by Lisa Plumley
In Reno’s experience, people who jabbered on about honesty were usually lying. Just like people who went on and on about how easy they were to work with—usually they weren’t. And people who were “soooo busy?” They always had time to bitch about it.
“That said, it won’t last forever,” Derek warned. “We love your concept here, but if you’re not interested in selling—”
“I’m not interested in selling.” With a grunt, Reno liberated a box of holiday decorations from a storeroom shelf.
“—I’m going to have to move on to other prospects, Reno.”
Pausing with the box in hand, Reno met Derek’s gaze directly. The man was dense. “I’d suggest you do that. Here.”
He handed over the box to the startled sales rep, then grabbed another carton of lights. He angled his head toward the front of the store. “Watch your step. These boxes are heavy.”
Not waiting for a reply, Reno made his way past a rack of T-ball uniforms and a bin of basketballs, both wreathed—as were most areas of The Wright Stuff—in strands of plastic holly.
The bell over the door jangled, alerting him to a pair of customers. A gust of frostbitten air whooshed inside, too.
He’d spent the first part of his morning shoveling snow from the sidewalk abutting his store, and the second listening to a bunch of hot air. If Detweiler had arrived a little earlier, he might have proved useful in clearing the snow.
Reno nodded to his customers. He recognized them as “team mothers” for one of the local little leagues. “Morning.”
Both women beamed back at him. One of them giggled.
Reno chatted a minute, made his standard offer to help them further if they needed it, then turned. Just as he’d expected, the sales rep had dogged his heels like a little yappy dog.
“I’ve put in a lot of time with you, Reno.” Derek huffed under the burden of his box. “I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t think it would pay off. If you franchised your store concept, you could become a millionaire practically overnight. So why don’t you be straight with me?” Another ingratiating smile. “What do I have to do, right now, to get you to say yes?”
“Put on a skirt and dance a tango.”
Detweiler stopped, a puzzled frown on his face.
Deadpan, Reno added, “With a rose in your teeth.”
“Er…”
Trying not to crack a smile, Reno waited.
The sales rep swept his gaze over Reno’s big boots, six-two flannel-and-denim-covered frame, and broad shoulders.
Nervously, he licked his lips. “You used to be a kicker for the Scorpions, Reno. You took hits in the NFL. You cracked ribs. You honestly want me to—”
“Shave your legs first.” Reno winked. “Looks prettier.”
With a gulp, Detweiler stared up at him. Then he shoved aside the box of C6 multicolored lights he’d been carrying and nodded decisively. “I’ll be back. You just wait and see. These macho games of yours don’t scare Derek Detweiler or Multicorp.”
With a jerk of his head—a hasty good-bye, Reno assumed—the man all but galloped out of the store, tickets and all. Left standing there with the shop bell’s jingle in his ears and his box of holiday light strings in his arms, Reno shrugged.
“You might not scare Detweiler,” someone said from nearby with a thud of boots, “but you damn well scare me.”
Nate Kelly stepped out from behind a floor-to-ceiling pegged display of football pads, wearing his usual good-natured grin plus a padded blue ski parka that made his six-five bulk look like the Michelin Man on steroids. He’d pulled a knit cap over his forehead, too. The look did nothing to dispel the overall impression that a jolly Cro-Magnon cavewoman and a shit-kicking jock had had a secret love child and named him Nate.
He arched a brow. “Am I supposed to wear a skirt now, too?”
“With your legs? Hell, no.”
“Because if it would make me a millionaire—”
Unavoidably, Reno stiffened. He didn’t want to talk about money. Especially with Nate.
“—like Derek the Dickless said, I’d do it. Right now.”
“Hey. Be nice.” Reno hauled his box of lights to the window, then took out a carton of clips. He shook out a handful. “Unless you’ve copped a feel lately, you can’t say that.”
“You’re the one who wants to see him in a dress.” Comfortably, Nate leaned against a display, watching Reno uncoil the first strand of lights. “I would have taken the freaking Florida vacation. I’ve got a school break coming up, you know.”
