Page 2 of Grinch Girl

In my opinion, it was best to work the system with different outerwear. I wore my leather jacket as long as I could possibly stand it, usually until the temp went into the thirties. Then, I’d switch to my first parka, and I’d feel warm and incredible for weeks. That coat would work until the temp dropped into the teens, and then I’d need to pull on the Big Daddy. The expensive, insulated navy coat Greta had given me as a combined birthday-Xmas present six years ago, our last great tourist year, when the shop had done really well.

“What time are you opening today?” Carol asked after taking my omelet order and refilling my coffee.

I rolled my eyes at her. “Four,” I said. Just like every single off-season weekday.

“I’m going to come in and grab some wine for my book club,” she said cheerfully. “Can you look in Greta’s register and see what I chose when I hosted last year? I can’t remember what it was except that everyone liked it.”

I nodded and forced a smile, grateful for her loyal business, but already dreading the task of poring through Greta’s leather-bound register of sales. It wasn’t really an accounting tool for her; it was more of a diary of her daily thoughts on her business. She tracked every sale to every customer, meticulous notes on exactly who bought what, and each page was also full of color commentary.

“Carol grabbed four bottles of the Pride Merlot for her book club. Those old birds are gonna get tipsy discussing Toni Morrison!”

“Two young men staying in Pete’s Airbnb with their frat brothers bought three cases of Busch Light. I offered them a couple of complimentary Gatorades for the morning.”

More recently, she’d added to the register when there weren’t expected sales.

“The Rotary Club is now buying their monthly meeting drinks from Walmart—that’s gonna hurt the bottom line.”

“The Yacht Club is now getting their reserve wine list from a new distributer in Vienna. Redo budget ASAP.”

That budget had ruined any peace I might have settled into after Greta passed. Although I’d been helping her out in the shop for years, and quite a bit more since she’d fallen ill, I’d had no idea how little money was coming in over the past couple of years. In September, I’d filled the same orders for new inventory that she’d done last fall, and now I was almost entirely out of operating cash. If I understood the entries in her QuickBooks software correctly, it looked like we usually got a boost from the holiday season. I was counting on it.

Running Greta’s store without her was not something I’d ever expected to do, but I couldn’t just let it die after she did. The last thing Greta had ever asked of me was to make a plan for improving my life. Taking over her small business was Step One.

While devouring the omelet, I pulled out my phone and organized my schedule for the next two days: this afternoon I’d attend the Falworth Small Business Association on behalf of Greta, then I’d open her shop for the evening. Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, so I’d open the shop for a few hours early in the day, hoping some locals might choose to run in to stock for their holiday celebrations instead of grabbing their libations from Piggly Wiggly.

The rest of the long weekend? Hmm.

Greta used to love Black Friday: she’d slash prices and offer complimentary wine tastings to the tourists kicking off the holiday season by strolling through the Christmas Village on the square.

I set my coffee cup on the table and frowned. Was I misremembering the timing, or shouldn’t the Christmas Village be set up by now? Didn’t it need to be ready for Thanksgiving so there was something for tourists to do here in the winter?

My eyes roamed over the diner tables. I recognized every single person in here. Not one tourist. Was that normal? Maybe people typically came after Thanksgiving, not the day before.

Yawning, I shrugged my jacket back on. I’d go home for a long, hot shower and relax before the meeting. There’d be at least four representatives from other Falworth small businesses there. They would show me the holiday season ropes.

*

My apartment complexwas half a mile away from the town center. In the summer months, when it was practically light until after nine p.m., I often walked between Greta’s shop and home for my shifts. But now, when the sun went down at four and it was outer-space-black by nine, walking wasn’t an option. Too dangerous; it was difficult for drivers to see pedestrians on the country roads.

My small, one-bedroom was nothing special, but I’d splurged on a wonderful mattress and duvet last year, and the warm comforts still made me happy every single day. I climbed out of my truck, jingling my keys, thoughts of going back to bed for a few hours at the forefront of my mind.

First, though, I needed to pick up my dog.

I knocked on my next-door neighbor’s door. When Sean answered, his face fell. “Oh. Hey, Jane. You’re here to get Bruce already?” Sean was only nineteen. He’d moved in over the summer, unceremoniously and with barely any furniture or utensils. Without exchanging our life stories, we’d quickly andsilently bonded. Somehow I just knew that he was also the product of a much loved but damaged and unreliable mother.

Like most of us, Sean struggled to find steady winter employment. He occasionally helped me at the shop, and I was teaching him the tech skills he’d need to get hired as a member of the Geek Squad at Vienna’s Best Buy. But his favorite thing in the world was dog-sitting.

I felt half-irritated and half-guilty at his crestfallen face. A couple of hours of lazing around in bed sounded much better when I pictured Bruce cuddling next to me. He was an awkwardly adorable mutt. His sturdy bear-like long body was much too big for his very short legs; he was not structurally sound. He could barely get downstairs. But his fur was fluffy and soft, and his constantly wagging floofy tail was a pure beacon of happiness.

When I’d adopted him a few years ago, I hadn’t known he was epileptic. The daily medication to keep his seizures at bay—and the occasional vet bills when they occurred anyway—were not something I’d factored into my pet budget. So Bruce’s care necessitated a few more waitressing shifts a month. Not ideal, but it wasn’t like I would give him away just because he wasn’t one hundred percent healthy and perfect all the time.

Too often humans do this: walk away when things are hard or when other people are difficult.

Bruce, however, wouldn’t walk away even if the building was burning down. He’d (stupidly) wag and lick my face until the walls fell. So yeah, he was dumb and sick, but also? Love personified.

Unfortunately for my current desire for dog cuddles, however, Sean’s love for Bruce had grown just as strong as my own. “I could keep him until tomorrow,” he mumbled, shifting his weight. “That way you won’t have to worry about him while you’re at your meeting and at the shop.”

Sean knew very well I usually took Bruce to the shop with me, but I stifled a sigh and looked at him with big-sister eyes. Sean was never effervescent, but he was unusually low-energy and pale today.

---