The Christmas Concierge, page 3
“Nope.” Alex started walking away. Paul followed, glancing back with every other step.
“Take a chance!” Holiday forced herself not to run after him. She stood her ground and made every effort to project confidence, even though she was shivering from the cold. “It’s one date! What’s the big deal?”
He stopped, but didn’t turn around. “It’s a big-enough deal that you trekked all the way out here from . . .”
“Virginia,” she supplied.
He turned halfway. “Which tells me that you’re highly motivated. Someone’s paying you a lot of money to wrangle me into this.”
“Ooh, like a bounty hunter!” Paul seemed delighted by the idea.
“Okay, let’s go with that.” Holiday shrugged. “I like to think of myself as Santa with better boots, but I could also be construed as a yuletide bounty hunter. And, Alex Sappier, you’re the bounty.”
Alex finally turned to face her. “How much is the price on my head?”
“Um, nothing, actually,” Holiday conceded. “Just travel expenses. It’s more of a matter of making up for past mistakes. I owe Francie’s grandmother a favor, and this was her ask.”
“Oof.” Paul grimaced. “You’re a charity case, man.”
Alex looked like he was seconds away from smacking his brother. “If you did a background check, then you know that I used to work in big tech.”
“Yeah, but I kind of skimmed over that part. Something about biomed technology?”
“I left that world because I didn’t like all the pressure and manipulation. I refuse to be strong-armed into other people’s agendas.”
“Also, you made an obscene amount of money and could retire,” Paul added.
Holiday knew that Alex had used a fraction of his fortune to stake the brothers’ charter plane business. Paul flew the routes and chatted up the visitors while Alex oversaw the books and logistics. Alex Sappier was definitely not in need of any more money. So what else could she use to persuade him?
“No offense, but there’s no upside for me in doing this deal.” It was as if he’d read her mind.
She knew this was pathetic, but she had to try. “But it’s Christmas. ’Tis the season of giving and doing for others.”
He leveled his gaze at her. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“I am.” She hung her head.
Alex shook his head. “We’re done here. There’s nothing on the table.”
The brothers strode away, their footing sure and steady on the slick pavement.
“Hey!” she yelled after them. “I want my pastry back!”
Paul turned around, his face dusted with powdered sugar. “Too late. Sorry!”
And with that, they turned the corner and were gone.
Chapter Five
Twenty minutes later, Holiday commandeered a corner booth at the Wily Whale Coffee House and Tap Room, ordered a café au lait, and tried to come up with a Plan B that would satisfy Mrs. Penewate and her granddaughter.
She sipped her coffee, letting the warmth from the mug seep into her frozen fingers, and surveyed the crowd. The locals opted for warmth over style, for obvious reasons. It was wall-to-wall flannel, down parkas, and shearling caps with earflaps. A refreshing change from the logo-conscious, status-obsessed circles Holiday moved in. Alemos Island was simply too rugged and wild to be subject to the whims of fashion.
“How’s your coffee, hon?” The server stopped by the table on her way to the kitchen.
“It’s perfect, thank you.” Holiday stared glumly into the warm, rich drink.
“You a friend of Alex’s?” the server asked. She laughed when Holiday’s head snapped up. “I noticed you were talking to him out there on the sidewalk. Well, actually, someone in the front booth noticed, and word traveled all the way back to the kitchen in two minutes.”
“Wow.”
“It’s a long winter and we don’t have much happening here on the island.” The server plunked her tray down on the table and shifted her weight. “Sometimes it’s deer season, sometimes it’s grouse season . . . but it’s always gossip season here.”
Holiday glanced around the room and realized that the other customers and staff members were very studiously not looking her way. “And you got elected to get the scoop?”
The server winked. “I volunteered.”
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not a friend of Alex’s.” At this, the server looked even more intrigued, so Holiday hastened to add, “I just met him.”
The server’s eyes went wide. “So it’s more of a fling?”
“No.” Holiday had to laugh. “I came out here on business.”
“Ooh, what kind of business?”
Holiday didn’t have it in her to have the whole Christmas concierge conversation right now. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Got it.” The server nodded as if this explained everything. “You’re in from Boston, right? One of the high-powered tech geniuses from his old life?”
“Um . . .”
“Well, it’s too bad you’re not a fling or a friend. We’d all like to see him find someone special. He’s such a nice guy, you know? Really goes out of his way.”
