Page 9 of Grumpy Glitter Christmas
CHAPTER FIVE
Five hours of research and six hours of tossing, turning, and plotting revenge via tinsel—had done wonders for Felicity’s morale. The Glitter Bomb Incident, as she’d mentally christened it, was her new origin story. She was no longer just Felicity Adams, decorator for hire, she was Felicity Adams, Agent of Sparkle, a woman so potent with festive energy that a single flick of her wrist could contaminate a federal financial institution. It was a brand.
Armed with this renewed, slightly manic sense of purpose, she marched back into the Frost Pine Ridge Bank. She’d spent an hour meticulously vacuuming her tote bag and portfolio with a handheld dust buster, but it was a fool’s errand. Glitter was not a substance; it was a life form. It multiplied. It migrated. A few iridescent specks still winked from the canvas, tiny, defiant stars.
She’d swapped yesterday’s crimson scarf for a determined cobalt blue and wore practical flats instead of boots. This was a tactical decision. Less clicking, more stealth. Today, she would be a professional ninja of joy.
The bank was just as quiet, just as beige. Mrs. Finch was already at her post, her bun wound so tight it looked like ithurt. She gave Felicity a look that could curdle milk. Across the lobby, the Bench of Unsolicited Commentary was occupied. Ida and Ruth watched her approach with the keen interest of ornithologists spotting a rare, brightly colored bird.
Grant’s door was closed. She raised her hand to knock, took a breath, and knocked, the sound firm and clear.
“Enter,” the voice commanded.
He was exactly where she’d left him, seated behind his fortress of a desk. If he’d moved at all in the last eighteen hours, he’d left no evidence. His desk was still a study in geometric perfection. She noted with grim satisfaction, however, that a faint, shimmering residue remained on the edge of the mahogany surface, visible from the doorway. The battlefield still bore its scars.
“Mr. Whitaker,” she said, her tone level and businesslike. “I’ve reviewed my initial proposals and cross-referenced them with the town’s municipal code.” She strode forward and placed a laminated document on his desk. It was a copy of the ordinance he’d cited yesterday, with subclause 4.17b, section iii, neatly highlighted in yellow. “It states that seasonal lighting is permissible as long as the total wattage does not exceed the recommended load for the building’s pre-1950s wiring. I spoke with the town clerk. The bank’s wiring was updated in two-thousand-and-eight. We’re clear for takeoff.”
She felt a flicker of triumph. She had done her homework. She had come prepared with facts, with data, with a laminated document. This was Professional Felicity in action.
Grant picked up the sheet, his long fingers tracing the edge as if checking for imperfections. He scanned it for a moment, his expression unchanging. “You’ve overlooked section iv,” he said, his voice as dry as old paper. “The clause pertaining to fixture weight and anchor points on a designated historic facade. Attaching a ‘canopy of lights’ would require drilling, whichis expressly forbidden without a permit from the Historical Society, a process that takes six to eight weeks.”
He slid the document back across the desk. Checkmate.
Felicity’s triumphant flicker sputtered and died. Of course there was a section iv. She pasted on a smile that felt like it was cracking her face. “Right. Of course. An oversight.” She pivoted, refusing to show defeat. “Which is why I’ve re-conceptualized the stanchions.”
She reached into her tote and retrieved a miniature prototype she’d hot-glued together last night. It was a foot-tall candy cane made of PVC pipe, weighted with sand at the bottom and painted with cheery red stripes. “As you can see, it’s freestanding. No tripping hazard. The base is wide and stable, and the polyvinyl chloride is exceptionally durable.”
She was proud of that line. It sounded official. It sounded like something he might understand.
He took the prototype from her. He turned it over in his hands, his inspection as thorough as if it were a counterfeit bill. He tapped the painted surface. “What’s the composition of the paint?”
She blinked. “Red?”
“Is it oil-based? Latex? What is its toxicity rating? If a child were to lick it—and children lick things—what are the potential ramifications? Do you have the material safety data sheet for the lacquer?”
Felicity stared at him. She was having an out-of-body experience. He was asking for the chemical schematics of a Christmas decoration. The man was a human spreadsheet.
“The… children… won’t be licking the stanchions, Grant,” she said slowly, as if explaining a complex concept to a toddler. “Because they’ll be too busy being filled with the unadulterated joy of the holiday season.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Unadulterated joy is not a verifiable crowd-control measure.”
He set the candy cane down, aligning it perfectly with the edge of his desk blotter. It looked ridiculous and festive in the sterile landscape of his office, a tiny, cheerful prisoner of war.
“Perhaps,” he said, in a tone that suggested conciliation but felt like surrender, “we should move this assessment to the lobby. To evaluate the… available space.”
Felicity agreed, mostly because she needed to escape the beige vortex of his office before she started screaming. As they stepped out, the ambient noise of the bank seemed to dip, as if everyone was holding their breath.
“See, a few simple touches are all we need to start,” she began, her voice regaining its optimistic bounce. She unspooled a string of warm, white fairy lights, the kind that glowed like captured starlight. “Just a simple string, draped right here along the back wall, behind the teller line. It’s subtle, elegant, and provides a welcoming glow.”
She found a nearby outlet behind a sad-looking fern and plugged it in. The wall was instantly transformed. The soft light warmed the cool tones of the room, casting a gentle, inviting halo. Even she was surprised at how much difference it made.
From her station, Mrs. Finch watched the proceedings, her lips pursed into a thin line of disapproval.
“It adds warmth, don’t you think?” Felicity asked, turning to Grant.
Before he could answer, Mrs. Finch emerged from behind the counter, clutching a stack of deposit slips. Her path took her directly toward the fern. With a small, theatrical little gasp, her sensible shoe caught on the extension cord.
The cord ripped from the socket. The warm, inviting glow vanished.
