Page 6 of There's Only One Sleigh
Rob wasn’t lying. The collection of papers, photos, invoices, and clippings is more a history of the event than an instruction manual. Bits of newspaper that are yellowed and crisp. Pages with torn holes that can’t be fastened in place.
I’m pretty sure the notes on the thin paper I’m holding right now were written with a fountain pen.
It doesn’t take long for my hyperfocus to kick in—my brain loves a challenging task—and I sort everything into categories first. There are lists and instructions and other papers relevant to the organization and running of the event. Then there are newspaper clippings and photographs that serve more like a chronicle of the Christmas Fair over the years. I do my best to sort the former by priority and the latter by date.
I need plastic sleeves to hold some of these in the binder, I think. And also some of those adhesive reinforcements for the punched holes that have torn.
My phone rings—or more accurately, my smartwatch vibrates to let me know my phone is silently ringing—and I snatch up my earphones when I see Donovan Wilson’s name on the screen.
I pop in an earphone as I slide the screen to accept the call. “Hello, Mr. Wilson.”
“How did everything go today?”
“I think it went well. Mr. Byrne gave me the information he had regarding the fair and I just finished going through it. I’m currently organizing my thoughts—” Or a hundred years’ worthof the random thoughts of strangers, anyway. “—and I’ll be ready to go when we reconvene tomorrow.”
Did he just chuckle? It sounded like a chuckle. What did his brother-in-law tell him? “I’m glad to hear it. I’m sure Rob will appreciate the help.”
I’m still not sure about that, but I don’t make it a habit of contradicting the guy who signs my checks—or employs the department that triggers the automatic deposit of my salary, I guess.
“I’m glad to be of assistance,” is all I say.
“Let me know if you need anything at all from me, and I’ll touch base with you soon.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wilson. Goodnight.”
Now that my boss has yanked me away from the task I’ve been immersed in—and those stray thoughts about his wife’s brother—I realize I’m hungry.
And when I open my favorite food delivery app, hoping to arrange for a bag of food to appear magically on the inn’s front porch, I’m thankful there’s no laughter sound effect to go with thenopethe app gives me.
I’m going to have to venture out to get food, and if I’m going out, I may as well hit up the nearest office supply store. I always carry an extra charging cord for my laptop, but I haven’t dealt with an analog workflow since high school.
After a search on my phone, I’m not surprised there aren’t any office supply box stores in Charming Lake. I doubt the general store will have what I need, so it looks like I’m taking a field trip to the closest city.
Chapter
Six
Rob
Even though I’ve spent the entire morning thinking about the fact Whitney will be showing up at the station again today, I almost drop the wrench in my hand when she clears her throat right behind me. It’s a very big wrench, and it would have hurt like hell if it bounced off my foot.
I set the wrench on the tool bench and turn, trying not to look like a man who just had a year taken off his life. She’s not wearing her early warning high heels today, and I have the overhead doors open because it’s an unseasonably nice morning, so she didn’t have to use the visitor’s door.
“Good morning,” she says, handing me a large cardboard cup of coffee after double-checking that the one in her left hand has my name on it. “The woman at the General Store says this is how you like yours.”
“Thank you.” I take the hot cup, careful not to make contact with her fingers. “This is one of my favorite things about living in a small town.”
“The coffee?”
She sounds incredulous, and I assume she’s used to those fancy, foamy drinks that require a person to be fluent in a coffee language I don’t speak in order to get some much needed caffeine. I still don’t know the difference between a latte and a cappuccino, though to be fair, I haven’t put a lot of effort into figuring it out.
“Not the coffee, though Beth makes a better brew than what we have here at the station,” I say. “But the fact she knows how I take it, which means people can show up here with surprise coffee for me and I know it’ll be right. And I can call the diner and ask for a burger to go and I don’t have to go through all the details. They know how I like it.”
The corners of her mouth tilt up. “And how is that?”
“Medium-well, with an extra slice of cheese, mayo and pickles. What about you?”
“Medium, with the regular amount of cheese, mayo and tomato. And ketchup for my crispy fries.”
