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One of the festival committee head honchos, Marjorie, leans back in her office chair, a small smile crossing her lips. Her office is wallpapered in blue and green paisley on the top half and plaid on the bottom half. Odd, but somehow, it works. She’s got one of those plug-in air fresheners, and the strong scent of Christmas evergreen is stinging my nose.
“So, is it too late to add them?” I ask, apprehension making my lungs tight.
“Santa’s Helpers got back to me. They said if we can raise enough funds to surpass our goals, the excess can go to the Fleming family.” She pauses. There’s something hanging in the air.
“That’s great,” I say. “They have an eighteen-year-old son. A twelve-year-old daughter. And six-year-old twin girls. And can it be anonymous? I really don’t want them to suspect that the festival or I had anything to do with it.”
“Of course.” She hesitates. “Aria, I’ll be honest with you. I don’t know if there will be extra for that family. I’m starting to wonder if there will be enough for the originals that Santa’s Helpers designated weeks ago. With sponsorships and ticket sales down, the number of booths involved at an all-time low, and, in some circles, a negative attitude towards the festival, I would be shocked if we met our charitable goals this year.”
I rotate my silver and turquoise ring around my finger. I got it from the festival the year I graduated from college. “At least it’s still happening. I feel like if it’s still going on, and we all show up ready to go, people are going to come.”
She smiles sadly. “This has been a year, hasn’t it?” She shakes her head. “I’m starting to wonder if it’s time for me to hang up my blazer. It’s been rough.”
“What can I do?”
“You and Theo have been wonderful. There’s still a lot of excitement around you two. And if the rumors are to be believed, it’s not a front for the sake of the festival.” Her grin broadens.
“That’s something I’m still not quite sure about.” I will my smile to recede, but it’s not obeying me right now. “Regardless, if all the data points are lower than ever, what good have our efforts done?”
The dam in my chest that has plagued me since the news of Carl and Amanda shifts ever so slightly. Because now I’m a tiger, prowling for her prey.
Maybe that’s too violent.
I don’t feel violent. I feel ready. Ready for this one last push to save the festival—the only happy Christmas memory from my childhood that I have.
Things are uncharacteristically slow at the bakeshop, so I’m working on one of the festival’s rebranding projects on one of the tables out front. Marjorie’s comments yesterday are lodged in my consciousness, and I can’t seem to shake the dread. Dread for seeing what actually happens on opening day and for the rest of the festival. Worry over what I’ll do if no one comes, no one buys anything, and no one puts cash in the big plastic stocking.
I swallow down the last of my tea, the bitter dregs perfect for my foul mood. There’s a steel trap over my insides, protecting them from harm.
My phone rings and it’s a number I don’t recognize.
“I’m calling on behalf of Wolfe Strategies, a PR and brand management firm in Highlands Ranch.” The woman on the other end introduces herself. “Wolfe is hiring a new specialist. We received your application and are wondering if you’d like to come in for an interview?”
“Really? I’ve been thinking of looking for a new position.” My heartbeat increases in speed, zooming through me as I wonder if this is real.
I think it is real. I’m Aria Freaking Robinson! Hear me roar! Or whatever sound a “wolf” makes.
Hear me growl?
I shake my head. I can’t be monologuing to myself right now. “Yes, I can come in for an interview, for sure.”
The woman explains more details about the job, and with every word, I want it more and more. “One of our specialists was pregnant and planning to quit the job after the baby came, but she gave birth prematurely. We’re scrambling to find her replacement. Is there any way you could come in tomorrow for an interview?” she asks. “Morning would be best for us.”
“Well, I’m technically still at my other job, but I could quit that after Christmas. If I can come to an interview at nine, I can arrange it with my job. My employer is super flexible.”
“Great. See you at nine tomorrow.”
My heart rises a little from my melancholy over the festival. With any luck, I could get this job and do what I love—finally. I want to call Theo and tell him the good news, but I hear the kitchen door swing open.
Oh, no. I’m not ready for this moment of reckoning, of actually taking the plunge and going for it.
“Camilla.” I stand as she comes in. “Did you overhear my conversation?”
You know that heart thing? The one that softened a little when Wolfe Strategies called? Well, now the steel trap is back, clenching it tight.
She blinks and then nods, her chest heaving. I can’t read her expression.
“Was that Wolfe Strategies?” she asks, a smile playing about her lips.
