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CHAPTER THREE
Unfortunately for me, a Santa was not waiting for me when I got there.
That would have been far too easy, wouldn’t it?
No, all that was waiting for me was a few inches of snow on top of the sign and decorations, a stack of books to wrap in jolly Christmas wrapping paper, and the inside of the grotto to decorate.
I really should have stopped and gotten that vodka.
I’d stopped by three other stalls and stores on my way here, asking the same question. Everyone had promised to ask around for me, and the café had done as Debbie had and put a sign in the window.
All I could do now was hope someone would come through. Hell, I’d take several someones. If I had to have three or four Santas to cover the days we’d be open, I would.
I would take anyone at this point.
I unlocked the grotto and put my donuts inside. The grotto was nothing fancy—during the rest of the year, we used it as a stall to sell the fruits and vegetables and eggs that came from the farm. We didn’t have much use for that during the winter, for obvious reasons, so the wooden hut was perfect for this.
Gramps always claimed it was his idea, but we all knew it was Grandma’s. Even she used to smile and nod at him when he said it.
The snow outside was getting heavier, so I was going to start inside. There were a thousand lights to put up and what felt like ten thousand books still to wrap.
The biggest problem was deciding what to tackle first.
The decorations.
I pulled my headphones from my pocket and, as soon as I’d turned on the space heater, unwrapped myself from the numerous layers I needed so I wouldn’t freeze to death out there.
Brr.
Perhaps I should have waited until the heater had warmed the grotto.
Never mind.
I put my headphones in my ears and pulled up a murder mystery podcast. There would be no Christmas music for me. I was going through enough hell without hearing about people going home for Christmas or jingling their bells.
I opened the plastic storage boxes that contained the decorations. There was a five-foot tree that needed putting up, but that didn’t take me long. It always amused me that we owned a tree farm, yet my parents insisted on using a fake one here.
I guessed it was to account for allergies.
Hm.
Next up was lights.
Naturally, they were a big fucking mess of a tangled ball. I muttered something very unsavory under my breath and sat on the fluffy rug to get stuck in to untangling them. Why could nobody ever put these things away properly? Were they just shoved in without a care in the world?
Ugh.
I bet it was my sister who put these away. It would be just like her.
By the time I was done unraveling them, I’d listened to three episodes of my podcast and my ears were hurting. I removed the earphones and put them with my coat, then got to decorating the tree.
Lights were the absolute worst, and it took me twenty minutes to get them on the tree, and I still had to fiddle with them to get an even coverage of the blinky little fuckers.
At least it was warm in here now.
In two hours, the tree was finally done. It looked a little like a toddler had been let loose on it, but I really couldn’t stress this enough: I hated Christmas.
Fa la la la fucking la.
I paused for lunch in the hope I’d be a little happier after some food. Alas, that was not to be the case, because I still wasn’t done here.
After untangling the rest of the lights, I set about getting them hung through the grotto. It was a bit dark in here, so I plugged them in to see what I was doing. It was easier than having to ultimately rehang them again.
This was hell. I was in hell.
Actual Hell with Satan could not be worse than this.
The wire tangled around me. What was happening? How had this happened? I had that wire perfectly—oh, damn it.
I’d accidentally crossed over two other sets of lights.
Why were so many lights necessary? Couldn’t Santa cope with one string of one hundred lights? Why must there be numerous ones?
“Oh, shit.” I tried to break free but only succeeded in pulling half the lights off the wall. “Oh, fuck this!”
There was a knock at the door, and I stilled. Who was that?
“I’m sorry, we don’t open until tomorrow.” Maybe. “You’ll have to come back.”
“I was told to come here about Santa?”
Wait.
I knew that voice.
But there was no way the owner of said voice was here. He hadn’t been here in nine years.
“Um, can you come back later? I’m a bit busy.” Being tangled up in endless Christmas lights.
