DECK THE SHELLS By the time I pinned the last sprig of holly-berry garland to the front of my booth, the Christmas Market had tipped into full festive hysteria. I wrangled a mangled raffia bow out of Grimmy’s jowls while a parade of pageant girls swept past in a flutter of sequins and hairspray. Their red, green, and winter-white gowns shimmered like wrapped presents as they glided onto the risers beside me, each step calculated to catch the light and blind at least three passersby. The Miss Merry Sugarberry pageant was officially underway. Here in the coastal town of Sugarberry Shores, we didn’t just celebrate Christmas—we lived it. There were Head Elf showdowns settled with candy cane duels and passive-aggressive hot cocoa afterward. Color-coded sign-up sheets mysteriously appeared overnight and filled up before sunrise. And everyone knew silent judges—most likely retired drama teachers—were already keeping tabs on whose wreaths hung crooked and who’d dared to bring store-bought fudge to the cookie swap.
I loved it. Mostly. But there were days I couldn’t wait to box up my handcrafted sea glass decorations and swap them for a jug of sun tea. Today wasn’t one of those days. Today, I was all in. It was the kind of day that made even the most tired traditions feel magical—clear blue skies, a cool breeze sharp enough to keep the cider steaming, and my booth tucked into a prime spot on the boardwalk with an unobstructed view of the ocean. Miss Penny’s shortbread stand held steady on one side, drawing a line three deep, while Coastal Charm’s peppermint candle stall filled the air with the warm, sweet scent of Christmas morning. I rearranged the driftwood branches cradling my sea glass ornaments and smoothed out the fabric banner draped across my booth, where Selena Sand’s Sea Glass danced in flowing script letters. The blues and greens of my sea glass display shimmered in the morning sun, catching the light just right and turning the booth into a little ocean of Christmas calm. I’d made every piece by hand with sea glass from local shores wrapped in silver wire for a touch of holiday whimsy or set into ornaments that sparkled with tiny, crushed shells. Some of my most popular pieces were on display—driftwood stars, sea glass snowflakes, and my best seller—jellyfish-shaped suncatchers I called Jingle Jellies. The table looked festive and full, everything laid out just right, at least until the next gust of wind or curious toddler decided otherwise. Grimmy, my Newfoundland and full-time shadow, flopped onto his back beside the table, a peppermint stick clutched between his enormous paws. I had no idea who’d given it to him, only that I’d be brushing sticky sugar crust from his fur until Valentine’s Day. The boardwalk sparkled, every inch strung with twinkle lights and garlands that shifted gently in the breeze. Peppermint-striped poles marked each booth, and somewhere behind me, the life-sized mechanical Santa outside Tinsley’s Treasures lifted one stiff arm and bellowed “Ho Ho Ho!” every forty seconds, whether anyone wanted him to or not. The sound had started out cheerful. Fifteen minutes in, it was downright ominous. Grim rolled to his belly the moment Bodhi Tiller ambled into view, barefoot as usual and dusted with flour, a fistful of peppermint sticks in hand. He gave me a wink and cocked his arm toward Grimmy. I raised a finger. “Don’t you even think about it.” The peppermint was already airborne. Grimmy snatched it mid-air with the confidence of someone who knew full well I wasn’t fast enough to stop him, and that I probably wouldn’t bother even if I was. He landed with a grunt and a tail wag, pleased with himself and completely unbothered by the rules of civilized society. Bodhi’s grin widened, easy and sun-warmed. “Big dogs need holiday joy.” “Big dogs need dental cleanings,” I muttered, crouching to pry a fragment of cellophane from Grimmy’s mouth. He licked my hand, determined to get the last of the sugar. Grimmy lived by the Ben Franklin adage: waste not, want not.
