We were making our way toward a booth selling what smelled like the most incredible baked goods when my shoulder accidentally clipped someone walking in the opposite direction. I immediately turned to apologize, expecting the brief, polite exchange that such incidents usually warranted.
Instead, I found myself face to face with an elderly man who looked like he was ready to take my head off with his cane.
“Sorry about that,” I said, but before I could finish the apology, he was already launching into what could only be described as a verbal assault.
“Some nerve!” the old man sputtered, waving his cane in my general direction. “You’re taller than everyone else here and you still can’t see where the hell you’re going! What’s the point of all that height if you’re not going to use it for anything useful?”
I stood there, stunned into silence. The guy had to be pushing ninety, with the kind of righteous indignation that suggested he’d been nursing grievances against the world for all nine decades. Under normal circumstances, I would have told him exactly where he could shove his opinions about my height and spatial awareness. I was pretty sure it was his old wrinkly assthat walked into me. He could fuck off. But I couldn’t say that. There was something about his age and obvious frailty that made me hold my tongue.
“Maybe try watching where you’re walking instead of gawking around like some tourist who’s never seen a Christmas light before,” he continued, apparently not finished with his critique of my character and walking abilities.
I was at an absolute loss for words. Who the hell was this guy and why was he picking on me? There were fifty people here. Why me?
“Mr. Withers.” Sylvie’s voice cut through his tirade as she appeared at my side. Her tone was gentle but firm, the way you might speak to a cranky child. “How are you enjoying the market?”
Old man Withers turned his scowl on her, though I noticed it softened slightly around the edges.
“Too many people,” he grumbled. “Too much noise. Too much Christmas nonsense cluttering up the streets.”
“Well, it’s only for a little while,” Sylvie said patiently. “Have you had a chance to get some of those ginger cookies you like? I saw the booth over by the post office.”
Mr. Withers harrumphed but didn’t seem entirely immune to the mention of cookies. He hobbled off with his cane, waving it threateningly at a group of children who had the audacity to run past him.
“You have your own Scrooge,” I said, watching him disappear into the crowd. “I didn’t know they actually existed.”
Sylvie’s expression turned sad. “We do. And his story is just as heartbreaking as the original.”
“Oh?”
She shook her head. “But it’s not my story to tell. Come on, you’re about to try the best shortbread of your life.”
I had been called Scrooge more than once, but the next time my brothers made the comparison, I was going to push back. No way was I like that old fart. Although I wouldn’t mind having a cane to shake angrily at people who annoyed me.
Sylvie led me to a vendor booth run by a woman who looked like she could be someone’s grandmother, with her flour-dusted apron and warm smile. Magdalena was what Sylvie called her. The shortbread was arranged in neat rows on plates. Sylvie handed me one. When I bit into the piece, I had to admit she’d been right.
It was incredible, buttery and delicate with just the right amount of sweetness, practically melting on my tongue. I found myself reaching for a second piece before I had even finished the first.
“Good?” Sylvie asked, though my expression probably made the answer obvious.
“Outstanding,” I admitted. “Where has this been all my life?”
“Right here in Northwood,” she said with a grin. “Some things are worth the trip to find.”
We continued wandering through the market. For once, all the Christmas music and holiday decorations didn’t feel overwhelming or oppressive. The carolers singing “Silent Night” near the gazebo actually sounded pleasant instead of annoying. Alder and Aspen could use some training from them.
There was something about this place that was starting to work its way under my skin despite my best efforts to remain objective and detached. The street felt like a big family get together, joyous and welcoming. They were a real community and I could see the appeal of feeling deeply connected to your town and the people in it.
I was just starting to relax completely when my phone buzzed in my pocket. I glanced at the caller ID and my stomach dropped.
Dad.
“I need to take this,” I told Sylvie, stepping through the crowd toward a quieter spot near the edge of the market.
“Kent.” My father’s voice was all business. “I was expecting an update by now. Have you sat down to negotiate terms with the owner yet?”
CHAPTER 15
SYLVIE
