Page 3 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
"Don't look at me like I've suggested setting the place on fire, Grant," she said, spreading photographs across his desk with the enthusiasm of a blackjack dealer. “Notjustdecorate. Transform. Revitalize. Bring joy to the customer experience.”
She tapped a manicured finger against what appeared to be a bank lobby that had been turned into Santa’s workshop. “Look at this engagement! Community events, seasonal celebrations, family programming.”
Grant examined the photos with the same expression he might use to study evidence of a crime. Banks transformed into what looked suspiciously like carnival midways. Lobby displays that belonged in shopping malls. Children—actualchildren—running through spaces designed for serious financial transactions.
“Very...” he searched for a diplomatic word, “colorful.”
“Exactly! And profitable. These branches saw a twenty-three percent increase in new accounts during their pilot periods.” Meena leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. “Which brings us to Frost Pine Ridge. Sterling-Midland has chosen this branch as our holiday season flagship.”
Grant felt something cold settle in his stomach. “Flagship.”
“We want to showcase how a traditional institution can embrace community joy without losing its essential character.” She pulled out another set of photos—these featuring banks decorated for Christmas with all the subtlety of a mall Santa display. “Starting with the Winter Gala.”
“The Winter Gala.” Grant repeated the words like he was learning a foreign language.
“Annual fundraiser, community centerpiece, media magnet. This branch used to host one, didn’t it?”
“My grandfather started the tradition in 1949,” Grant said carefully. “We discontinued it twenty-five years ago due to... logistical complications.”
What he didn’t mention was that the last gala had featured a champagne fountain malfunction that had flooded the lobby, a string quartet that had gotten spectacularly drunk, and a minor scandal involving the mayor’s wife and a particularly handsome visiting bank examiner. His father had decided that some traditions were better left buried.
“Perfect! A revival with historical significance.” Meena made a note. “We’ll need the venue prepared, of course. Could you show me the space?”
Grant’s throat tightened. “Ms. Patel, perhaps we should discuss whether this branch is the right fit for such an...ambitious undertaking. Our client base values discretion, stability?—”
“Grant.” She fixed him with a look that was probably supposed to be encouraging but felt more like a threat wrapped in designer clothing. “Sterling-Midland acquired this branch because we believe in its potential. But potential requires evolution. This bank has looked exactly the same for how long?”
“Seventy-five years,” he said, not bothering to hide the pride in his voice.
“Exactly.” Her smile sharpened. “That’s why we need change.”
The words hit him like a physical blow. Change. The enemy of everything his family had built, everything his father had entrusted him to protect. But Meena Patel represented corporate, and corporate held the mortgage on his professional existence.
“Of course,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “Let’s look at the event space.”
He led her across the marble lobby, past the vault and down a small hall to a pair of towering oak double doors set into the far wall. The building was old stone from the 1920s, all hardwood and crown molding, every detail carrying the weight of nearly a century.
Meena had always been able to talk him into things—senior year spring break in Atlantic City, that disastrous karaoke night, agreeing to be her cousin's plus one for a family wedding. But this? This felt different. This felt personal. She was asking him to resurrect something he'd buried for good reason.
Grant paused, the keys in his hand glinting under the chandeliers. “The event space,” he said, fitting one into the lock.
The doors swung open with a groan of protest, revealing a space trapped in time. Winter sunlight streamed through tall windows, highlighting the dust on every surface. The hardwoodfloors, once polished to a mirror shine, were now dull with neglect. Crystal chandeliers hung like sleeping giants, their bulbs long since burned out. The walls, papered in an elegant but faded damask, seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
It was a beautiful room. It was also clearly, obviously, catastrophically unusable.
Meena stepped inside, her heels echoing in the empty space. “Oh, this is perfect.”
Grant blinked. “Perfect?”
“Look at this character! This history!” She gestured expansively, apparently unbothered by the thick layer of dust coating everything. “We just need to bring it back to life.”
Bring it back to life. The phrase made Grant think of Dr. Frankenstein, which seemed ominous.
"Meena," he said, and his voice came out more strained than he intended. "You know why my father closed this space."
She turned to him, and for just a moment, her corporate enthusiasm softened into something more personal. "I know. But Grant, keeping it locked up isn't honoring his memory. It's just... keeping a museum."
She touched his arm briefly. "You can't stay stuck in 1999 forever."
