Hark the Herald Angels Slay

by Vicki Delany

  • • •

  I couldn’t ignore the messages forever. When I got up the next morning, my voice mailbox was full and I had received numerous text messages telling me to check Twitter.

  Reluctantly, fearing the worst, I did so.

  It wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Under the label #richgirlmeltdown there were unflattering (to say the least) pictures of Erica screaming. Max could be seen in some of the shots, looking perfectly calm and quite handsome. Of me, only the back of my head or my outstretched fingers were visible. If my mom saw the pictures, and she probably would, she’d recognize the ring I was wearing on my right hand as one made for me by a local jewelry designer. But for anyone else, the ring wasn’t enough for a positive identification. The crux of the stories was that Erica had discovered her fiancé in a “compromising situation” with an “unidentified woman.”

  Never have I been so happy to be unidentified.

  I brewed coffee and popped a bagel into the toaster. When it was ready, I prepared a tray and carried my breakfast downstairs to sit at the picnic table in the yard while Mattie sniffed under bushes and verified that no overnight intruders remained in our yard. The top floor of the house is divided into two apartments, and we share the use of the back garden. My neighbors, Steve and Wendy and their baby, Tina, were away on vacation. The property’s surrounded by giant old oaks and maples, and bird song filled the air. It was delightfully cool in the dappled morning shade, but I knew the heat was on its way. I finished my coffee, called Mattie in, and got ready for work.

  I settled Mattie into the office with a big bowl of water and promises to return soon, opened the shop, and settled down to do some paperwork before the (I hoped) rush of customers descended. The first person through the doors was Vicky.

  “I heard what happened,” she said.

  “Is there anyone who didn’t?”

  “Probably not.” She put a bakery bag on the counter. “I figured you required sustenance.”

  I didn’t need to open the bag to know it contained one of Vicky’s justifiably famous cinnamon buns. The scent of warm pastry, melting white icing, and lavishly applied cinnamon was intoxicating. I’d once told her she should charge people for sniffing the air outside the bakery on cinnamon bun–baking day.

  “I can’t stay,” she said. “I have to get back. I’ll be making molasses spice cookies all day for the town cookout tonight.”

  “Does it look as though we’re going to get a good crowd?”

  “Mark says they’re fully booked for the weekend, and I’ve heard that the other B&Bs and hotels are the same.” Mark Grosse was Vicky’s boyfriend, the executive chef at the Yuletide Inn. “Mark also says, by the way, that Erica Johnstone checked in last night.”

  “Better tell the staff to beware of small explosions and flying ornamentation. If they were fully booked, how’d she get a room?”

  Vicky shrugged. “She’s Erica Johnstone. I assume she gets whatever she wants. She’s in one of the outbuildings. Two bedrooms, a small kitchen, a living room. She needed the extra space for her entourage.”

  “I don’t suppose Mark told you if Max Folger is . . . ahem . . . part of the entourage.”

  Vicky shook her head and brushed the long purple lock out of her eyes. “Do you need to talk, sweetie?”

  “I’m fine. I’m long past Max Folger, and as far as I’m concerned I made a lucky escape.”

  “You were engaged to him, Merry. You were in love with him, and he threw you over for another woman. How’d he go about breaking the news to you again? Oh yes. He sent you a text five minutes before you went into a staff meeting where it was announced that he was going to marry Erica. At least,” she added dryly, “he had the courtesy to send a text, so it wasn’t a total surprise. Your head knows you’re better off without him, but does your heart?”

  “Yes,” I said, emphatically. And I knew, even deep down, that it was true.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Although . . .” I remembered Alan, out last night with Amber. Nothing wrong with that, of course. Dinner with an old family friend, whatever could be more innocent?

  “What?” Vicky, who knew me so well, said.

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “If you want to talk to me about nothing, anytime, feel free.”

  “Thanks. How’s Mark?”

  “Perfect, absolutely perfect in every way.” She sailed out of the shop on a cloud of love, the scent of fresh baking floating behind her.

  Love. Who needs it?