Holiday managed not to spit out her mouthful of coffee. “Um . . .”
“He practically rebuilt this town single-handedly. Getting all the roads repaved, renovating the school buildings . . .”
“It’s nice that he’s generous with his money,” Holiday conceded.
“Oh, it’s more than that! He was there in the elementary school along with the work crews, putting up drywall and swinging his hammer.” The server picked up the tray and fanned her face. “It was a sight to behold, I can tell you.”
“So people like him here?” Holiday furrowed her brow. “You find him helpful and nice?”
“He’s the best!”
“Interesting.” She picked up the coat lying on the bench next to her. “I’m ready for the check, please.”
The server snapped out of her reverie. “Oh no, honey. Before you leave, you have to try our world-famous chowder.”
“Thank you, but I really should go.” Holiday nibbled her lower lip. “I have to make a phone call.”
“Just a cup!” the server insisted. “It’s my great-aunt’s recipe. You’re a friend of Alex, so it’s on the house.”
“I’m not . . .” Holiday trailed off when she registered the server’s hopeful, helpful expression. “Yes, thank you. I’d love to try it.”
While the server dashed back to the kitchen to deliver the nongossip and fetch the cup of chowder, Holiday pulled out her cell phone and stared at the hard, shiny screen. She was going to have to call Mrs. Penewate and deliver the news that she had failed to secure the target. She was going to have to disappoint one of her long-term clients—again—because Alex Sappier, the so-called nicest, most helpful fellow in existence, wouldn’t agree to even sit down at the bargaining table with her. She was going to be the reason that Francie Penewate spent her Christmas alone instead of with the man of her dreams.
She was going to have to admit her failings and beg for forgiveness.
But first, chowder.
*
Holiday was spooning up the last drops of the thick, creamy chowder and preparing to dial her cell phone when the bell above the front door jingled as Alex and Paul walked in. Alex had a black backpack in one hand and an unmistakable expression of guilt on his face.
Everyone in the restaurant swiveled their heads from Alex to Holiday to their dining companions. All the clattering cutlery stilled and an electrified hum of conversation buzzed through the dining room.
At first, Holiday wondered if this might be a small-town coincidence, if Alex and his brother had no idea that she was still in Alemos, let alone their favorite lunch spot. But then his gaze locked on to her, and there was no mistaking his look of purpose.
He was coming back to the bargaining table. Literally and metaphorically.
As the brothers approached, Holiday nodded to the bench opposite hers, indicating that they should sit down.
As Alex and Paul slid into the booth, the server practically knocked over a busboy in her haste to get to the table.
“Look who’s here!” she trilled.
“Hi, Sally,” Alex and Paul chorused.
Sally whirled to face Holiday, who smiled and said nothing.
When the silence at the table stretched into an awkward pause, Sally flipped her ponytail and nodded at Paul, then Alex. “You boys want your usual?”
“Yes, thanks.” Alex waited until Sally was out of earshot, then unzipped the backpack and regarded Holiday with a look of resignation.
“We’re back,” he announced.
“I can see that.” She stacked one hand atop the other and prepared to negotiate. “It’s good to see you again.”
Alex sighed. “Remember how I said there’s nothing on the table?”
She nodded. “I do.”
“And how I hate being pressured and manipulated?”
“Mm-hmm.”
A brief, silent scuffle broke out between brothers as Alex and Paul kicked each other beneath the table.
Holiday made a big show of checking her watch. “Gentlemen. How may I be of service?”
Alex drew a deep breath and shot Paul an absolutely deadly glare. “You said you can find anything? Absolutely anything?”
Her adrenaline surged. “If it exists in time and space, I can find it.”
The brothers exchanged another round of furious glances, and she knew she had him. One burly, bitter ex–tech bro in the bag.
Alex settled into his own negotiation posture. “Are you familiar with Driscoll Davidson?”
“The stained-glass guy? Of course.” Holiday had seen a traveling exhibition of Davidson’s colorful window panels and lamps a few years ago at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
“Did you know that he grew up in Maine?”
“No.” She glanced at the backpack. “What’s in there?”
“Did you know that, back before he became famous and successful, Driscoll Davidson used to make Christmas ornaments?”
“No. That’s so cool!”
“Not really.” Paul looked to be on the verge of tears.
“Let me do the talking,” Alex muttered. He turned his attention back to Holiday. “When my parents got married, they got a Driscoll Davidson Christmas tree star as a wedding present. Rich uncle or something. I don’t know the details.”
