Cashel scowled. “You’re being shortsighted. And cheap.”
The younger one—Boone—snorted at that. But Stone ignored him and continued addressing the other man. “No, Cash, I’m being logical. We already get the highway traffic because we’re between town and the exit. A sign on Main Street for the farm market will do just fine to direct all of the traffic from the other end of town to here and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper than buying, renovating and staffing the old train depot.”
It was a fascinating and enlightening conversation. I couldn’t even be annoyed they’d ignored my presence since my pseudo eavesdropping had gleaned a wealth of information about the real estate market in Mudville and the economy in town.
But it looked like my being a fly on the wall was over. Boone backhanded Stone in the side and tipped his chin in my direction.
All three turned to stare, but it was Stone who asked, “Can I help you?”
“Um, yeah. My GPS doesn’t seem to be working great. I’m—”
Boone’s eyes widened. “You must be the Santa that Elizabeth Murphy is waiting for.”
Elizabeth Murphy? Could that be Lizzy?
I didn’t have time to ask as Stone hissed out, “Shit, that’s right. I promised her I’d get in touch with Harper or Agnes to get the volunteer’s number to make sure he was coming since he was supposed to be here at ten.” Stone looked back to me. “Sorry you got lost. GPS doesn’t like a lot of addresses around here. Anyway, you’re here now and you are in the right place. The Santa Station is all set up for you. I think it opens for photos at eleven? Is that right, Cash?”
Cash nodded. “Yup. Red’s photographer friend is already here and set up.” He glanced down at his cell phone and hissed in air between his teeth. “Crap. It’s already five minutes of eleven.”
“That’s okay. The Santa suit is hanging right in the back. And there’s a bathroom back there where you can change.” Boone hooked a thumb toward the door behind him. “We’ll just put the Feeding the Reindeer sign up by the sleigh until you get out there.”
I’d remained quiet until then. Mostly because the three hadn’t given me a second to get a word in to correct their wrong assumption that I was their volunteer Santa for the day.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized, the best way to learn about this town, and the potential to sell the farm I was suddenly the owner of, might be to actually take this job. And then there was the possibility that Lizzy Murphy might actually be here.
It seemed like a crazy coincidence, but this was a small town so it was possible.
I turned over the details of the situation in my mind. If the real Santa—make that the guy who’d really been hired to play Santa—was supposed to be here an hour ago, there was a good chance he’d be a no-show. And if he did show up later, I could just say I’d decided to help out and step in until he arrived. It wasn’t like I could be arrested for impersonating Santa.
Decision made, I nodded. “Thanks. I’ll go get into that suit and get right out there.”
Luckily, they left me alone to change. I took the opportunity to leave a second message for the lawyer saying that I’d have to reschedule our meeting for late this afternoon or possibly tomorrow morning.
It looked like I’d be spending more time here in Mudville.
TWO
ELIZABETH
Mudville, New York, population one thousand one hundred and twenty-eight, wasn’t exactly a hot market for me to showcase my design skills. But in upstate New York, you learned to take what you could get.
For me, what I could get was the position—make that the volunteer unpaid position—of Winter Wonderland designer, which was less exciting than the official title sounded.
I’d been here at Morgan Farm Market for the past week staging the display, but today was it. Opening day. And I was ready—except for the big guy in red who was, unbelievably, late.
I folded the fur throw and draped it on the seat of the sleigh I’d borrowed from Red at the local consignment shop.
That was it, the final touch . . . except for my missing Santa.
Not letting that worry override my accomplishment, I took out my cell and lined up a photo of the sleigh for Instagram. Then I moved to the train-shaped wooden sign and took another shot.
The sign read Santa Station—the clever name we’d decided on at the Rotary meeting during the planning stages. I’d figured since there was no ignoring the train that ran through the middle of our little village, we might as well capitalize on it for our marketing. Not that most of the members of the Rotary knew or cared much about marketing.
I sighed at one of the many daily reminders of why I’d wanted to move out of this town and to a real city since I graduated high school.
Yet here I was, still in Mudville at thirty-nine years old. And, apparently, still waiting for Santa.
This whole thing had turned out to be a lot more work—and stress—than I’d bargained for. But the Winter Wonderland was for a good cause. No doubt. The Santa photos sold here this month would benefit the local school’s grossly underfunded arts programs.
I couldn’t not have Santa in our Santa Station—the money-maker of this event. Everything needed to go as we’d planned. Not only did the school really need the money, I didn’t want the Morgan family to regret letting us set up the fundraiser at their farm market.
The idea was that families coming to buy a Christmas tree would stop for a photo. Conversely, those bringing their kids for a picture with Santa would probably make a day of it and pick their tree while they were here. Win-win for all of us. Or at least that was my hope. But not if the damn Santa didn’t get here.
I whipped out my cell phone. I’d already texted Stone and asked him to get me the volunteer’s phone number from Agnes.
My bad that I didn’t have Agnes’s or the volunteer’s number myself, but since Stone was dating Agnes’s niece Harper, I figured he could get the information for me.
Almost an hour later, I still had no Santa and no word from Stone.
I glanced toward the parking lot and blew out a breath. If the volunteer didn’t arrive in the next five minutes, we were screwed. I was going to have to send out an SOS to the Rotary members and beg for someone to get me another volunteer because without Santa, the Santa Station was going to flop.
Just when I was starting to really panic, a flash of red and white caught my eye.
He was here. Dressed and ready. Thank God.
I stepped forward, more than anxious to show him to his sleigh and get this fundraising event started.
I extended my hand with a smile and said, “Hi. You must be our Santa volunteer for today. Thank you for helping out. I’m Elizabeth Murphy.”
He paused, a frown forming between the eyebrows he’d sprayed white. I saw his mouth open and then close again behind the fake beard and mustache.
Finally, he drew in a breath and said, “Nice to meet you, Elizabeth. Um . . . does anyone ever call you Lizzy?”
I laughed. “Not since I was a teenager. Why do you ask?” It seemed like an odd question.
“Uh, no reason.” He shook his head.
“I’m sorry. What’s your name?” I asked, embarrassed I didn’t already know it.