by Jane Porter
She wrinkled her nose. Oh dear. It hadn’t crossed her mind that she’d need to be actually selling to people when they walked in. She might need someone with a sales personality.
Or someone who knew books and liked people.
When creating a window display one started with a story, based on a theme.
Rachel stopped reading again and rubbed her eyes, feeling as if she was back in a high school English class. Stories and themes. This was so not for her.
And then she told herself to buck up, this was just research, she couldn’t be intimidated by an article on the internet. She continued reading. Storytelling serves as one of the most critical business tools.
She was to use her “storytelling prowess” to elevate her window.
And then she was to sketch her idea—
Rachel closed her laptop. No. No, no she couldn’t come up with a story, and sketch out her windows, and then identify her focal points, and where her center line was. She had no center line, or focal points, sketching capability, or storytelling prowess. And she certainly had no idea how to deliver on the directive “To Be Bold in Every Way.”
She’d spent her life not being bold.
She’d succeeded by working alone, quietly, under the radar for years.
But she did need to get people inside the store. And she obviously had to start building a relationship with customers.
Novak & Bartley regularly held client events. They had parties and golf tournaments and maybe she needed to host something, too.
Maybe she should have an open house, but it would have to be soon.
Saturday was the Marietta Stroll.
Why not do it tomorrow night? She could host the party from five to seven, so that people, when leaving work, could just stop in.
*
Rachel printed flyers for her window and front door, and then walked an extra flyer up to Taylor at the Marietta Library. Taylor wasn’t in, so Rachel left it with the woman at the reception desk. She texted Atticus about her party, and sent Zane a text, too. And then she planned her menu, and went grocery shopping, stopping by the Mercantile on her way home to see if they carried a Crock-Pot, and they did. It was a haul getting everything up to the third floor but Rachel was in a great mood as she twisted her hair into a knot, pushed up her sleeves, and got to work cooking and baking with Christmas carols playing in the background on her phone.
She sang along with the carols while she maneuvered baking sheets in and out of the small oven, and made her father’s favorite tangy meatballs. She’d have a cheese and vegetable tray, her meatballs, and cookies and baked goods for dessert. She’d bought a couple bottles of wine, as well as some fizzy water, but maybe she’d ask Atticus to pick up some extra wine. It was so hard to know what people would drink, and how much they’d drink.
She went to bed tired but happy. It had been years since she’d thrown a party. She felt a little rusty but it was exciting to be doing something here, in Marietta, in her bookstore.
Atticus arrived Friday morning at nine with a tray of two coffees but no briefcase. He was dressed down, too, wearing jeans, and work boots and a chocolate-brown flannel shirt.
“No work today?” she asked him as he placed a coffee in front of her and took the other.
“You’re serious about this party?” he answered.
“Yes. You saw my sign in the window. I’m having a holiday open house. Everyone’s invited.”
“Then we need to go get you a tree.”
“What?”
“You can’t have a holiday open house without holiday decorations, and what is more festive than a Christmas tree?”
“I was going to ask you to pick up a few more bottles of wine.”
“I can do that, but decorations are essential.”
She glanced around the bookstore, her frugal side not at all that convinced. “Do we really need a tree?”
“Don’t you think it’d be beautiful?” He pointed to an area near the stairs. “You could get a really big one, and put it there, and it’d be a centerpiece—”
“A really big tree would cost a lot of money, and would require a lot more lights and decorations—”
“And that would cost a lot of money, too,” he finished for her.
She shrugged uncomfortably. “What about a tabletop tree? Something that could sit here on the counter next to my food?”
“Boring. And you want something people can see from outside the store. Something that makes them want to come in.”
“I’ve changed the display in the window that faces Main,” she said helpfully.
“I saw the crates.”
“And the books. There are six children’s books now displayed, all with really bright illustrated covers.”
“But the poinsettias.”
“Why do you hate poinsettias?”
“I don’t. But what do they have in common with children’s books? Aren’t they toxic?”
“If chewed on, but who is going to eat them?”
“If it were me, I would keep the display thematic. If you’re displaying children’s books, maybe add children’s toys?”
“Not you, too.” She groaned. “Themes will be the death of me.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Never mind. It’s a very private, unfunny joke.”
“If you want, I can go get a Christmas tree, and it’ll be my contribution, along with a couple bottles of wine, to the party.”
She glanced out the window. The sky was gray and thick with high clouds. “It looks miserable out.”
“I think we’re going to see some snow.”
She perked up at the mention of snow. The California girl in her still found snow rather miraculous. “And you’re still comfortable getting a tree if it does snow?”
“It’s not hard to drive in snow.”
She was still looking out the window, trying to read the weather.
“I thought I’d drive to the Gallagher Tree Farm,” he added. “See what it’s like for myself.”
Now he was just torturing her. “I wish I could go,” she said, feeling a wistful pang.
“Why don’t you?”
“Who will manage the store?”
Atticus choked on a smothered laugh. “I think you could put a sign in the window that said you’d be open at noon today. No one would mind.”
