“What a treat.” Customer Number One clapped her hands. “If you’re going to be in it, I’ll go online right now and get tickets. It was such an honor to meet you, Aline.” She ran out the door at top speed, leaving the stack of children’s books she’d been about to purchase unbought on the counter.

  I glared at my mother.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “we should redesign the poster advertising the production. My name should be closer to the top. And in larger letters. I need to give Catherine a call.”

  * * *

  A month ago, Jackie informed me that she’d be wrapped up in the play for much of December and would need time off, and this at our busiest time of the year. “I’m sure you’ll understand, Merry, being the daughter and sister of performers as you are, that when the muse calls, one must follow.”

  I stifled a groan. I was the daughter and sister of performers all right, and I knew them for a bunch of overly dramatic, self-important attention-seekers. Oops. Did I think that out loud?

  “How much rehearsal time do you need? I thought you were an extra.”

  “An extra for now. I’m hoping once the director sees the depth of my talent,” she wiggled her body as though emphasizing where her talent lay, “he’ll give me a speaking role.” She then swept her arms to one side, in what I feared was an imitation of my mother. Jackie was an attractive woman, a couple of years older than me in her mid-thirties, of average height, with a soft round figure, clear skin, wide expressive eyes, thick black hair, and great bone structure. She’d been the class beauty in high school. Those had been her glory days, as Springsteen sang, and they remained the highlight of her life. It’s one thing to be the prettiest girl in a small-town high school, and quite another to try to break into show business competing against all the other prettiest small-town girls. Not that Jackie had tried to compete—as far as I knew she’d never left Rudolph.

  “The director’s not new,” I reminded her. “You’ve been involved before. You were an extra last year, right?”

  “Work with me here, Merry. Catherine Renshaw is new and she has lot of influence on casting. As it is, I’m the understudy for Mrs. Cratchit. I need to be at every rehearsal, ready to step in at any moment.” She lowered her voice. “Backstage rumor has it that Catherine and Paula Monahan, who’s playing Mrs. C., are clashing constantly.” Jackie wiggled her eyebrows. “Paula might not last much longer.”

  I’d agreed to give Jackie what time off she needed. As though I had any choice in the matter. She was flighty, self-obsessed (speaking of performers), and her attention had a tendency to wander. Despite all that, she was an excellent store clerk. That small-town prettiness attracted male shoppers, and her sheer, genuine friendliness appealed to women. She could convince people their heart’s desire lay in that piece of jewelry, table setting, or holiday ornament they didn’t know they needed. She was also ferociously loyal to me and to Mrs. Claus’s Treasures. I didn’t want to lose her. If I tried to argue about the time off, she might well walk out on me and worry about the consequences later.

  Fortunately, Chrystal Wong, who’d worked at Mrs. Claus’s part time throughout her high school years, was going to be home from college for the holidays, and she’d agreed to help out at the shop again. She was getting her degree at the School of Visual Arts in New York City, specializing in small jewelry design. Her pieces had been beautiful before, but as her education and experience grew they were becoming truly magnificent. Someday soon, I feared (hoped?) her work would be out of my price range. Chrystal would have been better suited to being in the play than Jackie, considering she’d taken vocal lessons from my mom for years. When I asked her about that, she’d laughed and said she had more than enough on her plate these days.

  I heard nothing more about the progress (or lack thereof) of the play until Thursday evening. Jackie had left early, saying she had to get to rehearsal, and Chrystal and I were preparing for closing when my dad called me in a matter of the highest urgency.

  “She needs a wrap. The heat’s turned down too low in the auditorium at the community center, and no one can be found who knows how to raise it.”

  “Take Mom a wrap then, Dad.”

  “I’m on my way to a meeting of the children’s party committee. I’m already running late, and we’re gathering at Ralph’s house. That’s in the opposite direction to the community center. You close the shop at seven, Merry, and it’s almost that now.”

  “Your house is also in the opposite direction to the community center from here. I walked to work today, as I always do, so that’s far out of my way.”

