She smiled.
“Welcome to Too Much,” she whispered. “Population: me.”
The phone had been ringingall morning.
Lauren tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and hit the button, slipping back into her reception voice.
“Good afternoon, Muse Magazine. This is Lauren speaking. How can I help you?”
A woman’s voice, warm and confident: “Hi! I was hoping to speak with—oh, actually, I think it’s you I want. Lauren?”
Lauren blinked. “That’s me.”
“This is Margot from The Stockist. Do you have a moment?”
Lauren straightened. “Yes—of course.”
Margot continued, her tone professional but genuinely pleased. “I’m calling with wonderful news. One of our long-standing clients was in today and saw your pieces in the artisan showcase. She absolutely adored them.”
Lauren felt a flutter in her stomach. “She did?”
“Oh yes. She said they made her smile—which, believe me, is rare and noteworthy. She’s interested in commissioning something for next Christmas.”
Lauren’s pen slipped. People booked wedding venues that early—not handmade holiday crafts. Not wreaths and garlands made by someone who still didn’t quite believe she belonged in The Stockist at all.
But Margot kept talking, oblivious to Lauren’s sudden light-headedness.
“She’s hosting several large holiday events in December,” Margot said. “And she would like you to design the decorations for her Christmas tree. It’s a twelve-foot spruce that will be brought into her home the week after Thanksgiving.”
Lauren’s breath hitched. “Twelve… feet?”
“Yes. She’d like the entire tree decorated in your aesthetic—ornaments, garlands, topper, everything. A full thematic concept.” A small, delighted laugh. “She described your work as ‘unapologetic.’ She wants something that celebrates Christmas wholeheartedly, unironically.”
Lauren stared at the wall in front of her.
Wholehearted Christmas. Not ironic.
Not angry. Not the cathartic anti-holiday pieces she’d made after everything fell apart.
She thought of Tom’s letter. She thought of the sprawling Christmas village from the night before. The one that was unapologetically, stupidly,hopelesslyunironic.
“Of course,” Margot went on, “she’s aware of your current body of work, so she asked me to confirm—would you feel comfortable creating something… sincere?”
Lauren wasn’t sure she breathed for a full three seconds.
Her gaze drifted to her sketchbook on the desk, open to the tiny crooked heart she’d doodled without meaning to.
A little bruise of hope.
Small, imperfect.
Still beating.
She pictured Tom’s handwritten note. The softened edges in his words. The way it had loosened something knotted inside her.
He hadn’t ruined Christmas. He’d only bruised it. And bruises healed.
“Yes,” Lauren said. “I can do that.”