  On the other hand we all need cinnamon buns. I pulled the still-warm pastry out of the bag and took that first marvelous bite. My taste buds did a happy dance.

  But love, in another way, was next through my doors. My dad. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and went straight to the point, as he usually did. “I hope you didn’t agree to go back to the city with Max Folger?”

  “You may rest assured that I didn’t,” I mumbled around a mouthful of pastry. I wiped my sticky fingers on a napkin. After licking off the last of the icing and sugary goodness, of course.

  “I know you have more sense than that, honeybunch. I never did like that man, although your mother told me I wasn’t to say so. I’m saying so now. She ran into him yesterday afternoon in town and had a few choice things to say about him when she got home. It’s good that the magazine is doing a story about the town, but not good what happened last night at A Touch of Holly. Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “Look on the bright side,” I said. “It might increase the number of visitors. People will be coming to Rudolph hoping to get a look at Erica. Celebrity sells.”

  “In these shallow times in which we live,” he said. As he talked, Dad wandered through the shop, picking up things here, putting them down there. I’d brought my iPad to the counter so I could work on the accounts while keeping an eye on the shop, and my business e-mail beeped with incoming. When I next looked up, Dad was taking the display of white and gold dishes and matching linens off the center table. “Hey! What are you doing? I worked hard arranging that. We’re featuring table settings for the weekend.”

  “You need tree decorations.”

  “I do not. It’s July. People aren’t thinking about decorating their tree, but they’re always thinking about entertaining.”

  He took the dishes into an alcove and came back with a box containing Alan’s eight-foot-long strings made of wooden cranberries and another of multicolored glass ornaments the size of marbles, each with a thin red ribbon for the hook. He arranged the decorations on the live rosemary plant trimmed into a triangle shape that was the centerpiece of the table.

  “I don’t want those there,” I said, feeling the need to keep arguing in the face of overwhelming odds, probably in the same way the passengers on the Titanic kept treading water long after the great ship had gone down. “We have a tree. In case you didn’t notice.”

  I kept a real tree in the shop all year round, draped with ornaments for sale. This month it was a beautiful Douglas fir. It had only gone up a few days ago, and the powerful scent still lingered in the air. Inspiring, I hoped, shoppers into a frenzy of advance holiday buying.

  “These small ornaments will get lost in that tree. This one is better.” He stepped back to admire his handiwork before fetching boxes of larger ornaments and scattering them around the rosemary bush.

  When the table was arranged to his satisfaction, I admitted defeat. “Are you going to the park tonight?”

  “No. Your mother and I are having dinner at the inn with Grace and Jack.” The owners of the Yuletide were close friends of my parents. “Santa is staying out of sight until his big arrival tomorrow. You are still planning to be on the boat with me, I trust?”

  “Yes, Dad. Although I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to wear. I’ll die in my Mrs. Claus costume.”

  “You’ll think o
f something, honeybunch,” he said.

  “Come to think of it, what are you going to do? Your costume is even heavier than mine.”

  He winked at me. “It’s a surprise. I’ve had my breakfast, but that bun you were eating has made me awfully hungry. I think I’ll pop over to Vicky’s before going home. Don’t tell your mother.” He gave me a kiss on the cheek and left.

  Jackie arrived spot on time for work. I didn’t have to wonder what had prompted this unusual circumstance. “You had a fight with Erica Johnstone over that man who was here yesterday! That’s so romantic. I wish I’d seen it, Merry.”

  “I didn’t fight with anyone and it wasn’t romantic in the least. I hope you’re not gossiping about me, Jackie.”

  She tried to look innocent. It was not a good look on her. Jackie’s boyfriend, Kyle Lambert, drifted into the store behind her. “I’d fight for Kyle,” she said. The man in question puffed up his skinny chest.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “So, are you going back to him?” she asked.

  “Back to Kyle? I’ve never been with Kyle.” Perish the thought.

