Page 9 of Solstice

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The woman at the desk leaned over Dori’s vendor application form, her eyes zipping along the lines from behind black horn-rims that looked great on her. Dark hair, short and fluffy. Black eyeliner and violet eyes. Pretty woman.

There were other desks in the little room at the town hall. Christmas songs jingled merrily from a radio on one of them, and white holiday lights, twined with silver garland, dipped and draped from the windows.

The woman looked up, smiling. “You’re Gerald’s niece, aren’t you? The one who used to come out summers and help him run the Champ tours?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Well, that makes more sense, then.” She slid the application back across the table. “This isn’t gonna do, hon.”

“I’m sorry?” Dori wasn’t sure she’d heard the woman correctly.

“Well, see this is a holiday craft fair. The tables we rent are for folks who want to sell arts and crafts. You know, quilts and afghans, homemade candles and centerpieces, floral arrangements, jewelry.”

“I know what crafts are.” Dori pushed her application back across the desk. “Reading tarot cards is a craft.”

“That’s all well and good, but it’s not what this craft fair is about, Ms. Stewart. This isn’t some New Age freak show.”

“Well, then we’re in luck, because I’m not some New Age freak. And there is nothing in the list of rules and conditions you have posted that precludes me telling fortunes at my table, so long as I pay the fee and am a resident of the town. I’m paying the fee and I’m a resident of the town. So you can’t deny me a table.”

The woman picked up the application form this time and handed it to Dori. “This is not in keeping with the holiday spirit on which our event is based.”

“Seeing the future on the night of the Winter Solstice is one of the oldest holiday traditions there is.”

“According to whom?”

“Dickens, for one.”

“Dickens who?”

“Charles Dickens, you illiterate twit.”

“I...I...” The woman rose from her chair, her face reddening.

“It might interest you to know the police chief thought it was a great idea that I buy a table at this stupid little show.” Yeah, the police chief she’d been thinking about all night. Having him in her kitchen had been like throwing a switch— powering up feelings she’d buried long ago. She’d dreamed about him!

Clearing her throat, she continued with her rant. “But if you insist on discrimination. I’ll be happy to organize the noisiest, most un-Christmas-spirited protest march outside this event that you could ever hope to see!”

They stood facing each other over the desk. The entire room went silent as everyone stopped to stare.

Then a heavyset man came trundling over to the two of them, his cheeks as red as Saint Nick’s. “Now, now, ladies, what seems to be the problem here?”

“This woman refuses to process my application for a table at the Holiday Craft Fair,” Dori accused.

The man’s eyebrows shot up and he turned to the woman. “Mrs. Redmond, is this true?”

“She wants to set up a Gypsy fortune-telling booth, Thomas.”

“Gypsy is a pejorative term. It’s a tarot-reading booth,” Dori corrected.

“It’s ungodly. Un-Christian. We can’t have it.”

“Oh, now, Mrs. Redmond, it’s not up to us to decide what’s godly or ungodly. This isn’t a church-sponsored event. It’s for the whole town.”

“But...but—”

“Now, Miss uh...oh, say, you’re Gerald Stewart’s niece, back from New York City, aren’t you?”

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