Reno did know. Aside from being a former Scorpions left tackle and Reno’s best friend since kindergarten, Nate was also Kismet High School’s current shop teacher. And more.
“Seriously, dude.” Nate eyed him with evident frustration. “When are you going to tell that chump to take a hike?”
“I already have. More than once.”
“Maybe…” Baring his teeth, Nate smacked his fist in his palm. “Derek needs a more forceful no.”
The two team moms skittered sideways, headed for a rack of peewee cheerleader outfits while keeping an eye on Nate.
“Easy, killer. You’re scaring the customers,” Reno warned.
He needn’t have bothered. Two seconds later, Nate’s mind was—typically—on something else. “Ooh! Christmas candy!”
The huge man wheeled sideways, making room in the doorway for a pair of preteen girls. They’d stopped outside the shop, spotted Reno, then beelined through the door.
“Hey, Mr. Wright! Want to buy some candy?” they chorused.
They held up their boxes of colorfully packaged ribbon candy, candy canes, and red-and-green-sprinkled chocolates.
Reno glanced down at them, clamped his light string under his elbow, then fished for his wallet. “Sure, girls. How much?”
“For how many?” one of the girls asked.
“The whole box.” Reno nodded at it. “I’ll take them all.”
“Wow! Really?” Excitedly, they put their heads together. Whispered about the price. Counted on their fingers, flicking their pink-painted nails. Finally, they announced a total.
Nate almost choked on it. “For candy? Is it gold plated?”
“Doesn’t matter.” With a smile, Reno peeled off some bills. Within minutes, he was waving good-bye to the squealing girls.
“You’re crazy, Daddy Warbucks.” His buddy hooked his thumb toward the storeroom. “Or maybe you forgot that you’ve already got about six dozen boxes of that stuff back there?”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“Hmmph. Next you’ll be adopting baby kittens.”
“Or something even more unbelievable.” Reno pegged up the first few Christmas lights. “Like watching you work.”
Laughing, Nate started rummaging around the sales floor near the window, sorting through baseball mitts and tennis rackets while Reno painstakingly strung lights.
Finally Nate emerged, a catcher’s facemask in hand.
“Hey, can I borrow this? We’re starting a unit on tuna melts this week. With the broilers running—and probably the kids running around, too—I don’t want to take any chances.”
Holding an extension cord, Reno stared at him blankly.
“My students aren’t the most graceful.” Nate tried on the facemask, punched his palm, then crouched in a ready position. “If I had one of these, I could deflect accidents.”
In the most recent rash of school budget cutbacks, Kismet High had eliminated the home economics teacher. Theirs was a fairly rural area—a resort town of around a thousand residents when it wasn’t tourist season—and a place steeped in tradition, from the buildings along the riverfront and marina to the restored railroad depot in old town. No one had felt right about eliminating home ec altogether.
Since home ec and shop were one-semester classes, Nate—burly, boisterous, and macho—had been elected to teach both.
His friend waited patiently. Reno’s customers neared the cash register, and a few more wandered
in from outside. They smiled as they caught the holiday tunes. Some waved at him.
“Take it,” Reno said. But as Nate whipped off the facemask, preparing to carry it away in one huge gloved paw, Reno clamped his hand on it. “On one condition. This year, in Kayla’s first-grade Christmas pageant, you’re going to be—”
“Aww, hell, Reno. Don’t say it.”
“—an elf.”
“Jesus. Not again. After showing up in public in that getup last year, I couldn’t get a date until Valentine’s Day.”
“That had nothing to do with the curly elf shoes.” Grinning, Reno dragged over a ladder, preparing to tackle the top of the store window with another row of lights. When it came to Christmas, there was no such thing as too much. “That had to do with you not asking anyone out for two months.”
Tightening his mouth, Nate stared at the facemask.