  “Which is why I’m calling you. Take her one of those nice wraps from your shop.”

  “I don’t rent my stock, Dad. I sell it.”

  “I’ll call it an early Christmas present for your mother. The community center isn’t far off your route home.”

  He had me there. The center was on my way, and I had no other plans for tonight. “Oh, all right. I’ll take her something.”

  “I knew I could count on you, honeybunch. Didn’t I tell you those capes would sell for women who don’t always realize how cold it can get here when the wind blows off the lake?”

  “That you did, Dad.”

  “Everything okay?” Chrystal asked me once I’d hung up.

  “The usual. Mom’s chilly so everyone has to drop everything, and Dad’s not able to drop what he’s doing so somehow it’s up to me.”

  “You’re lucky your parents care so much about each other, Merry. And about you too. Not everyone has that, you know.”

  “Everything okay at your place?” I asked.

  She laughed. “I wasn’t talking about me. Mom and Dad are fine. Except Mom’s talking about having Grandma move in with them, and Dad’s threatening to move out if that happens. He’s not serious. I don’t think she is either.” Chrystal’s face fell. “I hope she’s not serious.”

  My phone rang before I could reply, and I checked the display. Vicky.

  “Hey, Mer. I’m finishing up here, got a lot of prep done for tomorrow, so I’m in the mood to party! And by party I mean one drink in the bar at A Touch of Holly with a platter of calamari and home to bed by nine. Feel like living the wild life with me?”

  “Sure. I’d like that. Mark working tonight?” Vicky’s boyfriend, Mark Grosse, was head chef at the Yuletide Inn and naturally he worked most nights.

  “Yup.”

  “I need to run an errand first. My dad’s buying something for Mom, and I have to take it to her at the rehearsal, like right now. Can I meet you at the bar?”

  “I’ll come with you. I hoped you’d say yes, and I’m coming through your doors even as we speak.”

  The chimes over the door sounded and my friend walked in, phone to her ear.

  “So you are,” I said into my own phone. I hung up.

  “Hey, Vicky,” Chrystal said.

  “Grab me one of those capes, will you, please,” I said. “One of the shorter ones will do.”

  Chrystal took a cape off the rack and presented it to me with a flourish. It was gorgeous soft tweed in a teal and brown pattern, with a high wide collar and three big buttons, falling gracefully to the waist. When Dad suggested I stock them last spring, I’d thought him nuts. I own a Christmas-themed shop, not a women’s clothing store. But, as usual, Dad had been right. Spring had been unnaturally cool, and the capes had sold so well, I’d restocked for the holiday season for those who, like my mom, sometimes forgot to dress adequately for chilly nights.

  “Your dad’s buying your mom an expensive tweed cape, and you have to deliver it yourself, now?” Vicky said. “That seems weird.”

  I shrugged.

  “Okay. Forgot who I was talking to for a moment. Weird is the definition of your parents.”

  “Good night, Merry,” Chrystal said, “See you tomorrow.”

  I waved her out the door, went into the back to get Mattie and my bag, checked the door to the alley was locked, and then locked the front door behind Vicky and me and we set off.

  Lights, laughter, and conversation flowed out of A Touch of Holly, the restaurant on the other side of the street. Traffic moved steadily on Jingle Bell Lane as Vicky, Mattie, I walked out of town. The other stores were closing, but tourists and locals enjoying a night out streamed into the brightly lit bars and restaurants.

  “Did you do okay out of the theater picnic?” I asked my friend.

  “More than okay. Catherine paid well, and most importantly on time, and we had almost no leftovers. Plus I had no wait staff wages to pay. Thanks again for helping out. You and Alan were lifesavers. Marjorie couldn’t put in the overtime, something about a nephew’s birthday party to go to, and Jamie wasn’t feeling too well, so I sent her home early. How’s business with you?”

  “Good. Steady.”

