With a nod to myself, I hurry off to the call center.
Seven
BAILEY
The winter air nips at my cheeks as I hurry towards the Historic Holly Inn, my arms laden with boxes of supplies. I should have bought the red wagon that was on display too. Not to decorate with, but to transport stuff.
Gladys was gone before I came out this morning. I’m worried about her. I’d hoped to feed her a warm meal, if you can call brown sugar-cinnamon oatmeal a meal. I don’t like the idea of her wandering around town trying to keep warm. She’s confused—thinking she’s an angel and all. And, while I’m flattered she feels like she’s my angel, I don’t think she should be alone. Especially at Christmas.
I’ve deliberately chosen this early hour, hoping to avoid any unwanted encounters or distractions. The less time I have to spend around Logan or the other contestants, the better.
As I approach the grand entrance of the inn, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the day ahead. This contest means everything to me, a chance to prove myself, to show the world that my vision has value. But as I climb the steps to the entrance, a familiar knot of anxiety tightens in my stomach. What if I’m not good enough? What if my ideas are too unconventional too strange for the judges to appreciate?
Shaking off these thoughts, I step through the doors.
A cheerful voice crosses the distance from the check-in desk. “Good morning! You must be here for the decorating contest. The ballroom is just down the hall to your left.”
She’s way too chipper for this time of day. I guess that’s why she took this shift. To each their own.
I nod my thanks, not wanting to yell over to her and disturb the guests. The whole building feels like it’s still sleeping. I bet if I close my eyes and listen, I can hear it breathe.
I push my way through the ballroom doors, once again wishing I’d bought the wagon.
Five identical Christmas trees are arranged around the room, each awaiting transformation at the hands of the contestants. Our spaces are set off by tape on the floor. I may not have gotten a fireplace but the window in my corner will provide natural light while I work.
I make my way over, carefully setting down my boxes. As I begin to unpack, I can’t help but feel a sense of anticipation. I don’t know if I’ll use all the ornaments I’ve made over the last couple of days. I’ll probably end up donating a few to local charities or something.
The sound of the ballroom doors opening makes me freeze. I look up, my heart thrumming as I see Logan enter the room. He looks good. Dressed in a black Henley and jeans and thick-soled shoes, he could go out and cut a load of firewood or cozy up by the fireplace with a book. Darn him for always looking perfect and put together.
He pauses for a moment, taking in the grandeur of the space, before his gaze lands on me. A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he makes his way over.
“Morning,” he says, his deep voice carrying easily across the quiet room. “Looks like we had the same idea about getting an early start.”
I force a tight smile. “Looks like it.”
Logan sets his things down right on the tape line between our two assigned spots. He’s close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne, a warm, woodsy fragrance that’s irritatingly pleasant. I steal a glance at him as he unpacks, unable to ignore how good he looks in a charcoal-colored shirt that highlights his broad shoulders and well-defined arms. The firefighter's physique is certainly working for him.
I shake my head, annoyed at myself for even noticing. As I watch him methodically organizing his supplies, I can’t help but remember Mrs. Pennington’s words about what a good person he is.
But then, people said the same things about my ex-boyfriend, didn’t they? And look how that turned out. A familiar bitterness rises in my throat at the memory.
As we work side by side in silence, the air between us seems to crackle with unspoken competition. I can feel Logan’s eyes on me occasionally, probably trying to figure out what I’m planning. Well, he can look all he wants. I’m not giving anything away.
I pull out my sketchbook, flipping to the pages where I’ve outlined my design. It’s bold, modern, a far cry from the traditional Christmas motifs I’m sure Logan will be using. I pull out a can of aerosol snow. I’m going to have to spray the tree to turn it white. I hope they don’t mind. I roll out a drop cloth and move the tree on top of it.
“You’re spraying the tree?” Logan asks.
I nod and point at the other trees around the room. “They’re all the same. I want mine to stand out.”
He looks from my tree to the others and then his. “But Christmas trees are supposed to be green.”
“Not all of them,” I say through a smile. With that, I shake the bottle and then start spraying. I don’t know if I’ve insulted him by pointing out that all the trees are the same, or if I’ve given him something to think about.
The next hour passes in tense silence as more contestants begin to arrive. The ballroom gradually fills with the sounds of rustling paper, clinking ornaments, and muted conversations. No one talks to me and I don’t make the effort to talk to them. A part of me yearns for friendly chatter, to feel like I’m part of the group. Why is it so hard for me to just get along with people?
Just as I’m about to lose myself in a spiral of self-doubt, the ballroom doors open and a familiar voice rings out. “Good morning, everyone. Oh my, isn’t this exciting?” Gladys comes in, her presence instantly brightening the atmosphere. As she makes her way through the room, greeting contestants with genuine warmth, I feel some of the tension in my shoulders begin to ease. Gladys is my friend. She’s being kind, but I know she’ll end up at my station and probably stay there. There’s a sense of security in that.
When Gladys reaches me, her smile is radiant. “Look at all you’ve done,” she says in awe. “Your tree is beautiful.”