“And it’s ruined,” Paul blurted out. “We ruined it.”
“I said, let me do the talking.” Alex unzippered the backpack. “There was a mishap.”
He handed the backpack to Holiday, who peered inside at a pile of broken glass shards and the remnants of a bronze star outline. “Holy smithereens, Batman. Is this . . .?”
“It was,” Alex confirmed.
She couldn’t conceal her dismay as she regarded the wreckage that had once been a historic, handcrafted—not to mention priceless—tree topper. “What did you do?”
“He did it.” Alex and Paul spoke simultaneously and pointed at each other.
She picked up a single jagged shard of red glass. “You guys are going to art history hell.”
“Obviously, it was an accident,” Alex said.
“Yeah.” Paul took a grateful gulp as the server arrived with two pints of beers. “A really, really unfortunate accident.”
“We just started to decorate my mom’s house for Christmas,” Alex explained. “My dad died a few months ago and my mom can’t drag out the tree and all the heavy boxes of decorations by herself. So, we waited until she went out this morning and then got everything ready to surprise her.”
“The stockings, the nativity scene, everything.” Paul closed his eyes, imagining the scene of the crime.
“Which is why I was so short with you when you flagged me down on the street,” Alex added.
Holiday inclined her head. “Continue.”
“We put all the ornaments on the tree—”
“Exactly evenly spaced,” Paul murmured. “Because somebody is compulsive.”
“I like radial symmetry,” Alex shot back. “So does nature.”
“He used a tape measure,” Paul told Holiday. “For ornaments.”
“Everything was exactly right,” Alex finished. “And then we got out the ladder to put the star on the tree and . . . mistakes were made.”
Holiday peered into the sack full of shards. “Is your mother upset?”
“She will be if she ever finds out,” Alex said. “But she won’t, if you’re half the Christmas concierge you claim to be.”
Holiday zipped up the backpack and signaled to Sally. “I’m going to need more caffeine, please.”
Chapter Six
“I’m not sure you appreciate the magnitude of this situation.” Holiday gratefully acceptedthe café au lait Sally delivered to the table, along with two beers for the Sappier brothers. “There’s only four days until Christmas.”
“You said you could find anything, anytime, anyplace,” Alex reminded her, raising his pint glass in homage.
“Yeah, assuming it’s findable!” Holiday’s palms started to sweat. “But an original antique Driscoll Davidson star with red accents?”
Paul peeked back into the backpack. “Red and gold, actually.”
Holiday knew she should say no. She had learned the hard way what happened when she overestimated her own capabilities. Yet when she opened her mouth, she found herself asking, “Do you have a photo of what the original looked like?”
“Lots,” Alex assured her.
“And, I mean, not to insult your legendary genius or whatever, but have you tried eBay?”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that.” He looked affronted. “Of course I tried eBay. I checked a dozen online auction sites.”
She held up one hand. “Okay, I get it.”
“And what I found out is, everyone wants to buy a star like this, but no one wants to sell them.” The bench creaked as Alex settled back. “This, Holiday Smith, is your mission, should you choose to accept it.”
Paul started humming the Mission: Impossible theme song.
“Can’t you ask for something easier?” Holiday said. “Like finding Bigfoot or catching a leprechaun?”
“Leprechauns are out of season,” Paul pointed out. “And we’re in Maine. You’ll definitely have a better chance with Bigfoot.”
“This star is what I need.” Alex locked his gaze with hers. “And Christmas is when I need it by.”
“All right. Let’s just assume I hunt it down for you,” Holiday said. “Are you prepared to pay what this star is going to cost on the open market?”
“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate. “Price is not an issue. I’ll pay anything. I’ll do anything. I’ll beg your forgiveness for blowing you off earlier.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she assured him.
He seemed surprised. “It won’t?”
“Of course not. I’m on a tight timeline and I don’t have time for groveling.”
He looked at her with newfound respect.
“But let’s be clear: if I come through with this by Christmas, you’ll go on the date with Francie?” She leveled her gaze at him.
Alex hesitated for a fraction of a second, during which Paul assured Holiday, “He’ll do it with a smile on his face and a song in his heart.”
Holiday kept looking at Alex. “You will?”
He nodded. “I’m a man of my word.”
“Okay, but you don’t have a smile on your face,” she informed him. “That’s more of a grimace.”
