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I thought about my afternoon, about Callan's quick assertion to his nieces that they'd be attending the Nutcracker together and the careful flirting I was pretty sure had come after that. But then it had all turned. Confusion swept through my mind. "At first he was pretty cold," I said. "But then he kind of warmed up. His nieces were over—he's watching them, I guess—and we all decorated the Christmas tree he'd gotten for them, and things were pretty nice."
"Woah, really?" Annabelle said, dropping her empty glass hard on the table top. "Is that a normal part of your job—decorating and hanging out?"
I shook my head slowly. "Not really. I mean, the decorating part, kind of. I need to do whatever I can to get the houses set up for shooting. In Callan's case, that's pretty much everything. He's barely moved in, let alone decorated."
Annabelle lifted an eyebrow, making her elf hat tilt slightly to one side. One of her ears had become slightly detached and was askew, giving her the look of a deranged elf. "But you looked all gooey and cute when you were talking about the tree and the little girls." She pointed a finger at me. "You like him."
A little trickle of fear rolled through me as I downed the second glass of moonshine Annabelle had poured while I was talking. Did I? I certainly liked the way he looked. And maybe part of me felt a little pull to be what Cormac had suggested—to be a reason for Callan to move forward. But the last thing I needed was to become personally involved in another show I was working on. That was how I’d ended up here in the first place, swamped in a holiday I detested.
"I'm just trying to do my job," I said weakly.
"You're not a very good liar," Annabelle told me, pouring a bit more moonshine and then slamming it like a shot. She hiccupped and her other ear began to droop.
"Think we should lay off the moonshine?" I asked, feeling a bit tipsy myself. "Do you have to drive home?"
Annabelle began to giggle, swaying slightly side to side. "I'm just across the square. Apartment."
That wasn't the answer I had expected. I thought Annabelle must be someone's mother, must go home to a big house completely coated in Christmas, and a husband wearing a horrible sweater. But now that I looked, I noticed Annabelle's hands were free of jewelry, save for the reindeer ring on the middle finger of her right hand.
"Shall I walk you?" I asked, suddenly realizing I was becoming too involved with everyone here. I needed to get in, do my damned job, and get out. I wondered if the holiday cheer that infected this place like the black plague might be influencing me somehow. I’d thought I was immune, but the sound of jingle bells was insipid, worming in and striking when you least expected it. One time, years ago, I had found myself singing along toWhite Christmaswhen I was a little drunk and had sworn it would never happen again. I needed to harden my shields. No ex-soccer stars. No feeling sorry for lonely innkeepers. I had a job to do.
I walked Annabelle across the square outside, stopping to pick up the woman's ears as they toppled off and landed on the sidewalk along the way. I was unsurprised to find a sled leaned up against the corner outside Annabelle's door, decorated and painted. I had plenty of time to read it while Annabelle searched her purse for her keys. It read "Jingle all the Way." I smiled at the sentiment and at the innkeeper's single-minded obsession with the holidays, but then noticed another sentence painted in much smaller letters below. I squatted down to get a better look. It read, "Because no one likes a half-assed jingler."
I burst out laughing, and Annabelle shot me a confused look. When I pointed at her sign, Annabelle laughed along with me.
She'd found her keys and her door stood open. "Come in?"
I gave her arm a pat. "Another time," I said, feeling a little sad at the darkness that was beyond the door, no one to welcome Annabelle home—not even a chinchilla, I guessed. "Thanks for tonight."
Annabelle flashed a bright, half-drunk smile and went in. And I walked back to the inn, my mind simultaneously telling me to keep my distance and trying to figure out how to help the two loneliest people I’d met in a while as the moonshine buzzed through my veins, making me feel warm.
* * *
"Oh, hello!" A woman called before I had even managed to take three steps up the front path of the house where I’d just parked. This, according to my list, was the Tanners' house. It was an older Victorian style home, kind of like the inn, and it featured a wraparound front porch. The woman calling and waving to me from the railing had evidently been sitting on the porch, enjoying an afternoon cocktail with another, older, woman, who remained seated.
"Who is it, Lottie? Want me to shoot 'em?" the other woman said loudly, adding a cackle to the end of the question.
"Shush, Helen," Lottie said, turning to her friend. "We don't shoot guests."
"That's your first problem," the older woman said loudly. "Don't decide until you see who it is."
I approached the woman at the railing somewhat cautiously, hoping her friend didn't decide to go all vigilante and take matters into her own hands. Upon closer inspection, I doubted the old woman was actually packing. She had to be at least eighty, and she seemed too busy sipping a Manhattan to be really prepared to shoot anyone.
"Hi there," I said to the friendlier of the pair. "I'm April Hall, fromHoliday Homes?"
The woman on the porch squealed and clapped her hands. "Oh thank heavens," she said. "I thought maybe I'd been dropped from the list. I'm Lottie Tanner. Come in, come in!" She sang this last part and waved me up onto the wide porch, which was draped in garlands and smelled like a pine forest had been decimated and then made into a tea. Lottie Tanner, on the other hand, wore a simple red sweater and a pair of dark jeans with black boots. Her hair was cut in a wedge style, longer around her face, which was plump and pretty and friendly.
The older woman, who wore a sweat suit I was pretty sure she'd seen Lizzo wearing in a recent interview, scowled at me.
"Don't mind Helen," Lottie said, waving a hand at her friend. "She's suspicious by nature. Plus she's older than Santa and it makes her grumpy."
"You're no spring chicken, Lotts," Helen said, lifting her drink.
"Well," Lottie said, waving away Helen's observation. "What can I do for you, April? Manhattan?"
It was barely noon, and I didn't think drinking quite this early was a good way to salvage what was left of my job here. I needed to nail down two other homes this afternoon and potentially replace Callan's house if he wouldn't come around. "No thanks. I just need to ensure that everything is ready for the crew to come tomorrow."
"Not to worry! Everything is all ready. All my little chinchees are so excited." Right. The chinchillas. Lottie looked past my shoulder. "You're coming too, right, Helen?"