“Could we really be back in a couple hours?”
“If we left now.”
*
It began to snow on the drive to the tree farm. The first few flakes were slow and scattered. The wind that guested from Yellowstone North through the Paradise Valley blew the fat lacy snowflakes every which way. Gradually the snow began to fall steadier, the flurries thickening, dusting the valley in white.
Rachel could hardly contain her excitement. She’d obviously seen snow before but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually watched it snow. The powdery white flakes were magical and they piled lightly on tree branches like mounds of delicate meringue. She felt Atticus’s gaze, and glanced at him, flashing him a delighted smile. Between baking for tonight’s party, and this unexpected trip to the tree farm, she felt as if she was starting to get in the holiday spirit.
They turned off the highway and followed the signs for the tree farm, with the windshield wipers moving back and forth, softly swishing away the falling snow as they pulled into the farm’s gravel parking lot. On the right side of the parking lot was a huge barn and in between the lot and the barn were dozens and dozens of cut trees. Some of the trees were upright in stands while others were stacked on the ground.
As they exited the car and headed toward the trees, a man in a thick parka and baseball cap approached. He held out his hand, introducing himself. “Sawyer Gallagher,” he said, with an easy smile. “Welcome.”
“You’re Gallagher of Gallagher Tree Farms,” Rachel said.
“I am.”
“We’ve come for a tree,” she said.
“You’ve
come to the right place then. We grow all of our own trees, and carry pines, firs, and spruce. We also sell wreaths, and holiday decorations in the barn. You’ll also find hot cider and cocoa in the barn, too, so head that way anytime you need to thaw out and warm up.”
“Sounds good,” Atticus answered.
“Have a look around, take your time, and let me know when I can help you.”
Rachel tried to steer Atticus to the smaller trees, but he was having none of it. “This is my gift to you in the bookstore. You can’t dictate my gift.”
“We just don’t have room for a fir tree in that store.”
“You have plenty of room. Trust me.”
“A bigger tree will require more lights and ornaments.”
“I’m handling the tree. You’re just along for the ride.” And then he smiled to soften the words and she couldn’t help smiling back.
“You are so bossy,” she said.
“Maybe because you are very stubborn.”
She laughed, and reached up to brush a smattering of snowflakes from her cheek. “It’s really starting to come down.”
“It’s a perfect day.”
“It really is,” she agreed.
“This is why I want to have a restaurant here. I’m really comfortable in Montana. It’s becoming a second home.”
“Do you ever think you can live here?”
“At the Gallagher’s? No. But Marietta? Yes.”
She lightly punched his arm, near his bicep. “You are so ridiculous.”
“But it makes you smile.”
She nodded once, cheeks flushing. “Yes, it does,” she admitted softly.
His eyes locked with hers, his blue gaze intent, and searching. There was so much warmth and kindness in his eyes. On one hand, he was a tall, rugged, intimidating man, and yet he treated her gently, as if she were delicate and valuable. She couldn’t remember anyone ever treating her as if she were so valuable. Her eyes stung and a lump filled her throat.
She was falling for him. In fact, she may have already fallen for him.
They ended up with a ten-foot fir tree. It wasn’t incredibly wide, just tall and slender, but still, it was so big that part of the tree hung over the back of the SUV after Sawyer and Atticus had tied it to the roof.
How on earth was this massive tree going to fit in her store? And more importantly how was this tree going to be decorated in time for the party tonight?
They didn’t leave the tree farm until Atticus had filled the back seats with two wreaths, a half-dozen boxes of miniature white lights, and another half-dozen boxes of ornaments. She gasped at the total when Sawyer rang up the purchase, but Atticus didn’t blink when he handed over his credit card. He didn’t seem the least bit perturbed that he’d just spent hundreds of dollars when Rachel knew they could have purchased used ornaments for a lot less elsewhere.
“Stop making that face,” Atticus said, as he shifted into drive. “I didn’t rob a bank, and I committed no crime.”
“I’m just uncomfortable with you spending that kind of money on a tree for my bookstore.”
“If you’re going to be throwing a party tonight, you might as well have the store decked out for the holidays. It’s good for business and it’s good for morale and I have no regrets.”
“And who is going to do all the work of decorating the tree?”
“You and me.”
“I have work to do.”
He gave her an amused look. “What?”
“Well, I need to make the punch.”
His lips twitched. “And what else?”
“I have to set up a card table and arrange the food.”
He glanced at the clock on the dash. “It’s only noon now. We have all afternoon.”
“And I’m starving.”
“I can pick up some sandwiches from the diner, and we can eat as we work.”
“You have an answer for everything.”
The corner of his mouth tilted. “I do.”
*
It stopped snowing midafternoon and Marietta’s snowplows were out in full force, scraping streets clean. By dusk the Christmas lights were coming on, and Paradise Books glimmered with light from its magnificent Christmas tree.