“I’ll be smiling when the deal’s done,” he vowed.
“Give me two minutes.” Holiday dashed out the door of the coffee shop, turned her back to the frigid wind, and dialed her sister’s number.
Nora picked up on the third ring. “How’s the tundra?”
“You know, it’s not that cold once you lose all feeling in your limbs,” Holiday replied.
“Way to look on the bright side. Next thing we know, you’ll be doing the polar bear swim on New Year’s Day.”
Holiday shivered, sought shelter under a storefront awning, and got to the point. “I’m calling with a long-overdue apology.”
“Really?” Nora started laughing. “Is the apocalypse here already?”
“Remember how, when you said you were going to major in art history, I made fun of you and said you would live in Mom and Dad’s basement until you were thirty-five?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you said that someday I’d be sorry and come crawling to you for help?”
“Yessss.” Nora’s voice lilted.
“Well, today’s the day.” Holiday summarized the stained glass star situation as quickly as possible. “I need your art history contacts. Auction house employees, museum curators, gallery owners, glasswork collectors.”
“This isn’t like you,” Nora said. “You sound panicked.”
“I’m not panicked, I’m . . . yeah, okay, I’m panicked.”
“This Alex guy sounds like a pain in the butt.”
“Truer words were never spoken. But these are the terms of the deal. It’s pay-to-play with a Driscoll Davidson star, circa 1980, that may not even exist.”
“Is he good-looking, at least?” Nora pressed. “It’s easier to deal with annoying men when they’re good-looking.”
“He’s all right, if you like tall, athletic guys with five-o’clock shadows and a closet full of wool sweaters.”
“Ooh, go on.”
“His looks are not the issue here,” Holiday said. “He’s just a means to an end. I have to bend him to my will so I can A, redeem my flawless track record, and B, walk through Mom and Dad’s door before dawn on Christmas morning.”
“Oh, honey.” Nora’s voice turned wistful. “You’re not still telling yourself you’ll be home for Christmas, are you?”
“You’ll see!” Holiday hopped a few times for emphasis. And to warm herself up. “I’ll be right in your face on Christmas morning, and I will say, ‘I told you so,’ and you will be the one who has to apologize then!”
“Uh-huh. What’s the deadline for finding this mythical tree topper?”
“Take a chance!” Holiday forced herself not to run after him. She stood her ground and made every effort to project confidence, even though she was shivering from the cold. “It’s one date! What’s the big deal?”
He stopped, but didn’t turn around. “It’s a big-enough deal that you trekked all the way out here from . . .”
“Virginia,” she supplied.
He turned halfway. “Which tells me that you’re highly motivated. Someone’s paying you a lot of money to wrangle me into this.”
“Ooh, like a bounty hunter!” Paul seemed delighted by the idea.
“Okay, let’s go with that.” Holiday shrugged. “I like to think of myself as Santa with better boots, but I could also be construed as a yuletide bounty hunter. And, Alex Sappier, you’re the bounty.”
Alex finally turned to face her. “How much is the price on my head?”
“Um, nothing, actually,” Holiday conceded. “Just travel expenses. It’s more of a matter of making up for past mistakes. I owe Francie’s grandmother a favor, and this was her ask.”
“Oof.” Paul grimaced. “You’re a charity case, man.”
Alex looked like he was seconds away from smacking his brother. “If you did a background check, then you know that I used to work in big tech.”
“Yeah, but I kind of skimmed over that part. Something about biomed technology?”
“I left that world because I didn’t like all the pressure and manipulation. I refuse to be strong-armed into other people’s agendas.”
“Also, you made an obscene amount of money and could retire,” Paul added.
Holiday knew that Alex had used a fraction of his fortune to stake the brothers’ charter plane business. Paul flew the routes and chatted up the visitors while Alex oversaw the books and logistics. Alex Sappier was definitely not in need of any more money. So what else could she use to persuade him?
“No offense, but there’s no upside for me in doing this deal.” It was as if he’d read her mind.
She knew this was pathetic, but she had to try. “But it’s Christmas. ’Tis the season of giving and doing for others.”
He leveled his gaze at her. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“I am.” She hung her head.
Alex shook his head. “We’re done here. There’s nothing on the table.”
The brothers strode away, their footing sure and steady on the slick pavement.
“Hey!” she yelled after them. “I want my pastry back!”
Paul turned around, his face dusted with powdered sugar. “Too late. Sorry!”