  “Ha-ha. You’re so funny, Merry. Max Folger. He’s soooo handsome. A real dreamboat. That chiseled jaw, those dark eyes—a woman could drown in them. And then she could use his eyelashes to save herself.” Jackie was an eager reader of Regency romance novels. I cringed at the image. Kyle scowled. Kyle was a good-looking guy in his own way, but it was unlikely anyone ever called him a dreamboat.

  The chimes over the door tinkled, a group of women came in, and I was saved from continuing with that conversation. Kyle breezed out. Jackie put on her professional smile and went to help the new arrivals.

  We kept busy all morning. The town had advertised the Rudolph Christmas in July family weekend extensively throughout New York State as well as Pennsylvania and Ohio and even into Canada. Rudolph was filling with families here to watch Santa Claus begin his vacation. Toys, including Alan’s wooden train sets, sold briskly as did our jewelry to those people wanting to get a start on their holiday shopping.

  The decorations Dad had arranged, however, were not selling. I considered putting them back in the alcove and getting the dishes and linens out.

  Shortly before noon, I was thinking it was time for me to slip out in search of a coffee when coffee arrived for me. Russ Durham, the editor in chief of the Rudolph Gazette handed me a tall latte. “I hear our little town’s about to hit the big time, publicity-wise. Thought you might need this.”

  “Perfect,” I said, accepting the offering. “Thanks.”

  “And what about me?” Jackie said. “I could use a drink, too, you know.”

  “Sorry,” he replied. “Things are so tough in the newspaper business these days my salary only stretches to one extra treat a day.”

  Jackie huffed and continued replenishing the decorations on the big tree to replace the ones that had been picked over. A few customers were browsing, but no one seemed in need of my attention. I slipped onto the stool behind the counter. “It’s going to be a big coup, all right,” I said to Russ. “Having a magazine with the circulation of Jennifer’s Lifestyle doing a segment on us.”

  “Particularly after what happened at Christmas with World Journey magazine.”

  We sipped our drinks in silence, remembering what a disaster that had been. “I’ve just come from town hall,” Russ drawled in his deep Louisiana accent. “Sue-Anne, they tell me, is in Rochester today for a meeting of local mayors. I think that’s code for getting her hair done and shopping for a dress to wear for the cameras.”

  I laughed. Russ was a handsome man, charming, flirtatious, and overflowing with Southern grace. He’d begun spinning that magic on me, and for a while I’d teetered at the edge of falling under his spell. But then I realized that charming and flirty were simply the way he was, and his feelings for me had no depth. I’d pulled back from the edge of the cliff in time, and I was pleased we’d remained friends. Although, he still did drop the occasional little hint that he’d like to be more than friends.

  “Having Erica Johnstone herself in town,” I said, “is only going to create more interest.”

  “Erica’s here!” The blood drained out of his face.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t hear. She showed up last night. Quite the social media event, it turned out to be.”

  “I was in budget meetings all morning. I wonder,” he said in a low voice, “what she wants.”

  I didn’t tell him that I knew full well what she wanted. “When you were at town hall, did they say if everything’s on track for the boat parade? I don’t know what I’m going to wear. My Mrs. Claus costume . . .”

  I broke off at a gasp from Jackie. Her eyes were open wide and her jaw had dropped to her toes. I spun around as Erica Johnstone strolled into my shop. As one, the customers stepped back, taking themselves to the wings and giving Erica center stage. She was accompanied by her ever-present assistant Muriel; the young props assistant Amber; Jason, the photographer; and Willow, the style editor. Last of all came Max, strolling casually, hands in his pockets.

  “Gotta run,” Russ said. “I forgot about an important meeting.”

  And the editor in chief of our local newspaper ran out of the shop in the face of the biggest story to hit town all year. I didn’t have time to wonder what that meant. I hopped off my stool and came around the counter.

  “Isn’t this positively delightful?” Erica trilled, extending her long thin arms to take in the entire shop. “Max, darling, look at what our Marie has done here.”

  I stepped forward. “Merry.”

  She waved her hand. Her diamond ring flashed. “Of course you are. So lovely to see you.” She bent her head and we exchanged the required air kisses. Her floral perfume was strong and spicy, overlaying, but not able to hide, the scent of tobacco.

