Page 10 of Mistletoe All the Way

Story of my life.

Once inside my little apartment, a striped tabby greets me, rubbing up against my leg. “Don’t knock this one over, Alexander,” I warn the world’s naughtiest feline.

He switches sides, marking me again, purring as if to say, Who, me? Never.

I kick the door shut, then lug the tree to the bay window that offers a view of downtown Evergreen Falls, a.k.a. the most idyllic view ever of the charming street with cute row homes, quirky shops, and lush trees. I set Betty in the stand I left out the other night. After I manage to position the tree upright, I pour some water in the base, give Betty’s branches a gentle fluff, then scrub my hands at the sink.

I pour some kibble into a bowl on the floor, and Alexander dives right in. “It wasn’t me you were excited to see. It was your food source.”

He doesn’t refute me as I head out of my apartment, but not before I catch a glimpse of the pile of mail I set on the table in the foyer the other day before even looking at it. How lovely. I opted for paperless billing but my bank still sent me a Christmas card. For what? To remind me I still owe on my student loans? Yes, Mr. Bank, I know how loans work.

I bound down the steps. Best to put debts, annoying hot men, and plum contracts I lost to big-city firms out of my mind as I head to the ornament-making class down the road.

When I yank open the door to the community center, a blast of warmth greets me. As I unknot my scarf, I trot down the hall to the classroom and then slip inside, spotting my good friends Aurora, who owns the Sugar Plum Bakery, and Phillipa, who owns the Candy Cane Diner.

They wave me over, Phillipa patting a free chair. “So are you ever going to tell us how it went?” she asks with a look that says, Why the hell didn’t you text us an update?

Because I was too frustrated with myself. I needed to process the bad news on the drive home.

“Let’s just say I don’t have a shiny new client,” I whisper, disappointment hitting me all over again.

Phillipa growls, tightening her black ponytail as if that’s going to help her go into battle for me. “Who do we need to kill?”

“I, too, volunteer for some light murder,” Aurora adds, steepling her fingers together like a movie villainess, and sounding delightfully nonthreatening with her light French accent.

I wave a dismissive hand, though I seriously appreciate their we-ride-at-dawn solidarity. “The city’s too far away. We’ll save the revenge for another time. But my day also included an infuriatingly hot guy and a tire that needed to be patched. Which means I need wine with this class.”

And as if she read my mind—or really, the description of the class—the teacher walks in lugging two bottles of chardonnay and a red plastic tub.

But what, to my wondering eyes, should appear? It’s the mayor behind her, calling out cheerily, “Hold the door, please!”

Mayor Bumblefritz strolls in, looking like Mrs. Claus and dressing like her too, with a red sweater, green glasses, and a jauntily perched Santa hat on her head of thick gray hair.

How about that plot twist? I’ve been hoping to chat with her about doing some PR for the town ever since I overheard at the local nail salon that she needs to make a new social media hire.

Yes, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas after all.

I plot as I make ornaments. Ideas race through my head, pitches and proposals. A few minutes after I’ve nailed the assignment—no, exceeded it by turning a handful of mason jar lids into mini wreaths and making a snowman out of a recycled tin can—I pop up and head straight for the woman in charge of the town. With a pleased look in her eyes, she’s putting the finishing touches on her Rudolph tree decoration, made from wine corks with an old red ornament for his nose.

“Oh, this is fantastic, Mayor Bumblefritz,” I say, admiring her handiwork. “My goal this year is to buy zero ornaments and to make or rehome as many second-chance decorations as I can.”

In that optimistic tone that won her the post, she says, “I’m all for finding a second home for things as frequently as possible.” That’s been her mission as the mayor—implementing town-wide recycling programs.

Which means I’m on the right track, as I’d hoped. I take a fueling breath—I’ve had only half a glass of wine, so it’s natural gumption, not alcohol-fueled confidence bolstering me—then keep going as I show off the wreaths and the snowman. “Wouldn’t it be fun to hang some of these ornaments on the evergreen trees in the town square? Your Rudolph could go there, these wreaths, Aurora’s gingerbread man, and so on. We could take pictures and feature them on social. It’s another way to promote both the classes at the community center and also to subtly show how the town walks the walk and talks the talk with your recycling efforts.”

She tilts her head, her brow furrowing, like she’s really considering my plan. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

I know, right?

“Thanks. I have lots of ideas about things Evergreen Falls could do with its social media and PR. I’d love to share them with you at some point.”

This is a long shot. But you miss one hundred percent of the chances you don’t take.

Mayor Bumblefritz taps her chin. “You do hockey PR, don’t you?”

My heart skips. She remembers what I do. “Yes, I have a contract to handle social media for the town’s minor-league affiliate. And I just launched my own PR firm, so they’re one of my clients. I’d love to work with Evergreen Falls too, especially as it becomes a more popular tourist destination each year.”

She hesitates, studying me. “Have you ever done this type of PR though?”