Page 62 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
“Seventy-five!” Ida shot back immediately.
“One hundred!” Ben countered, grinning.
The bidding escalated, the crowd getting more and more into it, people bidding just to be part of the absurdity. Felicity watched in delighted disbelief as the squirrel—the tragic, slightly moth-eaten squirrel that she’d been certain would be the embarrassment of the evening—became the star of the show.
It finally sold for three hundred and fifty dollars to Ida, who accepted it with the triumph of someone who’d just won an Olympic medal.
Grant stood beside Felicity, his arm around her waist, watching the chaos unfold with something he never thought he’d feel at a bank-sponsored event: pure, uncomplicated joy.
“Next up,” Meena announced, barely concealing her own amusement, “Lot number twelve: an authentic Vermont dining experience. A family meal deal from the Route 7 Gas & Go Deli, generously donated by—“ she checked her notes, “—Ida Murray’s grandson, Tommy.”
She held up the elaborately framed coupon.
The room dissolved into laughter again. Grant felt it building—the same ridiculous, wonderful energy that had animated the squirrel auction.
“Do I hear twenty dollars?” Meena asked, trying to keep a straight face.
“Fifty!” Ida shouted immediately. “I’m supporting my grandson’s entrepreneurial spirit!”
“Sixty!” Ruth countered, apparently having abandoned all loyalty.
The bidding spiraled upward, people joining in for the sheer fun of it, for the story they’d tell later. Grant watched his neighbors and customers—people he’d kept at professional distance for years—laugh and shout and compete over a twenty-dollar gas station coupon like it was treasure.
This. This was what his father had built. Not the quiet, orderly transactions. This connection. This community. This joy.
He looked down at Felicity, who was laughing so hard she had tears streaming down her face again. She caught his gaze and grinned up at him, her eyes sparkling.
“Still think my approach is unprofessional?” she teased.
“I think your approach is perfect,” he said, and kissed her temple.
The gas station coupon sold for five hundred and twenty-five dollars—to Brice Matthews, of all people, who claimed he was hungry and wanted to support local business. The look on his face suggested he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done.
Meena looked slightly dazed as she announced the total. “That’s... That’s eight hundred and seventy-five dollars for two items valued at forty dollars combined. This is...”
“Magic,” Felicity supplied softly.
“Yeah,” Meena agreed, her professional veneer cracking into genuine emotion. “Yeah, it really is.”
The mystery box came next, and the speculation in the room was palpable. What could possibly be in Mrs. Henderson’s sealed, duct-taped box from her attic?
The bidding was enthusiastic and reached two hundred dollars before Mayor Whitcomb won it with a booming declaration that he loved surprises.
When he opened it on stage, the contents proved to be: a collection of vintage Christmas ornaments (actually quite valuable), a fondue set from the 1970s (questionable), a taxidermy owl (of course), and what appeared to be a complete set of encyclopedias from 1987.
The regular items continued to sell well, the energy in the room buoyant and generous. By the time Meena announced the final tally, the crowd had raised over fifteen thousand dollars.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
The room burst into applause.
“This is a remarkable achievement,” Meena continued. “And it’s all going to an incredible cause. I’d like to invite the chairperson of the Frost Pine Ridge Food Bank to come up and accept this donation.”
She produced an oversized ceremonial check—the kind that looked absurd but photographed well—and held it ready.
“Please welcome Cecily Glick!”
Grant felt Felicity stiffen beside him in surprise.
