Chapter Two

My sister phones as Ralph and I enter the shop twenty minutes later. I press my wireless headset’s button.

“Hey, Crystal.”

“Good morning, Sunshine!” My older sister’s exuberant energy is the perfect antidote to my often too-serious countenance. “How’s it going?”

“Good. Mom just left.”

“You’re kidding. How early did she get there? Did she wake you up?”

“She scared me at first, because I was in the shower. I wish she’d get the text-first thing down.”

“Tell me about it. She almost caught Brad and I…you know.” She snorts. “No offense, but I’m relieved she’s got an extra life to direct. Takes a bit of the pressure off me and Bryce, you know?”

“Trust me, she was equally adept at long-distance manipulation.” We laugh. I have zero business whining over Mom’s irreverence toward personal boundaries. Crystal’s right. It’s about time I came back and took some of the pressure off of her and our brother Bryce. Mom’s motive is always love, but she can come across like a sledgehammer.

“Did she mention where she’s headed next?”

“To the yarn shop. The Saturday Stitchy Sisters.” It’s the knitting group that meets at Bryce’s yarn shop.

“Did you tell her about our coffee date?”

“Nope. She’ll be stitching while we catch up.” We chuckle in sisterly commiseration. Doing things with Mom is great, but we need our private girl talk, too.

“I’m already in the shop.” I try without success to keep the impatience out of my tone. It’s almost nine o’clock; I’m used to starting my workday three hours earlier. Some military habits die harder than others, even on a Saturday.

“Did the contractor finish the shelving yesterday?”

I sigh. “No, and I’m not thrilled with what they’ve done so far. I asked for simple floating shelves all along the walls, yet the contractor kept trying to install bookshelf-type built-ins. They don’t usually work on Saturdays, but Phil’s agreed to fix it and finish in time for my grand opening, as per our contract. But…wait for it…they’re not coming today; some emergency came up. Which means they’ll still be here all next week.” After doing such a spectacular job on my kitchen and bathroom, Phil had to peel off from the project to handle a larger home renovation and left me with what I’m coming to appreciate as his B team. Good, capable, but without the focus of their boss.

“Hold firm, Sis. Your vision is superb. I have faith in you!” Crystal’s serious, I kid you not. Big sis by birth order, spiritual shaman by choice, she’s my self-appointed life coach. At least she thinks she is. I can lose patience with her encouragement, and I have to remind myself she’s missed having me nearby for over twenty-two years. Save for our summer trips home and my family’s infrequent visits to us, it’s been a long haul. I’ve missed my family, too, but I did have my girls and the flying to keep me fully occupied. Not to mention the plethora of exotic duty destinations. And for precious parts of it, I had Tom.

Tom. My heart does that little squeeze I don’t think it’ll ever stop doing when I remember him.

“Thanks, Sis. See you later?”

“Yes. I’ll be done with my morning deliveries by ten-thirty, see you then!” We’d agreed to meet when Crystal was done since it’s her half-day, and I hoped to be well into stocking my new inventory. I’m looking forward to meeting her at Latte Love, Stonebridge’s single fancy coffee shop. It’s a new addition since two summers ago, and I have to say I’ve enjoyed the change from the bracing Navy coffee, a.k.a. battery acid, I was used to.

The call disconnects and I can get down to business.

“Let’s do it, Ralph.”

Ralph mimics my laughter perfectly, followed by a quick “See you then!”

“You’re a nosy old man, do you know that?” No one eavesdrops like my feathered buddy.

Ralph and I walk through the front retail area to the back hallway that connects my office and a nice-sized storage area. The room is stuffed with boxes and cartons, all screaming for me to open them. Seeing stacks of boxes used to dismay me. After thirteen moves in twenty-two years, and the arduous work of unpacking every single item we owned each time, who can blame me for popping a hive or two at the sight of all that corrugated cardboard? But there’s no corresponding squeal of packaging tape being ripped from its reel, no heavy scent of sweaty movers loading a truck parked awkwardly in front of our home. These boxes represent treasures I’ve spent a career finding.

