Red sat in his recliner across the room, glasses sliding down his nose,TheNew York Timescrossword attached to a clipboard that looked like it had been made the same year man went to the moon.
His coffee sat on the table beside him, cooling into that dark sludge he always swore was “just hitting its stride.”
He muttered something under his breath, tapped the page, and said, “Ten letters for an
‘off-hours enterprise.’ Got any ideas, Benny? Like a second job you do at night.”
Benny squished up his face, thinking about the words which sounded like the perfect lead to the conversation he had to have but dreaded.
“Kind of like you when you play Grumpy Santa?” he asked.
Red gave him a look over his glasses. “Not again, Benny-bean. I did my part last year. I’ll get on the sleigh if I have to, but no more videos and viral fame.”
Except there would be more. At least, there would beonemore Grumpy Santa appearance.
“Oh, I know!” Red adjusted his glasses after a moment. “Side-hustle. That’s an off-hours enterprise.” Satisfied with that, he jotted the letters in the squares.
Benny checked the time, knowing his mom was running deliveries for the bakery this morning and would be home soon. He wanted to have this deal done before she returned, and it was going to take some convincing.
He looked down at the half-built Rover and the dog, who’d gone back to sleep, but he wasn’t thinking about either one. He was thinking about the lady in charge of the Mistletoe on Main festival. And the colossal promise he’d made her yesterday.
How had that even happened?
Olivia. That’s how it happened.
Grumpy Santa? Yeah, he could get his great-grandfather to play a role that came pretty naturally to him. Butice skating? In front of half the town?
Benny stifled a groan. What had he been thinking? He hadn’t. He’d been listening to Olivia, who was a…a girl. Smart,yes. Trustworthy and solid and knew her way around a science book. But still, agirl.
Sir Isaac Newton rolled onto his side with a grunt. Benny leaned over and whispered, “Grandpa’s gonna explode like an overcooked meatball.”
Sir Isaac Newton blinked, unimpressed. Clearly, he’d already accepted Benny’s fate.
Red groaned. “What’s a ‘Büchner pipeline’ with six letters? The last one is?—”
“Funnel,” Benny blurted.
Red looked up so fast, his glasses almost fell off his nose. “How did you…”
“Science club,” he explained. “Making crystals. We used a Büchner funnel.”
“Five-letter word for genius,” Red said with a grin. “Starts with a B and ends with enny-bean.”
Benny smiled, pushing up as he seized the moment. Operation Grumpy, er, Skating Santa needed to launch. But how?
He brushed off his jeans and wandered into the kitchen. The tray of biscotti his mom made yesterday sat on the counter, smelling like almonds and Christmas and happiness.
Redlovedbiscotti. He said they were “tough enough to survive a dunk and sweet enough to be worth it.” Benny personally thought they were like biting into one of the millions of rooftiles that came off the lodge during the renovation.
But he grabbed one, put it on a napkin, and carried it over like an offering to a grizzly bear.
“For you,” he said, holding it out. “Fresh from the kitchen.”
Red took it, sniffed it, and raised an eyebrow. “You want something?”
Why did the man have to be so smart about some things and clueless about technology? “Just feeling the Christmas spirit, Grandpa.”
Red shot him a look that said he wasn’t buying that for a second. “Out with it, boy,” he said, taking a bite. “You’re buttering me up like the turkey leftovers I’m going to eat for lunch. What do you need?”
