thought of what she’s suggesting. “I’m in negotiation and acquisitions. I won’t excel in a human resources position.”
“This isn’t human resources; it’s animal resources,” she counters.
“I’ll handle the people; you concentrate on the furry friends.
They’re much easier to please, I promise.
” She picks up a squeaky reindeer and squeezes it.
The shrill sound makes a metallic taste begin to leak from my teeth.
“See? That’s all it takes to get most of them excited. ”
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
“People who are working off a criminal debt don’t get to say ‘no’ just because they don’t like touching drooly dog toys, Luke,” she whispers.
“The only way you’re getting out of this is if you honestly have a fear of dogs.
I’m obviously not going to make you do something that makes you feel unsafe, but—”
“I’m not afraid of dogs,” I cut in, narrowing my eyes on hers. “I’m at least three times their size. Be serious.”
“I was being serious,” she says, though the dimple popping in her cheek would suggest otherwise.
“Phobias don’t always make sense. And dogs have teeth much sharper than yours.
” She tips her head thoughtfully to one side.
“At least, I think they do. I haven’t gotten a good look at your teeth yet. You don’t smile much, do you?”
“Not when conversing with blackmailers, no.”
“Huh. Well, that’s a shame. I think you’d be even more handsome if you smiled once in a while.
” Before I can process the “handsome” part of that, she shoves the squeaky toy into my hand.
“Our first client should be here any second. Showtime, Grumpy Elf. Which reminds me…” She reaches over, snatching something green from the top of the costume pile. “I almost forgot your hat!”
A second later, she’s tugged a jingly elf hat onto my head, completing my humiliation just as a Labrador retriever the size of a small horse pants into the shelter on his lead.
His name is “Barry,” apparently, a strange name for a dog, but his owner is clearly unstable. The older woman, wearing a “Dog Mom” sweater and black sock cap pulled over her springy gray hair, is already tearing up with joy before I’ve even wrangled her fur baby into his Santa costume.
Barry, meanwhile, has taken a slobbery interest in my coat, lapping at my buttons like they’re made of candy.
It’s repulsive, but at least he’s making an effort to help the process along, stepping eagerly into the coat holes and shooting me a happy grin as I arrange the elastic beneath his chin to keep his Santa hat in place.
“Oh, Barry, look at you. You’re precious!” Holly Jo coos. “Come here, big boy, and sit right here. Yes, so good! What a good boy!”
“Dog Mom” presses a fist to her chest, beaming with excitement as Holly coaxes Barry into place in front of the backdrop.
“Luke, the reindeer,” Holly says as she brings her camera into place, her gaze still fixed on Barry as she adds in a gooey voice, “Sometimes they get spooked when I duck behind the lens. Yes, they do. So, you’ll need to keep him happy and distracted, okay?”
Gritting my teeth, I lift the squeaky toy, giving it a soft squeeze.
Barry cocks his head to the side, looking more confused than pleased by the sound.
Same, Barry.
Same.
“Harder, Luke,” Holly calls out as she snaps away. “Put your back into it, Mr. Elf. Squeak what your mama gave you.”
Squeak what my mama gave me?
This woman.
She’s ridiculous. And…funny.