“Hello.” Ralph reminds me I’m holding him.

“Hey, sweetie pie. The workers aren’t going to bother us today. Let’s put your cage in the front room so that you can look out the window.”

I place Ralph atop his open cage, then wheel it down the hall and into the center of the store. The entire front window is his view, which should keep him entertained. He fluffs his iridescent green feathers in approval.

Back in my office, I pull up the project manager software on my tablet, and do my best to ignore the fingers of loneliness that tug on my hard-won serenity.

I have my Navy tour in Belgium to thank for Shop ’Round the World. I had already acquired quite the holiday collection of ornaments from each duty station—Hawaii, Japan, Italy, San Diego, the UK, Washington State. But the Belgium tour catapulted my predilection to collecting pretty things into near hoarder status. If the Navy didn’t put a weight limit on household goods, it would have been impossible for me to stop myself from adding more to my trove than I already had. But the collecting gave me the vision of a local shop filled to the brim with handcrafted treasures.

With the grand opening two weeks away, I have to focus on getting the stock inventoried and on display.

The back office is normally quite large—a mirror of the storage room. But the contractors have set up their wood shop in here, complete with a couple of scary looking saws atop both ends of a huge piece of plywood. Rustic sawhorses support it all.

I squeeze between the makeshift workbench and World War II–era industrial desk left by the previous owners to get to the stack of invoices I’ve printed.

There’s no time to waste, as this is my first day in six without the incessant bang of hammers and whine of the super-sharp blades. I take a deep inhale and relish the scent of fresh cedar as I match invoice numbers with boxes. My gaze catches on an open box of recyclables and trash that I left in the middle of the floor last night, when I worked until almost midnight.

I function better in a clear space, so I open the back door that leads to the low concrete stoop and place the box there, letting a decent breeze into the building for a few moments to clear the air. The loud screech of the hinges reminds me to get a can of lubricant to spray them. I don’t go out this back door much, save for dumping trash.

As I lean over to set the box down, footsteps on the lightly graveled lot startle me. I straighten. A tall figure looms over me, blocking out the sun. This time it’s not my mom.

“Hey!” My voice is loud and low, automatically back in Navy Commander mode. I take a step back, ready to slam the shop door closed. Yes, it’s Stonebridge, PA, not Serial Killer, PA, but the back alley appears deserted.

The muscular dude spots me and halts. His eyes grow wide before he grins at me from under his Hershey Bears ski cap. It’s Max, one of Phil’s workers. Relief flows like Christmas morning through my veins, loosening my shoulders. Irritation blooms in my gut. Mom’s unexpected appearance earlier still has me on edge.

“Whoa! Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Wow. Glad I didn’t whack you with one of these.” His laugh sounds forced. I scared him as much as he did me. “Uh, the boss wanted me to swing by and drop these off for work first thing Monday.” He lets out a breath, offers me another smile as he nods at the long planks in his arms. “We aim to get the shelves exactly how you want them, Ms. Warren.”

My mouth opens to ask him to please call me Angel, then shuts. Annoyance tugs on my composure. I’d been hoping for uninterrupted work time this morning.

“I’ve no doubt you will, Max. I’d expect nothing less from Phil’s team.”

I swear his chest expands on command. Guess I still have the magic touch when it comes to empowering someone, even when I mistake them for a murderer.

“Uh, do you mind if I set these inside the shop?” Max still holds the heavy boards, and I move aside, opening the door wide for him. I figure he’s about twenty-five, one of the oldest on Phil’s B team.

“Go on in. Watch out for trip hazards.”

“No problem.”

He takes the boards to the front of the store. When he passes me his soap, cologne, or some other variety of body scent adjuster wafts around him. His collared shirt and dark, un-marked jeans indicate he’s on his way to something other than work.

Max sets the boards down and straightens, his gaze resting on Ralph. I’ve kept Ralph upstairs when the carpenters are working. Paint fumes and wood shavings are toxic to avian lungs.

“Cool bird.” He holds up his pointer finger to Ralph, perched atop his cage. Ralph shrinks away from the looming stranger.