Atticus had helped her move some of the furniture around and he’d managed to borrow a chafing dish and a silver tiered stand from the Graff for her meatballs and cookies. He returned to the hotel to shower and dress and she took the fastest shower ever, before dressing in trousers she’d paired with a red blouse and sparkly earrings. She hadn’t brought anything too fancy with her but she felt pretty and festive as she descended the stairs and unlocked the door, ready for her guests.
She knew that people tended to be late, so she didn’t worry when she was alone for the first twenty minutes. Rachel poured herself a glass of red wine and made small adjustments to her refreshment table before doing a walk around the towering Christmas tree, which they decorated with white lights and clear glass balls mixed in with some colored ornaments. It had struck Rachel as a little simplistic at the time of purchase, but now with the lights slightly dimmed, the tree looked so pretty.
She returned to the counter where she’d arranged the wine bottles and her fruit punch, a recipe her mom used to make. Rachel wasn’t sure she’d gotten all the juice to soda ratio quite right but it tasted good and looked pretty with the orange slices and cranberries bobbing on top.
When it was quarter to six and still no one had yet come, she began to worry.
But then the door opened and it was Zane Nash, followed by Atticus and Troy and Taylor Sheenan. Zane’s wife couldn’t come as one of the kids were sick and she’d stayed home with the children, but Zane had brought wine, and Troy and Taylor had brought a large cinnamon scented candle wrapped in tissue. Rachel lit the candle and placed it on the counter next to the wine bottles and Atticus poured wine for everyone. After a bit Rachel invited Taylor to come up and see her little apartment on the third floor while the guys manned the door and greeted the other guests. Only no one else came.
She’d made food for fifty. Drinks for twice that, including her massive bowl of punch.
It was nearing seven and she eyed the chafing dish filled with meatballs and tried not to dwell on the fact that only a few had been eaten.
“Excellent punch,” Atticus said, ladling some of the bright red liquid into his cup.
“Good to hear,” she answered, smiling tightly, not wanting him to know just how disappointed she was.
“Your meatballs are very good, too.”
“My grandmother Gerber’s recipe. That was my mom’s mom.”
“The grandmother who loved Jessica Fletcher?”
Rachel’s eyes stung and she blinked as she smiled hard. “The very one.” Her voice had deepened and her heart felt banged up and she hated that she was getting so emotional. She’d been so sure people would come.
Atticus stabbed a meatball with a toothpick, and popped it into his mouth and she turned away, unable to watch because he was the only one eating her food, and even with his most valiant efforts, there was no way Atticus could eat four dozen tangy meatballs.
She suddenly wished he wasn’t here.
She wished he hadn’t come tonight.
It would have been more bearable if he hadn’t witnessed her humiliation.
Troy and Taylor approached with their coats, and Rachel’s stomach fell. They were already leaving.
“I’m so glad you invited us,” Taylor said.
“I’m so glad you came,” Rachel answered.
“The bookstore looks fantastic,” Troy said. “Lesley would be really pleased.”
“She would,” Taylor echoed. “And she’d be so happy to know you have the store open for the holidays. It was always her favorite time of the year.”
Rachel was not going to cry. She was not even going to allow a single tear to well up. “I hope she’d be proud.”
“We should take some pictures and send them to her,” Taylor said, glanci
ng at Troy. “She’d like that, wouldn’t she?”
“Maybe another night during the holidays,” Rachel said, not at all in the mood for photos right now.
“But the bookstore looks so pretty right now,” Taylor said.
Rachel’s gaze went to Atticus where he was leaning against one of the upholstered chairs talking to Zane. “I’ll have Atticus take some before I dismantle the buffet.”
Troy followed her gaze. “He’s not being pushy, is he?”
“He’s been amazing,” Rachel answered honestly. “He’s been”—her voice cracked and she broke off, and bit hard into her lower lip to keep control—“supportive,” she finished, when she could.
“I’m glad. He can be… intense,” Taylor said, looking up at her husband.
Rachel didn’t miss the exchanged glances. “I know he’s interested in the bookstore. He’s made an offer. But he’s giving me time to figure out what I want to do, and I appreciate that.”
“He’s smart,” Troy said. “And honest.”
“You can trust him,” Taylor added.
“And I do.”
Troy and Taylor said their goodbyes then and left. Zane was next to go, and Atticus walked out with him, and she watched him go, feeling her heart tumble. Atticus was too handsome, as well as too smart. He was also too charismatic, and far too appealing.
She didn’t date brilliant men with sexy smiles that resembled movie stars.
She didn’t like larger than life personalities.
She didn’t enjoy challenges that weren’t spreadsheet or tax related. She didn’t enjoy challenges that involved emotions. And she certainly avoided challenges that came in the form of a devastatingly handsome male with endless options.
Rachel understood why she was attracted to Atticus—he was rather magnificent—but to be so impractical as to actually fall for him? To have real feelings for him? It was beyond foolish. It was desperate. Immature. Atticus treated her like a kid sister or a good friend, which would be fine if her own feelings were platonic. But they weren’t and she didn’t know how she’d even fallen for him. She’d thought she’d kept her guard up pretty well until the day she realized… there was no guard, and she did care for him, a great deal.