So why am I on the verge of tears? What is wrong with me?
As I dab my eyes with the back of my hand, Jonathan joins me, hands on hips, surveying the store, which, I can admit, sort of looks like Santa’s workshop and the Abominable Snowman had a baby and it just threw up all over the place.
Garland, tinsel, fake snow, sparkling homemade papier maché and clay stars and snowflakes, kinaras, and dreidels, seven star pi?atas, menorahs, and solstice symbols, as well as shiny silver and gold curled ribbons dangle from the ceiling and, let’s be honest, all possible surfaces on which something can hang.
The air smells like powdered sugar and dark chocolate, citrus and fresh cut pine. Twinkly lights glitter across the tops of bookshelves, and iridescent metallic figurines decorate shelves and tables—reindeer, tiny gift boxes, and pine cones. The train set whistles softly on its tiny tracks, spinning around the base of the store’s Christmas tree decorated in white lights and jewel-tone ribbon, garland and ornaments, nestled near the fireplace.
Colorful stacks of books brighten every table the store owns, placing them front and center, within reach, garnished with clever little labels that list genre, tropes, themes, setting, and “If you like Such and Such Title, you’ll love this.” Beside the window display on one side is a massive table of pastries, which is next to another table of crafting supplies—cotton balls, paper plates, and glue to make snow people and winter animals like foxes, rabbits, and polar bears; gingerbread house materials; glitter and coffee filters to make snowflakes, finger paint and construction paper and colorful pipe cleaners to make any kind of festive craft a child could want, and pre-cut wood bookmarks for folks to decorate to their heart’s content.
Sighing, Jonathan rubs his temple. “This is hell.”
“It’s not that bad,” I tell him. At least, it won’t be until we have to do clean-up after closing tonight.
“It is. And it will be even worse when your damned live carolers come.”
Happiness swallows up my melancholy. It feels good to slip back into our old bickering routine. “It’s a jazz trio.”
There it is, that familiar disapproving arch of his eyebrow. “Who’ll be singing Christmas carols.”
“And lots of other wintertime tunes.” I poke him in the ribs. “Don’t be such a grinch. It’s just a little festive fun.”
“Festive fun?” He spins and stares me down, sending me stumbling back. But before my body hits the hard wood column behind me, Jonathan’s hand slips around my waist, stopping me, wrenching me against him. For just a moment, we stare at each other and everything else…melts away.
Very deliberately, Jonathan releases my waist. But he doesn’t step back. And neither do I. “Glitter, Gabriella,” he finally says. “Hot glue. Confetti. Gingerbread. Sugar cookies. Icing… None of that goes with books.”
I smile brightly. “Indirectly they do. They draw customers, ingratiate them to the store, and compel them to buy our books.”
Grumbling to himself, Jonathan turns away and stomps toward the back room. “I’m drugging myself. I have a headache already.”
“It’s good for business!” I call after him.
“I know!” he calls back. “And I still reserve the right to despise it!”
Laughing, I turn back and examine the main floor, then make some last-minute adjustments. Another pack of baby wipes on the pastry table—hopefully people will take the hint and clean their hands before touching books. The craft table closer to the front, so window-shopping passersby can see the holiday gift-making fun in action, along with the musicians, who’ll be stationed in front of the other window.
The jazz trio arrives right on time, settles in, and has just finished warming up with the Vince Guaraldi Charlie Brown Christmas theme when I turn the sign to say Open. Not a minute later, a kid with dark hair bursts into the store, a woman with the same dark hair just past her shoulders chasing after him. “Jack!”
He freezes, hand hovering over the pastry table, specifically a massive chocolate cookie loaded with candy cane pieces. “What?”
“Slow down.” Clutching him to her front, she offers me a weary smile. There’s something faintly familiar about them both—their bone structure, their dark wavy hair. I can’t place why I might know them, though. “Sorry for the explosive entrance,” the woman says. “I’m Liz. And this is Jack.” She peers down at him and arches her eyebrow, and that’s familiar, too. “Who has something to say.”