Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“And we’re saving up calories for the festival,” Mrs. Templeton adds, clapping her hands. “We can’t wait for it to start. It’s one of our favorite events of the entire year.”
“Oh, me, too. So much fun,” I say automatically as the Templetons wave goodbye and head out to their car, though I’m honestly not sure how I feel about the festival anymore.
Back when I was a kid running wild through the booths, having snowball fights with my friends while my parents sold fudge, I adored Tinsel Time. I still love how much revenue the festival brings to town—it’s our primary fundraiser for both the library and road repair—but in the past few years, my opinion of the cutesy small-town shtick has soured.
We present a merry, magical front, but behind the scenes, Reindeer Corners suffers from the same ills as any other aging mountain town.
Our Select Board is full of grouchy old people who refuse to approve permits to build affordable housing for young people and families, insisting on “preserving the historic nature” of the town, while housing grows so scarce and prices so inflated that most people born and raised here can’t afford to stay unless they move in with their parents.
The housing crisis is further exacerbated by millionaires and investors snatching up smaller homes for cash and turning them into vacation rentals. Or, even worse, setting up a fake Christmas tree in the home’s living room and leaving it up year-round, because they only visit their “holiday place” from December Twenty-Second to January Third. The rest of the year, the homes sit empty, taunting those of us shacking up in studio apartments above our grandmother’s garage with visions of what could have been, if we’d been born somewhere else, where everything wasn’t so damned cute and tourist friendly.
“Your inner Grinch is showing again,” Kayla whispers inches from my ear, making me flinch and my heart leap into my throat.
“Peppermint sticks,” I curse, laughing as I turn to face her. “You scared me.”
She grins, her green eyes flashing as bright as the sequins on her blinged-out Frosty the Snowman earrings. “You didn’t look scared. You looked grouchy.”
I huff and flap my hand. “I’m not grouchy. I’m having a fantastic day spreading holiday cheer during the most magical time of the year.”
“Right.” Kayla crosses her arms over her ample chest and lifts her freckled nose. With her blond hair and permanently rosy cheeks, she looks like a young Mrs. Claus, even when she’s not wearing the inn’s signature red-and-white striped sweater and matching bow.
I have to work harder to look appropriately festive. I use blush to brighten my pale cheeks and add caramel highlights to my black-like-my-soul hair to brighten it up.
At least, I usually do.
This year, I dyed it all black for my Lydia Deetz, Beetlejuice-inspired Halloween costume and never got around to highlighting it again. That eighty dollars was better spent on a new space heater. My tiny apartment above Gran’s garage gets chilly in the winter and my old heater fizzled out last April.
Yes, it’s still freezing cold in Reindeer Corners in April. I didn’t think much of that when I was a child and didn’t know any better. But after living in New York City for four years and experiencing how lovely a milder spring can be, I lose my sense of humor about the cold by the end of March.
“Well, you don’t look like you’re feeling the magic,” Kayla doubles down. “You look like a cat peed in your cocoa.”
“Ew,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “I take that to mean the litter box training isn’t going so well?”
She sighs. “Smithers is still peeing in my snow boots. Every night. I had to wear my tennis shoes out to the car this morning and almost killed myself on the ice.”
Clucking my tongue, I mutter, “I’ve already shared my solution.”
She rolls her eyes. “I can’t fill my old snow boots with litter and buy new snow boots. Boots aren’t intended to be litter boxes.” She props her hands on her hips with a huff. “And knowing Smithers, he’d decide he liked peeing in both pairs, and I’d be back where I started. He’s a menace.”
“But an adorable one,” I add.
“So adorable,” she coos, pulling out her phone. “Look at the shot I took of him last night by the fire in his reindeer antlers! Isn’t he the most precious thing? I’m going to print this one out and hang it on the community bulletin board out front. Our guests will love it!”
As I make appropriately girly noises over the cuteness that is Smithers, Voice of Doom pipes up again, insisting, You will never love anything as much as Kayla loves this cat. Your heart is turning into a lump of coal. By the time you’re thirty-five, you’ll be completely dead inside.