Page 8 of Love in a Christmas Storm
Lettie.
She was across the street, notebook in hand, head down, moving with purpose.
Carlos excused himself and stepped toward the door. Somehow, he made his way through a sea of customers and their newly purchased hopes in paperback form. But by the time he pushed outside, Carletta was gone.
CHAPTER SIX
“Her name is Mrs. White. She's the one in charge of the Holiday Trail.”
Wick & Flame was warm, dimly lit, and sparsely populated. The candle shop was a sharp contrast to the carnival of Christmas happening just down the street. The only jingle here came from the bell above the door, and even that sounded tired.
Lettie sat across from the owners, a brother-sister duo who introduced themselves simply as The Wicks. Like hers, theirs was a name so on-the-nose Lettie half-suspected it was a branding decision, not a birthright.
Eli Wick had a man-bun, three flannel layers, and the cautious demeanor of someone who’d rather be restocking shelves than giving quotes. His sister Maren looked like she’d walked out of a forest commune and into a low-grade panic attack. They weren’t exactly eager to talk to Lettie, but they were honest.
“I’m not saying it was a threat,” Eli hedged, glancing at his sister.
“I am.” Maren huffed. “It was a threat. She said if we didn’t convert all our candles to holiday-themed from November firstthrough Christmas, we’d be excluded from the Trail Map and pulled from the advertising rotation.”
“‘Pulled’ was the word she used,” Eli murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like we’re files in a cabinet.”
Lettie scribbled a note in the margin of her notebook:Mrs. White = Don of Mistletoe Mafia. Then underlined it. Twice.
“Did she put it in writing?” Lettie asked, already guessing the answer.
“No,” Maren said. “Of course not. She’s not stupid. She was wearing one of those god-awful peppermint suits, though. It screamed ‘benevolent dictator.’”
Lettie almost smiled. “And you refused?” she prompted.
“We said we already had orders for non-holiday events: birthdays, New Year’s weddings, even a memorial. We can’t dedicate our entire production to red-and-green reindeer vomit. We’d lose money.”
“And have you?”
They exchanged a look.
“Yes,” Eli admitted. “Foot traffic’s down. Online engagement dropped off a cliff. We’ve been... erased. Quietly.”
“Like we don’t exist,” Maren added, voice softening. “Maybe we should just cave and do what she wants?”
“It's too late,” said Eli.
Another look. Another heavy silence.
“We can’t afford to keep bleeding like this. Maybe we just... play along for December. Ride it out.”
“That’s not what Christmas is about.” Lettie's words came out sharp, angry, and louder than she meant them. The Wicks blinked at her.
“It’s not,” she said again, quieter now. “It’s not about coercion. It’s not about sales metrics. It’s about family. About honoring the birth of the Savior. It’s about... light. In the dark.”
Where the sleigh bells had that come from?
Lettie cleared her throat and stood, shoving her pen into her coat pocket. “I’ll write the article, and I’ll name Mrs. White as the one behind all of this.”
Eli and Maren exchanged yet another glance, this one tight with unease.
“Could you... maybe not use our names?” Maren asked carefully. “We’re not trying to make enemies. We just want to stay in business.”
Lettie nodded slowly, the fire inside her cooling back into something like ash. She understood. This town operated on smiles and silence. No one wanted to be the first to speak too loudly.
