Page 6 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
“Right. No candy canes.” She flipped the page, her chipper armor starting to thin. “What about garlands? We could get some beautiful, thick pine garlands from Brice Matthews’ farm, woven with red ribbon and?—”
“Needle-shed,” he interrupted. “It would require additional custodial hours and could interfere with the ventilation system. Not to mention potential allergens for staff and clients.”
Felicity stared at him. Was he serious? He was a walking, talking risk-assessment report. “Brice uses the freshest pine,” she offered weakly. “The needles are very… stable.”
He didn’t dignify that with a response. His stormy eyes just held hers, waiting.
She took a breath, rallying. “Alright, Mr. Whitaker, Grant. The gala. It’s meant to be a signature event. A fundraiser. We need to build excitement to get people talking. We need a centerpiece here in the lobby for that. A showstopper.” She pulled out her final, most ambitious sketch: a magnificent twelve-foot Christmas tree, laden with ornaments and lights, right in the center of the lobby. “And a light, tasteful dusting of glitter to make it all sparkle.” She’d actually written metric ton of glitter in her notes, but had wisely edited herself.
He looked at the drawing, then back at her. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Ms. Adams. A twelve-foot tree would obstruct security camera sightlines to teller stations one and two. Furthermore, ‘a tasteful dusting of glitter’ is not a measurable unit. It is, however, a guaranteed contaminant for the cash counters, the deposit slips, the computer keyboards, and, God help us, the vault’s ventilation system.”
He said ‘the vault’ with the same reverence a priest might use for a sacred relic.
Felicity’s portfolio snapped shut. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room. “Mr. Whitaker,” she said, her voice dropping the forced cheer, “your bank is… brown. It’s a lovely shade of brown, very dependable. But Ms. Patel hired me to bring it to life. To make it joyful. Joy isn’t… efficient. It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s sparkly.”
A flicker of something—annoyance? surprise?—crossed his face. “My father ran this branch for thirty-five years. He built it into a pillar of this community based on trust, stability, and professionalism. Not… sparkle.”
The way he said the word, you’d think it was a communicable disease. The conversation had hit a wall. A very beige, very solid wall.
Just then, Meena Patel bustled in, her energy sucking all the stagnant air out of the room. “Grant! Felicity! How’s the creative synergy flowing?”
Grant shot her a look that would have frozen a lesser person. Meena, who'd weathered his disapproval since their Economics 101 study group, just smiled brighter. “Ms. Adams has been presenting some… ambitious concepts.”
Meena beamed. “Wonderful! Ambition is what we need. I just got off the phone with my boss, and they have decided that Sterling-Midland wants this branch to be the pilot for our entire ‘Hometown Heart’ campaign. The gala needs to be a triumph. A press release is already drafted. Success is non-negotiable.” She clapped her hands together. “Now, let’s go look at the lobby and see where we can put all this fabulousness.”
She herded them out of the office before Grant could object. Back in the main lobby, Felicity felt a fresh surge of determination. She could win him over. She had to.
“See?” she said, gesturing expansively. “The acoustics in here are perfect for carolers. And if we hang garlands from the teller cages…” She took a step back to better illustrate her point, her arm catching the strap of her tote bag.
It happened in cinematic slow motion.
The bag swung forward. A small plastic container of iridescent silver glitter tumbled out of the unzipped top. For a heart-stopping second, it hung in the air like a glittering grenade. Then, it fell.
The container hit the small table between the lobby chairs and popped open, releasing a puff of glitter that bloomed into a miniature, sparkling mushroom cloud.
The cloud drifted.
It settled on the polished mahogany of the teller counter. It dusted the keyboard of a teller’s computer. It shimmered on the black uniform of a very stoic security guard. A few errant flecks caught the light as they floated dreamily toward the open, grated door of the vault.
A collective gasp went through the lobby.
From her station, Mrs. Finch made a small, strangled sound, clutching her chest as if she’d been physically wounded.
From their bench, Ida Murray whispered loudly to Ruth, “Well, it’s not beige anymore.”
Felicity froze, her blood turning to ice. Her gaze snapped to Grant.
He wasn’t looking at her. He was watching a single, renegade piece of glitter swirl in an air current before disappearing into the hallowed darkness of the vault. His face was a mask of placid horror. When he finally turned to her, his voice was unnervingly calm.
“Do you realize,” he said, his tone soft and lethal, “that glitter is now a part of this bank’s permanent monetary ecosystem?”
Mortification washed over Felicity in a hot, smothering wave. This was it. Job over. Her one chance at legitimacy, undone by a quarter-ounce of craft supplies. She was the glitter clown, after all.
“I’m so sorry,” she stammered, fumbling in her bag for… what? A tiny vacuum? A glitter-attracting magnet? She started trying to scoop the shimmering particles off the counter with her hand, which only smeared them into a wider, more radiant smear. “I can—I’ll clean it. I promise.”
She felt a hundred pairs of eyes on her. She thought she might actually combust from pure, unadulterated shame. She had not only failed, she had failed spectacularly, publicly, and with sparkles.
“Perfect,” Meena said.