And with that, they turned the corner and were gone.
Chapter Five
Twenty minutes later, Holiday commandeered a corner booth at the Wily Whale Coffee House and Tap Room, ordered a café au lait, and tried to come up with a Plan B that would satisfy Mrs. Penewate and her granddaughter.
She sipped her coffee, letting the warmth from the mug seep into her frozen fingers, and surveyed the crowd. The locals opted for warmth over style, for obvious reasons. It was wall-to-wall flannel, down parkas, and shearling caps with earflaps. A refreshing change from the logo-conscious, status-obsessed circles Holiday moved in. Alemos Island was simply too rugged and wild to be subject to the whims of fashion.
“How’s your coffee, hon?” The server stopped by the table on her way to the kitchen.
“It’s perfect, thank you.” Holiday stared glumly into the warm, rich drink.
“You a friend of Alex’s?” the server asked. She laughed when Holiday’s head snapped up. “I noticed you were talking to him out there on the sidewalk. Well, actually, someone in the front booth noticed, and word traveled all the way back to the kitchen in two minutes.”
“Wow.”
“It’s a long winter and we don’t have much happening here on the island.” The server plunked her tray down on the table and shifted her weight. “Sometimes it’s deer season, sometimes it’s grouse season . . . but it’s always gossip season here.”
Holiday glanced around the room and realized that the other customers and staff members were very studiously not looking her way. “And you got elected to get the scoop?”
The server winked. “I volunteered.”
“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not a friend of Alex’s.” At this, the server looked even more intrigued, so Holiday hastened to add, “I just met him.”
The server’s eyes went wide. “So it’s more of a fling?”
“No.” Holiday had to laugh. “I came out here on business.”
“Ooh, what kind of business?”
Holiday didn’t have it in her to have the whole Christmas concierge conversation right now. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Got it.” The server nodded as if this explained everything. “You’re in from Boston, right? One of the high-powered tech geniuses from his old life?”
“Um . . .”
“Well, it’s too bad you’re not a fling or a friend. We’d all like to see him find someone special. He’s such a nice guy, you know? Really goes out of his way.”
Holiday managed not to spit out her mouthful of coffee. “Um . . .”
“He practically rebuilt this town single-handedly. Getting all the roads repaved, renovating the school buildings . . .”
“It’s nice that he’s generous with his money,” Holiday conceded.
“Oh, it’s more than that! He was there in the elementary school along with the work crews, putting up drywall and swinging his hammer.” The server picked up the tray and fanned her face. “It was a sight to behold, I can tell you.”
“So people like him here?” Holiday furrowed her brow. “You find him helpful and nice?”
“He’s the best!”
“Interesting.” She picked up the coat lying on the bench next to her. “I’m ready for the check, please.”
The server snapped out of her reverie. “Oh no, honey. Before you leave, you have to try our world-famous chowder.”
“Thank you, but I really should go.” Holiday nibbled her lower lip. “I have to make a phone call.”
“Just a cup!” the server insisted. “It’s my great-aunt’s recipe. You’re a friend of Alex, so it’s on the house.”
“I’m not . . .” Holiday trailed off when she registered the server’s hopeful, helpful expression. “Yes, thank you. I’d love to try it.”
While the server dashed back to the kitchen to deliver the nongossip and fetch the cup of chowder, Holiday pulled out her cell phone and stared at the hard, shiny screen. She was going to have to call Mrs. Penewate and deliver the news that she had failed to secure the target. She was going to have to disappoint one of her long-term clients—again—because Alex Sappier, the so-called nicest, most helpful fellow in existence, wouldn’t agree to even sit down at the bargaining table with her. She was going to be the reason that Francie Penewate spent her Christmas alone instead of with the man of her dreams.
She was going to have to admit her failings and beg for forgiveness.
But first, chowder.
*
Holiday was spooning up the last drops of the thick, creamy chowder and preparing to dial her cell phone when the bell above the front door jingled as Alex and Paul walked in. Alex had a black backpack in one hand and an unmistakable expression of guilt on his face.
Everyone in the restaurant swiveled their heads from Alex to Holiday to their dining companions. All the clattering cutlery stilled and an electrified hum of conversation buzzed through the dining room.
At first, Holiday wondered if this might be a small-town coincidence, if Alex and his brother had no idea that she was still in Alemos, let alone their favorite lunch spot. But then his gaze locked on to her, and there was no mistaking his look of purpose.