“Careful! He bites.”

“Really?” He frowns.

Max’s disbelief doesn’t surprise me. A lot of folks haven’t listened over the years, and got a nice quick nip from Ralph as a reward. Just enough pressure to let them know he could have broken skin if he wanted to. Maybe a bone, if it was a pinkie.

“Yes, myself included. With me they’re mostly love bites because he’s bonded with me. Ralph’s not so friendly with everyone else.”

“Okay, well, then…” He trails off, shoves his hands into his pockets. It strikes me that he seems a little lost, but I have to remind myself that he’s not one of my sailors. Max doesn’t work for me—he’s employed by Phil. Thus, it’s not my job to figure out what makes him tick.

“Thanks for dropping off the lumber, Max. See you Monday?” It’s all I can do to not shove him out the door. I have to get back to the invoices.

“Sure thing, Ms. Warren.” He lets himself out the back. I shove the box full of trash out the door and pull it tightly closed.

I spend the next hour unwrapping the dozens of wooden Santas that have arrived from one of my Russian handcrafts suppliers, matching them to the invoices. So far my Santa source, Tatyana, has sent me nothing less than exceptional product.

Which is why I’m less than thrilled with the Santas I’m unwrapping. They were supposed to be classic Russian Santas, hand carved and painted hardwood. I ordered only Christmas-themed Dzed Moroze, Father Snow, the Russian version of Santa Claus. Sweeping robe-like coats and matching hats, intricately carved staffs coated in gold paint held by mittened hands. Santa faces with rosy cheeks and bright eyes, boasting winding white-and-gray beards.

These are nowhere near what I ordered. This box of six-inch statues is full of Santas sporting various NFL logos, and their hats seem pointier than normal. Did she order from a new artist? Or mix my invoice up with another?

If these were nesting dolls instead of the Santa figures, I’d go with the flow. It’s common to have various themed Matryoshka dolls; I’ve ordered several Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, and Pennsylvania pro- and college-team themes for the nesting collectibles. But my Santa inventory is meant to be top of the line, pure Christmas. I sigh, wondering if Tatyana has enough time to accept a return and get what I ordered delivered. I look at the whiteboard calendar on the office’s far wall. It’s possible, but the shipping might be cost prohibitive. I reach for my phone to call her—

“Ouch!” Ralph’s shriek startles me. He must see someone in the front window. I don’t hear knocks at the shop entry when I’m this far in the back. I spin on my foot to see who it is. My sudden movement catches my hip on the corner of the workbench, and the row of unwrapped Santas jiggles. Time slows as thousands of dollars of inventory threaten to jump off the plywood.

“No!” I reach over with both arms, stopping all but one of the football Santas from launching into midair. I watch in dismay as a Santa flips, hits the side of the contractor’s buzz saw, and splits into two jagged pieces that hit the floor with two sickening thuds. I kneel and pick up the pieces of the destroyed Santa. And mentally calculate the cash loss.

Business isn’t open yet, and I’m already destroying my profits. I throw the Santa halves into the box that rests against the back door. The tinkling crunch of the half-dozen malformed glass swizzle sticks I threw out last night underscores the weight of the broken Santa, and a shot of sadness slices through my hurried activity. An artisan in Russia spent hours perfecting the now unsaleable Santa. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

It’s part of being in retail.

I’m still on my knees, grasping the workbench to stand back up, when an unfamiliar clicking sound sounds, followed by a distinct scratching at the back employee-only door. Keys against the steel door. I stop breathing as my heart races. Mom has keys to the front door, to my apartment upstairs. No one else has the keys to this back entrance, except the girls and their keys are with them at their respective universities.

Someone’s letting themselves in, picking the lock. All that separates us is a standard push-lever commercial door. I can always get out, but no one should be able to get in without a key.

Ralph’s whistle echoes through the building.

It’s his way of warning me.

I’m not going to let anyone think they can even try to get into my shop. Navy training kicks in as I cut to the chase and press the lever. The door flings open.