  We strolled past the park and the bandstand, in no particular hurry. The air was sharp and fresh, the cold, clean air felt good on my face and in my lungs. I figured my mom wouldn’t freeze to death before I delivered the emergency garment. Mattie followed his nose, sniffing under trees and around lampposts, also in no particular hurry. When we went back to town, I’d take him to the shop, where he’d wait for us while we were in the restaurant, but I knew he’d enjoy the walk first.

  My house isn’t far beyond the park, but before reaching it, we turned right, heading inland toward the Rudolph Community Center. I couldn’t take Mattie inside, so I found a big tree on a patch of lawn under which to tie him up. “We’ll only be a minute,” I said.

  He grunted in acknowledgement and settled himself down.

  People, many of them carrying gym bags, yoga mats, or tote bags with their swimming things, were walking in and out of the building. Loud, thumping, rhythmic music came down the hallway from our left, which reminded me that I never had fulfilled my promise to get more active in the early fall during the store’s downtime before the rush of the holiday season.

  “We should go for a run one day,” I said to Vicky.

  She cocked one eyebrow at me and lifted a hand to tuck a lock of bubble-gum pink hair behind one multiple-pierced ear, showing the tattoo of a gingerbread cookie decorating her right wrist. Why?”

  “For exercise.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  Good point. Vicky was five foot eleven and, in proof that life wasn’t fair, despite the fact that she baked for a living, she was as thin as a supermodel. Except for that one long pink lock, her black hair was less than half an inch long. Rows of piercings ran up both her ears, and her coat covered the dragon tattoos winding around her arms. She had a big, playful grin, and her blue eyes, heavily outlined in black liner and mascara, were always on the lookout for mischief. The first day of school, Vicky, already of ferocious height and determined temperament, for a five-year-old anyway, marched up to shy little me, cowering in a doorway, and declared, “You will be my best friend.”

  All these years later, I still was.

  I, to my eternal regret, am not five foot eleven, and I definitely do not have the body of a supermodel. More like five four with a tendency to put on weight if I’m not careful. And it’s hard to be careful, with Vicky as my best friend. She’s always trying to get me to taste things she’s thinking of putting on the menu at the bakery, or pressing the day’s leftovers on me.

  We stopped at the reception desk. “Hi, I’ve got a delivery for the Community Players.” I indicated the cape tossed over my arm. “I think they’re rehearsing here today?”

  “Yup. They’re in the auditorium. She pointed to the right. “Head down the hall and it’s on your right.”

  We found the room indicated and opened one of the double doors to enter a small auditorium. Fifteen rows of raked seating faced the stage, with a single aisle down the center. Most of the lights were off, except for those illuminating the stage. A handful of people sat in seats in the first row. My mom was standing center stage, hitting a high note, facing Paula Monahan. A scattering of other cast members, including Jackie, were clustered in the wings watching. Everyone was in their street clothes.

  Vicky and I tiptoed down the aisle, trying to be quiet. “I thought you said it was cold,” Vicky whispered. “If anything, it’s way too hot in here.”

  I whispered back, “Obviously, they found the person responsible for adjusting the temperature. He appears to have overcompensated.”

  Catherine Renshaw sat front row center, seated between Desmond Kerslake, the director, and Ian McIntosh, who was intended (so far) to play Scrooge. Eddie Monahan was two rows behind them, digging into an extra large bag of chips and kicking repeatedly at the back of the seat in front of him. Irene, in charge of costumes, stood alone at the bottom of the steps at stage left, a bolt of fabric cradled in her arms.

  “Now you try that,” Mom said to Paula Monahan.

  “I can’t sing that high,” Paula said.

  “Then why have you been cast in this play?”

  “Because I can act!” Paula yelled. “Which is better than most of this bunch can say.”

  “Claws coming out,” Ian said as we reached them. He didn’t bother to keep his voice down.

  “That,” Mom said, “might be a matter of dispute. However, let me remind you that this is a musical production, and that means singing. And you, my dear, have one week to learn how to sing.”

  If looks could kill … Paula glared at my mother, and I thought it a good thing no knife-props were at hand.

  “Can we go now, Mom?” Eddie called from the third row. “This is boooorrrring.”