  More people began to arrive, pushing themselves into the already crowded shop. Erica held out her hand, and Max came up behind her and took it. He looked me straight in the face with no sign of contrition or embarrassment. “You simply must do a story on this shop, Max darling,” Erica said.

  “That’s a great idea, babe,” he said.

  “I think an entire article on miniature Christmas trees to run in December. That one there”—she pointed to the rosemary bush on the center table—“is perfect. Look at those delightful decorations. Don’t you just love love love the teeny balls and the red wooden beads on a string? They look exactly like cranberries.”

  “I love them, Erica,” Muriel gushed. As usual Muriel was dressed in shades of gray. A plain gray skirt, a button-down shirt with gray and white stripes, flat gray shoes. In this heat, she had panty hose on her legs and a gray scarf around her neck. She was a short, thin woman, black hair streaked with gray pulled into a tight bun. With her choice of colors, her size, and her constant nervous twitching, she put me in mind of a mouse. I wondered if the effect was deliberate. If she’d been ordered to dress that way, to ensure that Erica—bright colors, expensive fabrics, stiletto heels, lots of flashy jewelry—would stand out.

  At Erica’s words, whispers of approval ran through the shop. I was thinking I’d have to lock the doors before the room burst apart under the strain of all these people crowding in.

  “Merry has excellent taste.” Max, still holding Erica’s hand, gave me a big wink. What was he playing at?

  “That’s settled, then.” Erica snapped the fingers of her free hand. “Who’s in charge of props here?”

  Amber leapt forward, blushing to the roots of her fair hair. “Me. I mean, I am.” She’d discarded the retro look and today had dressed casually in distressed jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Her hair fell loosely around her face.

  “Get whatever we need. Oh, Max, isn’t that darling?”

  “Perfectly lovely,” he said, not much caring what had caught her eye. Erica dragged him across the room to the
jewelry display. She picked up a necklace, a long chain of interlocked gold rings with a center wreath bejeweled with beads of green and red glass. “Isn’t it beautiful, Max darling? It would be perfect for me to wear to Christmas parties.”

  He took the necklace from her and ran it through his fingers like a golden waterfall. “Let me buy it for you, babe. A pre-wedding gift.”

  “Oh, Max. Would you?” Erica sighed happily. The watching women whispered to one another. Max walked up to the main counter, making a big display of taking out his wallet. Jackie tripped over her own feet getting herself to the cash register in record time.

  Once it was paid for, wrapped in tissue, and popped into a store bag, Max presented his purchase to Erica. She kissed him on the lips with a loud smack. “My darling Max, you spoil me so much.” The watchers tittered. Tonight, husbands and boyfriends all across New York would be treated to the story of this shining example of how a man should behave toward the woman he loves. Erica pulled Max to her, smiled widely, and struck a pose. Max grinned, a man with nothing but a wedding on his mind. Bright lights flashed and the camera clicked repeatedly as Jason snapped a series of pictures with his enormous black Nikon.

  Erica spun around. Her eye was caught by a shelf near the counter, which displayed a choir of singing angels. Carved out of wood, ranging in height from about two inches to three feet, wearing gold-painted halos and white robes, they either sang from carol sheets held in their hands or blew trumpets. “How charming. Max, be sure you get those in our story.”

  Willow wrote in her notebook.

  “Now,” Erica said, “I know you people must have work to do, so I’ll take myself out of your way. Muriel!”

  “Yes, Erica?”

  Erica thrust the bag containing the necklace at Muriel, who slipped it into her cavernous tote bag. “I don’t want to go back to the hotel for lunch. Find us something nice but not too fancy.”

  I stepped forward and raised my voice to be heard at the very back of the packed room. “I can recommend Victoria’s Bake Shoppe. Excellent breads and pastries, everything homemade from scratch, fresh every day.” I eyed Erica’s frame, all jutting bones, sharp angles, and shadowy hollows. “And, uh, they serve organic salads and light soups, too.”