He was coming back to the bargaining table. Literally and metaphorically.
As the brothers approached, Holiday nodded to the bench opposite hers, indicating that they should sit down.
As Alex and Paul slid into the booth, the server practically knocked over a busboy in her haste to get to the table.
“Look who’s here!” she trilled.
“Hi, Sally,” Alex and Paul chorused.
Sally whirled to face Holiday, who smiled and said nothing.
When the silence at the table stretched into an awkward pause, Sally flipped her ponytail and nodded at Paul, then Alex. “You boys want your usual?”
“Yes, thanks.” Alex waited until Sally was out of earshot, then unzipped the backpack and regarded Holiday with a look of resignation.
“We’re back,” he announced.
“I can see that.” She stacked one hand atop the other and prepared to negotiate. “It’s good to see you again.”
Alex sighed. “Remember how I said there’s nothing on the table?”
She nodded. “I do.”
“And how I hate being pressured and manipulated?”
“Mm-hmm.”
A brief, silent scuffle broke out between brothers as Alex and Paul kicked each other beneath the table.
Holiday made a big show of checking her watch. “Gentlemen. How may I be of service?”
Alex drew a deep breath and shot Paul an absolutely deadly glare. “You said you can find anything? Absolutely anything?”
Her adrenaline surged. “If it exists in time and space, I can find it.”
The brothers exchanged another round of furious glances, and she knew she had him. One burly, bitter ex–tech bro in the bag.
Alex settled into his own negotiation posture. “Are you familiar with Driscoll Davidson?”
“The stained-glass guy? Of course.” Holiday had seen a traveling exhibition of Davidson’s colorful window panels and lamps a few years ago at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
“Did you know that he grew up in Maine?”
“No.” She glanced at the backpack. “What’s in there?”
“Did you know that, back before he became famous and successful, Driscoll Davidson used to make Christmas ornaments?”
“No. That’s so cool!”
“Not really.” Paul looked to be on the verge of tears.
“Let me do the talking,” Alex muttered. He turned his attention back to Holiday. “When my parents got married, they got a Driscoll Davidson Christmas tree star as a wedding present. Rich uncle or something. I don’t know the details.”
“And it’s ruined,” Paul blurted out. “We ruined it.”
“I said, let me do the talking.” Alex unzippered the backpack. “There was a mishap.”
He handed the backpack to Holiday, who peered inside at a pile of broken glass shards and the remnants of a bronze star outline. “Holy smithereens, Batman. Is this . . .?”
“It was,” Alex confirmed.
She couldn’t conceal her dismay as she regarded the wreckage that had once been a historic, handcrafted—not to mention priceless—tree topper. “What did you do?”
“He did it.” Alex and Paul spoke simultaneously and pointed at each other.
She picked up a single jagged shard of red glass. “You guys are going to art history hell.”
“Obviously, it was an accident,” Alex said.
“Yeah.” Paul took a grateful gulp as the server arrived with two pints of beers. “A really, really unfortunate accident.”
“We just started to decorate my mom’s house for Christmas,” Alex explained. “My dad died a few months ago and my mom can’t drag out the tree and all the heavy boxes of decorations by herself. So, we waited until she went out this morning and then got everything ready to surprise her.”
“The stockings, the nativity scene, everything.” Paul closed his eyes, imagining the scene of the crime.
“Which is why I was so short with you when you flagged me down on the street,” Alex added.
Holiday inclined her head. “Continue.”
“We put all the ornaments on the tree—”
“Exactly evenly spaced,” Paul murmured. “Because somebody is compulsive.”
“I like radial symmetry,” Alex shot back. “So does nature.”
“He used a tape measure,” Paul told Holiday. “For ornaments.”
“Everything was exactly right,” Alex finished. “And then we got out the ladder to put the star on the tree and . . . mistakes were made.”
Holiday peered into the sack full of shards. “Is your mother upset?”
“She will be if she ever finds out,” Alex said. “But she won’t, if you’re half the Christmas concierge you claim to be.”
Holiday zipped up the backpack and signaled to Sally. “I’m going to need more caffeine, please.”
Chapter Six
“I’m not sure you appreciate the magnitude of this situation.” Holiday gratefully acceptedthe café au lait Sally delivered to the table, along with two beers for the Sappier brothers. “There’s only four days until Christmas.”