“And I’d hardly call chaperoning the Valentine’s Day dance with Glenda Nielson a ‘date.’” Reno ascended the ladder. “You supervised a punch bowl together. If that qualifies as a date, I’ve probably been married once or twice and didn’t know it.”
Nate offered a middle-finger salute. “Ha-ha. Easy for you to say, big shot. Just for that, I’m putting leftover tuna melt in your Santa Claus suit.”
“Hey, take a swing or step off the plate. That’s all I’m saying.” Reno couldn’t stand it when people complained about things they were perfectly capable of doing something about. He spotted his team-mom customers still wandering around, their foreheads wrinkled in thought. “Back in a minute.”
Both women glanced up as he neared them. One giggled, the other blushed, and they both shared a meaningful glance.
“I’ll bet you’re shopping for Christmas gifts for your sons.” With a flourish, Reno brought two basketball jerseys from behind his back. “How about these? They’re pretty popular.”
With a squeal, the women grabbed the colorful jerseys.
“We’ve been looking all over for these!” one said.
“How did you know?” the other added.
Reno shrugged. “Making people happy is what I do.”
Near the window, Nate made elaborate gagging noises.
Reno flipped him off behind his back. Grinning, he faced his customers again. “I’ve got gift boxes if you need them.”
He led the women to the cash register, pausing only an instant on the way to offer another customer exactly the football he needed for his granddaughter’s stocking stuffer.
Ringing up the sale was fast work. So was consulting with the other half dozen shoppers in his store, chatting with them long enough to figure out what they were looking for, then outfitting them with the perfect item. You didn’t get that kind of service from a franchise store, Reno reminded himself as his last customer headed into the snowy Saturday with an overloaded shopping bag in hand. You only got it from guys like him. Independent guys with a commitment to the community.
Satisfied, he went to join Nate again.
By now, his buddy had probably finished the next couple of strands of lights and had started on the painted window decorations. Last year, Reno had hired a freelance Kismet company to do the job, but he hadn’t been happy with the results. This year, he’d bought several holiday stencils and a huge pack of paint, and intended to tackle the job himself.
As he should have predicted, Nate was not working. Instead, the hefty man lolled beside an unopened carton of soccer balls, his hands full of the candy box Reno had bought. Nate popped another piece of peppermint bark as Reno approached, chewed happily, then licked his fingers. He went back for more.
Reno nudged a string of tinsel with his foot, then crossed his arms. He stared at Nate, one brow arched.
His friend glanced up. “What’s the matter?”
“You’re supposed to be hanging Christmas lights.” This happened every year. “That’s what you came down here for.”
“I am hanging Christmas lights.”
Reno gave the candy box a pointed look.
“Hey, a guy’s gotta keep up his strength.” With a blithe grin, Nate chose a candy cane next. He popped it in his mouth. “You can’t help anyone else until you help yourself, right?”
God help him. Nate was a philosopher now.
“I wouldn’t know.” Reno wound up an extension cord, then shouldered it to climb the ladder. He added a loop of chaser light strands. “I’m usually busy helping somebody else.”
Pretty much, that was his job. Go-to guy. Hometown hero.
Nate exhaled. Like a giant kid, he made a production of setting aside the candy, brushing candy cane dust off his shirt, then grabbing some lights. But his grin was cheery as he headed for the store’s other window, and his hands were quick as he finally got serious about getting the job done. Too quick.
Reno glanced over. “Here. Let me help you straighten that.”
“Yes, captain.” Nate veered sideways to give Reno room.
“More lights. You’re putting on another strand, right?”
“Aye, aye, matie.” Nate paused, then scrutinized the multiple strands of minilights in his hands. “Unless that’s too many. I don’t want to blow a fuse or something.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Reno said. “Just keep stringing and leave the planning to me. I’ve got a date later, and I want this finished before I go.” He peered closer. “Hang on, let me…”
He straightened the strand of lights Nate was clipping up, then surveyed the effect with approval. That was better.