  “You want boring, young man,” she snapped, “you can wait in the dressing room.”

  Eddie muttered something rude. His mother ignored him.

  “Aline, why don’t you take Paula aside and do some private work on that song.” Desmond stood up. “I’ll admit it … uh … needs some work, but we’re not at the Met here.”

  “We may not be at the Met,” Catherine Renshaw said, “but as far as I’m concerned, that’s no reason to let standards slip. It is precisely because I intend to achieve those standards I convinced Aline Steiner to join our little company. Paula, I expect you to get that song perfect or I’ll … I mean we’ll find a replacement for you.”

  Paula put her hands on her hips and threw daggers at the other woman. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Test me, please,” Catherine said. “In the meantime, take your noxious child with you. That banging is seriously getting on my nerves.”

  Paula stalked off stage. Eddie continued kicking the seat. My mother turned to exchange a look with Desmond and caught sight of Vicky and me standing awkwardly in the aisle like eavesdroppers caught hearing things they shouldn’t. “Merry, are you looking for me? This is not a good time. You can see I have work to do.”

  I held up the cape. “Dad asked me to bring you a wrap.”

  “Clearly, I don’t need that now, do I?” She waved the sheet music in her hand in front of her face. “Desmond, you had better ensure they get the temperature in this place under control by opening night, or we’ll have actors fainting in the wings. Not to mention members of the audience.” She followed Paula off stage.

  Vicky chuckled.

  “Now that’s done … Ian. Dave, places please,” Desmond said. “Let’s go over the scene when Marley arrives one more time. That one, at least, I’m confident we have down as it should be, but I’d like to see it again.”

  Dave bounded across the stage and stood in the center, feet apart, smiling broadly, conscious of every eye on him. Dressed in jeans and a close-fitting white T-shirt worn under an open blue checked shirt, he seemed to fill the space. He looked, I thought, like a man who worked out regularly. Ian sort of slipped up to stand next to him.

  “If I can have a word, Desmond?” Irene took a tentative step forward.

  “What is it now?” The director snapped.

  She held up the bolt of fabric she was holding. It was a heavy black velvet, shot through with shimmering blue thread. “I don’t think this will work for the Ghost of Christmas Future.”

  “Christmas Yet to Come,” Catherine said. “Do use the correct terminology. I hope you’re not planning to refer to Ebenezer Scrooge as Eb.” She laughed lightly at her own witticism. Irene’s look in return was not one of amusement.

  “I need quiet here,” Dave said. “I can’t concentrate on my lines with all this irrelevant chatter going on.”

  “The matter of costuming,” Irene said, “is hardly irrelevant to a production. As it happens, we’d do better with a suit hung over the back of a chair than your attempt at acting.”

  For a brief moment Dave looked confused. Then, realizing his skills had been insulted, he said, “That wasn’t called for.”

  “Let’s stick to the topic at hand, shall we?” Desmond said. “I trust you to make your own decisions about costuming, Irene, like you always have. With my final approval, of course.”

  “It’s not you, Desmond, it’s her.” The wardrobe mistress threw a furious look at Catherine, sitting calmly in her seat. “She bought this extravagant thing, and insists I use it to make the cape for the aforementioned ghost. It is simply not appropriate. The spirit foretells Scrooge’s doom. She’s supposed to be terrifying, not dressed for a night at the opera.”

  “I happen to disagree,” Catherine said. “That fabric was very expensive, and it will show beautifully under the lights.”

  “That’s the point!” Irene yelled. “I don’t want expensive, and I don’t want beautiful. I want threatening. Use this for something else; I’ve already bought a plain black fabric for the spirit’s cape.”

  “I told you to use the black for Mrs. Cratchit’s dress, if you must. I want the velvet in the dramatic highlight in the graveyard.”

  “I heard that!” Paula ran on stage. “If you’re talking about my costume, I’ll take the velvet. It will make a nice dress to wear at Christmas dinner.”

  “Dinner at the manor house, perhaps,” Catherine said. “Not the poverty-stricken Cratchit family’s damp, crumbling tenement.”