“You said you could find anything, anytime, anyplace,” Alex reminded her, raising his pint glass in homage.
“Yeah, assuming it’s findable!” Holiday’s palms started to sweat. “But an original antique Driscoll Davidson star with red accents?”
Paul peeked back into the backpack. “Red and gold, actually.”
Holiday knew she should say no. She had learned the hard way what happened when she overestimated her own capabilities. Yet when she opened her mouth, she found herself asking, “Do you have a photo of what the original looked like?”
“Lots,” Alex assured her.
“And, I mean, not to insult your legendary genius or whatever, but have you tried eBay?”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask that.” He looked affronted. “Of course I tried eBay. I checked a dozen online auction sites.”
She held up one hand. “Okay, I get it.”
“And what I found out is, everyone wants to buy a star like this, but no one wants to sell them.” The bench creaked as Alex settled back. “This, Holiday Smith, is your mission, should you choose to accept it.”
Paul started humming the Mission: Impossible theme song.
“Can’t you ask for something easier?” Holiday said. “Like finding Bigfoot or catching a leprechaun?”
“Leprechauns are out of season,” Paul pointed out. “And we’re in Maine. You’ll definitely have a better chance with Bigfoot.”
“This star is what I need.” Alex locked his gaze with hers. “And Christmas is when I need it by.”
“All right. Let’s just assume I hunt it down for you,” Holiday said. “Are you prepared to pay what this star is going to cost on the open market?”
“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate. “Price is not an issue. I’ll pay anything. I’ll do anything. I’ll beg your forgiveness for blowing you off earlier.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she assured him.
He seemed surprised. “It won’t?”
“Of course not. I’m on a tight timeline and I don’t have time for groveling.”
He looked at her with newfound respect.
“But let’s be clear: if I come through with this by Christmas, you’ll go on the date with Francie?” She leveled her gaze at him.
Alex hesitated for a fraction of a second, during which Paul assured Holiday, “He’ll do it with a smile on his face and a song in his heart.”
Holiday kept looking at Alex. “You will?”
He nodded. “I’m a man of my word.”
“Okay, but you don’t have a smile on your face,” she informed him. “That’s more of a grimace.”
“I’ll be smiling when the deal’s done,” he vowed.
“Give me two minutes.” Holiday dashed out the door of the coffee shop, turned her back to the frigid wind, and dialed her sister’s number.
Nora picked up on the third ring. “How’s the tundra?”
“You know, it’s not that cold once you lose all feeling in your limbs,” Holiday replied.
“Way to look on the bright side. Next thing we know, you’ll be doing the polar bear swim on New Year’s Day.”
Holiday shivered, sought shelter under a storefront awning, and got to the point. “I’m calling with a long-overdue apology.”
“Really?” Nora started laughing. “Is the apocalypse here already?”
“Remember how, when you said you were going to major in art history, I made fun of you and said you would live in Mom and Dad’s basement until you were thirty-five?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And you said that someday I’d be sorry and come crawling to you for help?”
“Yessss.” Nora’s voice lilted.
“Well, today’s the day.” Holiday summarized the stained glass star situation as quickly as possible. “I need your art history contacts. Auction house employees, museum curators, gallery owners, glasswork collectors.”
“This isn’t like you,” Nora said. “You sound panicked.”
“I’m not panicked, I’m . . . yeah, okay, I’m panicked.”
“This Alex guy sounds like a pain in the butt.”
“Truer words were never spoken. But these are the terms of the deal. It’s pay-to-play with a Driscoll Davidson star, circa 1980, that may not even exist.”
“Is he good-looking, at least?” Nora pressed. “It’s easier to deal with annoying men when they’re good-looking.”
“He’s all right, if you like tall, athletic guys with five-o’clock shadows and a closet full of wool sweaters.”
“Ooh, go on.”
“His looks are not the issue here,” Holiday said. “He’s just a means to an end. I have to bend him to my will so I can A, redeem my flawless track record, and B, walk through Mom and Dad’s door before dawn on Christmas morning.”
“Oh, honey.” Nora’s voice turned wistful. “You’re not still telling yourself you’ll be home for Christmas, are you?”
“You’ll see!” Holiday hopped a few times for emphasis. And to warm herself up. “I’ll be right in your face on Christmas morning, and I will say, ‘I told you so,’ and you will be the one who has to apologize then!”
“Uh-huh. What’s the deadline for finding this mythical tree topper?”