“You’re enabling him,” I called after Bodhi. Too late. Bodhi was already halfway back to his bakery, tucked beside Tinsley’s Treasures on the boardwalk, calling out to passersby, “Feel the cranberry vibes, people!” like he was starting a movement. Bodhi Tiller ran the local bakery, Half-Baked, a name that suited both the muffins and the man behind them. He had the mellow energy of a beach bonfire and the culinary instincts that made people line up before sunrise for his fresh-out-of-the-oven pastries. Grimmy settled next to the booth again, second peppermint clamped between his teeth like a holiday cigar. His tail thumped with Christmas joy or possibly, a full-blown sugar rush. Hard to tell. They looked the same on the Big G. The Market swirled around us—vendors calling out over the crowd, kids wobbling past with candy-cane breath and frosting on their cheeks, and carolers belting their hearts out in keys best described as aspirational. I took it all in with a heart full of affection…and that familiar Christmas joy that only happened down south, where you could string lights on palm trees and wear flip-flops to midnight services. “Hello, Sela, honey,” came a familiar voice behind me. I turned to find Dovie—Lavinia Rosewood Carrington, formally, though no one called her that except her accountant and, regrettably, her daughter-in-law—standing beside my stall. Her long white
hair was swept into a tight bun at the nape of her neck and speckled with tiny sparkling diamonds. Not crystals. No, no. That wasn’t the Carrington-way. Real diamonds. She wore a velvet jacket in deep holly green and carried herself like a woman who’d caused every scandal worth remembering and never once apologized for them. A sudden blur of cinnamon and caffeine barreled toward us. Jeffie Charlton, owner of The Salty Bean, the town’s artisanal coffee shop, and certified whirlwind, appeared with two steaming to-go cups and a tiny white pup cup balanced expertly in her hands. “Coastal Krampus Latte for you, Queen of Sea Glass, in honor of your shirt,” she said, sliding it into my hand. I glanced down at the graphic on my long-sleeved tee—Krampus on a sled with the words “Krampus Sleigh Rides – Naughty List Members Only.” I thought it was funny. Not everyone did. That was part of the appeal. “Velvet Reign for you, Miss Dovie. And this one’s for you, Edward the Grim.” Jeffie insisted on calling him by his formal name. He liked it. Made him feel important. She set the cup down in front of him and Grimmy tucked his paws in like a gentleman about to be served. He licked the cup clean in under ten seconds, then gave a single, satisfied huff. Positioned across from my booth, Madame Lulabelle Starling, our self-appointed town psychic, sat at a table drowning in fairy lights, waving gauzy scarves in both hands as incense curled from a brass burner at her feet. She leaned toward a bewildered young couple, eyes sparkling, and asked which fabric felt “more spiritually aligned with their shared aura.” The girl pointed hesitantly toward the lavender one. Lulabelle beamed like the stars had just confirmed her entire belief system itself. Lulabelle wasn’t dangerous—just theatrical, mostly harmless, and wrong about ninety percent of the time. The other ten had just enough eerie accuracy to keep everyone slightly nervous. From behind the deep violet curtain that served as her makeshift backdrop, a portable radio crackled with Orion Pine’s morning weather report. “A coastal hush today, with temperatures as warm as a kept promise,” he said in that dreamy, lilting voice of his. “Winds from the southeast may deliver a sprinkle of mischief and a twelve per cent chance of serendipity.” I let out a quiet laugh. Orion, with his dreamy zen-speak forecasts probably had a better chance of being correct than Lulabelle. A gust of wind swept through, scattering glitter from Lulabelle’s booth like fairy dandruff. I took a sip of my latte and turned toward the event platform where the Miss Merry Sugarberry contestants preened for the camera, gowns gleaming, smiles locked in place, the sparkling blue ocean stretched out behind them. In their gorgeous evening gowns, the girls smiled just wide enough for the camera, adjusting posture when they thought no one was watching. Elbows shifted subtly. Chins tilted. A few tucked stray hairs behind their ears in perfect sync, each move practiced and precise, as if timing counted for points. “They’re beautiful,” Jeffie murmured beside me. “Like a box of holiday chocolates.” One girl flinched when someone brushed too close. Another eased her way forward with the subtle insistence of someone trying to move up in rank without making a scene. No one raised their voice, but the tension gleamed just as brightly as the sequins. A brunette in a red velvet gown murmured something I couldn’t catch, but her expression had the polished poise of a girl who’d mastered the art of smiling while taking aim. I nodded, watching them shift and preen. “With surprise centers.” “They do know it’s just a pageant, right?” Jeffie asked. I didn’t answer. Because