Page 22 of The Holiday Whoopie
Business loans, equipment, overhead, taxes, marketing, ad spend… so much so that I just can’t remember anything about registering Making Whoopie’s name.
The name that someone, somewhere else in Maine, is claiming they own and insisting I stop using—or else.
Jack’s hand gently squeezes my shoulder.
Warm. Steady. Real.
“Listen, I’m not licensed to practice law in Maine, but I know enough to say this is meant to scare you. It doesn’tmean you have to stop working—not until any real legal action is taken by the other party.”
He pauses, as if expecting a response.
I manage to nod.
“And I have a list of lawyers whocanpractice in Maine thanks to Amanda wanting to shoot a film here. I can call them.” He shrugs. “I mean, they’re entertainment lawyers, but they’ll know enough to get us pointed in the right direction to take care of this.”
Us?The word overrides the ‘Cease and Desist’ refrain looping in my mind.
Whatever he sees in my expression has his lips tilting upward. “I mean, I already spent the better part of the morning offering free legal advice to half the town on matters of lawn-gnome custody and reindeer-induced property damage. Why not add a commercial dispute to the list?”
My gut twists. This time it doesn’t have to do with the very real and worrying legal problem but with him lumping me together with every other small-town legal problem he’s been solving on the street corners.
Which is dumb. Because of course this is no big deal for a hotshot city lawyer like himself to deal with. It’s fine if I’m just another ridiculous Hideaway resident with a legal issue he can resolve to alleviate his boredom while he bides his time in aggressively decorated small-town America.
His condescending nonchalance is much better than the emotional jabs I’d take if I asked my mother for help.
Better the devil youkind ofknow.
Decision made, I shrug off his hand and offer my own. “You’re hired.”
OVER-BEATEN
Audrey
Ihave a squatter problem.
From my spot near the cooling racks, I watch Jack Lourd—my bakery’s newest, most irritating cohabitant—rifle through my business files while I pipe cream into pies in the lull after the Sunday morning rush.
Three days after I hired Jack, and I’m already second-guessing myself. I’d been prepared to shell out my hard-earned money for legal services. I hadn’t been prepared to pay by surrendering my sanctuary to a stranger in the name of “reliable Wi-Fi.”
Jack, probably sensing me staring for the umpteenth time in the last ninety-six hours, glances up from his laptop. I promptly drop my gaze to the piping bag in my hands.
“Need something?” His voice is far too amused for my liking.
Feigning nonchalance, I shrug. “Just wondering if you happen to know about Maine’s squatter laws.”
I don’t need to turn my head to know he’s smiling. For someone who complained about small-town holiday charm before blindsiding its Christmas tree, he’s been awfully jovial lately.
It’s annoying.
“I’m not that well-versed in your state’s adverse possession laws, no.”
“I see.” Twisting the top of the bag, I push cream toward the fluted tip when movement in my peripheral makes me glance his way.
Elbows on the table, chin propped on his fists, he looks entirely too pleased with himself—like my bakery is his own personal corner office.
“Is that your way of implying I’m overstaying my welcome?”
I hum noncommittally and, piping bag ready, lean over my pastries.
