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But Mr. Bailey ignored the question, tapping his screen a few more times before he looked up. “We should be going, yes? We’re due back at The Market in a few minutes.”
Sam’s face turned stony as James immediately shrunk down like a child who got slapped on the wrist when reaching for a treat.
What the heck was wrong with Mr. Scrooge?
I’d give anything to be able to talk to my dad again.
Sam cleared his throat and motioned to the side. “Why don’t we head on over to The Market then, sir.”
“Gladly,” Mr. Bailey said, tapping his phone a few more times as he stepped off the curb. But the moment he did, an undeniable wet squelch sounded, followed by the distinct smell of poop.
“Bleh!” Mr. Bailey shouted, spinning around while looking at the bottom of his now poo-covered loafers. “What kind of a dog left this?”
“That would be Sheriff Kingston’s horse, Shadowfax,” Sam said matter-of-factly.
“Good name,” James added, smirking.
Sam looked at him in surprise. “Excellent name.”
The rest of the afternoon hurried by in a blur of tourists shopping the opening-weekend Holly Days sales. Sam spent most of his day on the farm, helping his parents with the holiday rush and making deliveries around town. I hurried from booth to booth inside The Market, making sure everyone had what they needed while Nona followed closely behind, shoving different foods in my face till I conceded and ate a sub with her famous olive pesto.
Mom sold several pieces of pottery and even a painting while taking orders for three custom holiday signs. She always played the modest card, but I loved seeing her work get the recognition it deserved. Designs by Alice had received several write-ups in local and state newspapers and magazines over the years, yet despite her consistent sales and success, Mom never talked about taking her business outside of Mullings Creek.
“I give to the town that gave me everything” was her motto.
But part of me always wondered if she ever dreamed of a different life and new places like I did.
The Glass Works stand was, without a doubt, the busiest, due to their gorgeous handblown ornaments. Several families came here every year for a new ornament to add to their growing collections.
By the time the sun set and the crowds fizzled out, everyone looked plumb exhausted. Dana stepped away from her gems booth and switched off the Bluetooth speaker before placing a jazzy instrumental Christmas vinyl onto the record player—a tradition after a Saturday rush. Eve and Jo came by as usual with muffins and pitchers of hot cider, and everyone sat on the edge of the stage or near it to mingle and unwind.
If only it could be this calm all the time.
And then on cue, Mayor Moore, Mr. Bailey, and James entered again. A few of us hopped off the stage, but Mr. Bailey held up his hands. “Please, don’t move on our part. I just wanted to come back by here to tell you that I enjoyed seeing your town today.”
“Well, that was unexpected,” Jo whispered to me.
“I can see that you all take great pride in what you do here, and I too want to make sure that this establishment is left in the best of hands…”
“Spoke too soon,” Jo mumbled.
“Since my father and Mr. Paxton did things…differently…and neither believed in digitizing records, Mr. Paxton fell woefully behind on payments. So, the court has decided that we should sell this property to pay off those back taxes. We feel confident that a new owner with fresh ideas will be just what Mullings Creek needs.” Mr. Bailey clasped his hands in front of him, oblivious to the jaws dropping around him.
New owner?
Fresh ideas?
Jo’s optimistic point of view melted faster than ice on salt and was replaced with something more ominous.
“I will be staying here with my son till the end of December to handle Mr. Paxton’s affairs. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” Mr. Bailey then turned on his heel and disappeared into the night with James, frowning, following behind.
No one moved.
The clock tower chimed the hour.
A truck blasting “Jingle Bell Rock” drove by.
Till finally, Marco spoke first. “One month?” He jumped off the stage, mouth still full of muffin. “Did that guy literally just ruin our Christmas by putting a death warrant on The Market?”