“Don’t worry about it, fancy pants. I’m on the job.”
That’s what Reno was afraid of. But with little choice in the matter if he wanted to finish decorating and help customers until his part-time clerk came in, he’d have to roll with it.
To tell the truth, he didn’t mind. The view was pretty nice from up here. Kismet’s main street rolled away from The Wright Stuff on both sides, hemming it in snugly between souvenir shops, cafés, and at least three Realtors who specialized in lakefront vacation homes. Most of the other shops were being decorated this weekend, too, in preparation for the annual Christmas parade and holiday light show—a Kismet specialty.
Already city workers had strung SEASON’S GREETINGS banners across the street and hung wreaths on the old-fashioned light poles at each corner. Even the fire hydrants were festooned with candy cane-style red and white stripes. The snowdrifts and foot traffic—busy, bundled-up local shoppers and a few stalwart out-of-towners—only added to the overall holiday ambiance.
His store, like his house, would outshine them all, Reno vowed as he added another extension cord and strung more lights. It would be the brightest, the most colorful, the biggest—
There was a subtle pop…then the whole place went dark.
Chapter Four
Reno strode into the kitchen at six-thirty that night, sidestepping several boxes of still-to-be-used Christmas decorations and passing his dad at the kitchen table.
He was meeting his date for dinner in less than half an hour. He’d worked overtime at the store today, dealing with those blown fuses and overloaded circuits—and buying more Christmas candy from neighborhood kids—and he didn’t want to be late. But if he didn’t pull himself together pretty quickly….
“Where are my damn socks, Dad? I thought you were going to do some laundry today.”
“Didn’t have time.” Casually, Tom Wright spooned up some chili—hearty-man style, the can read. “I was at the gym.”
Reno scoffed. “The gym?”
“I’m getting buffed up.” His dad offered a dignified lift of his chin. “If I could wedge a Bowflex or an Ab Roller into my new workout room”—when he’d moved in, his dad had decided the guest bedroom was a better place for getting “pumped up” than for sleeping in, and had moved out the bed in favor of a weight bench and elliptical trainer—“it would make things a lot easier. Doesn’t matter though. I can get heavy-weight training at the gym and cardio here. The babes are going to go crazy for me.”
“Ha. Funny way she has of showing it. One simple gesture—”
Reno gave up. He couldn’t listen to the rest of this rationale. Not again. His parents’ argument had brought him nothing but trouble so far, and it wasn’t even Christmas yet.
“I know. I sympathize, Dad. Hang in there.” Giving up on his search, Reno put his hands on his hips. He faced his father. “And for the last time, stop wearing my socks.”
An indignant look. “But I can’t find mine!”
“They’re all over the living room floor. Right next to your underwear.” Exasperated, Reno shook his head. “When you’re done wearing them, just put them in the hamper. That’s all I ask.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Reno headed back to his bedroom. Today’s leftover socks would have to do. He didn’t plan on getting naked down to his toes with Sheila—one of those downtown Realtors—anyway.
“Just quit bugging me, Reno.” His dad’s voice trailed him down the hallway. “Geez. You’re always on my case!”
“I am not!” Reno called back. He thought about it. “Don’t forget to put your damn chili bowl in the dishwasher.”
“Control freak,” his dad muttered.
But Reno only grinned. If making life a little less cushy at their bachelor pad made his dad run back home to his mom…well, that would be the best Christmas present of all.
Reno had one hand on his doorknob, ready to leave, when he saw it—a folded slip of red paper, lying forlornly on the rug.
“Dad!”
Grumpily, his father emerged from the kitchen, holding a bottle of imported beer in his dubious grasp and wearing a pair of what appeared to be plastic pants. Across their high-waisted front, the words SWEATMASTER 2000 were emblazoned in macho type.
Reno waggled the red paper. “Where’s the rule book?”
“Huh?”
“The rule book that goes with this slip of paper. This is the cover sheet, but there should be a rule book someplace, too.”