it wasn’t just a pageant. Not here. Winning Miss Merry Sugarberry meant more than a sash. It came with scholarships. Press coverage. The honor of flipping the switch at Glow & Behold!, our annual tree lighting ceremony that kicked off Christmas Eve. The last three winners had gone on to attend top universities, land modeling contracts, and chase influencer fame, depending on their talents—or talent managers. It wasn’t everything. But for some of them, it was the beginning of everything. “Who’s that guy who just left The Bean?” Jeffie asked suddenly. I followed her gaze. The man in question had just stepped out with a coffee in hand and a calm, composed look that didn’t match the chaos around him. Tall, broad-shouldered, sandy-blond hair, clean jawline, he moved with quiet confidence, not trying to draw attention but getting it anyway. He paused at Lulabelle’s booth, exchanged a few polite words, and gave a brief nod to someone passing by. Grimmy stood. Then, without hesitation, he trotted forward, peppermint stick still jutting from his mouth and parked himself in front of the stranger. Grimmy ceremoniously dropped the candy at his feet, then gave the man’s coat a long, unapologetic lick, as if the man were a gingerbread cookie begging to be taste-tested. I dashed after my misbehaving pooch, apologizing already. “Sorry! He thinks everyone—” The man crouched, no hesitation. Scratched behind Grimmy’s ears. Grimmy’s tail thumped. “So,” the man said, glancing up at me, “is he here to shop or just working the booth as holiday muscle?” I stopped short. “Technically, he’s security. But his only skills are being mistaken for a rug and moral support.” “Solid résumé,” he said. “But does he take bribes?” “Absolutely. Head pats, peppermint sticks, and undeserved praise.” He nodded and smiled. There was a sharpness to the way he moved, as if he was cataloging the edges of every conversation around him while still making you feel like the only person in the room. I smiled back, then caught myself doing it. “First time at the Market?” He took a long sip of coffee, watching me over the rim, before answering. I noticed his eyes were light blue, same as his shirt. “Yes,” he said at last. “I just moved here.” “Ah.” I gestured to the swirl of booths, music, and pageant sparkle around us. “Well then, welcome to the chaos that is Sugarberry Shores at Christmas.” “Thanks.” He smiled, gave Grimmy a final pat, and moved on. I returned to my booth and the three of us stared after him as he disappeared into the crowd. “Who in the world was that hunk o’ loving?” Dovie asked. I laughed. “No idea. But Grimmy likes him so he can’t be too bad.” Jeffie nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe he’s a new mail carrier.” Grimmy did have a soft spot for mail carriers. “I sure hope he’s on my route,” Dovie said, then rose onto her toes and gave a queenly wave toward the pageant girls. A dark-haired beauty, Dovie’s granddaughter Amma Rose, waved back. “Ladies, I must leave you. Amma Rose is in need of some grandmotherly comfort.” I followed her gaze to the event platform, where seventeen-year-old Amma Rose stood in a radiant blue gown that shimmered under the sun. Her smile was lovely, but tight. I knew how close she and Dovie were, often in quiet rebellion against Amma Rose’s mother. Petunia was one of those exhausting mothers determined to squeeze back into her own prom dress by way of her daughter’s life. I felt for Amma Rose. I gave Dovie a quick hug, and she slipped off toward the girls. Jeffie headed back to The Bean, and I turned to the small crowd gathering at my booth, holiday cheer in full swing. I was wrapping up two sea glass snowflakes and a Jingle Jelly for a customer when a flicker of motion near the platform caught my eye. One of the contestants—Penelope Blaire, I was pretty sure—stood slightly off to the side, her posture tight. In her hand was a postcard. It didn’t look like one of the glossy town freebies or souvenir cards we used to promote the Christmas Market. Then, in one smooth motion, she crumpled the card, tossed it into a nearby trash bin, and turned back toward the camera with a smile. Click. Fake as tinsel and just as sharp. The way her fingers had curled around it told me one thing for sure. Whatever it was, it wasn’t very merry. I waited. Not long. Just until the group had scattered, phones down and smiles slipping. Their chatter floated off down the boardwalk, where carolers were trying to harmonize over the whir of the popcorn cart. I crossed the distance to the bin and reached in. I turned my back to the boardwalk and assessed my find. The card was aged and brittle, the edges yellowing in places like it had been tucked away somewhere for decades. The glitter on Santa’s beard flaked at my touch, and the red of his suit had the muted, bloomed look of a photo left too long in the sun. The back held a single line, written in red ink in careful, swirling script that looked like it belonged to a different century. And the message was far from jolly. ...
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