Deck the Halls - Sample

Chapter One

George Reilly twisted the wire on the back of the red velvet bow, anchoring it to the wreath frame. He frowned, looked at the bow, and adjusted it so it was even on the front of the cedar-and-spruce wreath.

This morning he'd arrived at The Ladybug Garden Center before anyone else. The clock on the cash register had said ten past seven. He'd had a whole hour and twenty minutes to work in the quiet before his boss, Laurel, arrived. Pregnant and beaming, Laurel worked nearly every day, waiting on customers, ordering stock, and doing the accounting for the business. George was there to do the heavy lifting, and a college student who'd worked for her over the summer was putting in some hours over the holiday break. Between the three of them they managed just fine.

Now it was after four, and he was finishing his eleventh wreath of the day. This time of year, they opened at nine and closed at five, and traffic was sporadic. In the summer, the greenhouse was filled with flowers and shrubs and vegetable plants, bags of soil and mulch, and fertilizers and pest control products. The interior store held gardening accessories, fresh produce, and small gifts.

Right now the whole inside of the store was decorated for Christmas. There were lights, and three different Christmas trees, and all kinds of decorations made by local artisans. Ornaments, signs, table linens...not to mention the section of holiday baking that was supplied by two local businesses. George hadn't celebrated Christmas in thirteen years. This year he was going to change that...somehow. The wreath making seemed like a good start. The past year had been filled with new starts, it seemed. He was still getting used to it all, but it felt good to look forward to the future.

He sat on a stool next to an apple bin filled with evergreen boughs, the stack of wreaths beside him. Laurel had brought some of the greenery in from suppliers, but most came from the supply of Christmas trees on the lot, standing in tilted rows where the shrubs and fruit trees sat in the spring. The idea had come to him as he'd collected errant branches rather than throwing them away or into the compost. Then he'd looked at a wreath hanging on the door at the Sugarbush Diner and got an idea of how it went together. When he'd mentioned it to Laurel, she'd zipped off, in typical Laurel fashion, and returned with a half-dozen wreath forms, floral wire, and spools of wired ribbon. A few failed tries later, he got the hang of it and started a little side hustle.

He sold them on consignment and added a little extra money to his bank account. More than that, though, he enjoyed doing it. Especially days like this, when it was cloudy and gray. A weekday, too, so the tree lot wasn't running the brisk business it would on the weekend. Laurel was inside marking new stock. George gathered more branches, bundled them together, and pressed them into the frame. The only sound was the cars going by, people on their way home from work, and the snip of his cutters as he trimmed branches and cut wire. He liked working with his hands. He liked the quiet. And though he wouldn't say it out loud, he really liked the idea of adding something of beauty to the world, even if it was just a potted plant or holiday wreath. He'd seen enough ugliness to appreciate beautiful things, no matter how small.

A car pulled into the lot and he looked down at his watch. Twenty after four. Someone looking for a poinsettia, perhaps, or some ivy sprigs. Maybe a gift for an office party or a neighbor. He looked up as a dark-haired woman stepped through the gate, and her heeled boots clicked dully on the stone floor. He frowned. She hadn't noticed him sitting amongst the trees and greenery, but something about her looked familiar. Maybe he'd seen her around town before. Or maybe she was from Montpelier. He'd certainly spent some time there over the years. On the streets, so it was unlikely anyone would recognize him. Even in the rare cases when people had made eye contact, they tended to see what he had been and not who.

He grabbed a handful of white pine and picked up his clippers, snipping the boughs to the right length.

Then the heels clipped on the stone again and he looked up. The woman was staring at him now, and the curious look in her eyes hit him right in the chest. He'd seen those eyes before. A long, long time ago, and the breath froze as he came face to face with Ian Merck's twin sister.