The Holiday Switch(35)

Teddy reads off the list. “Hang icicle lights on windows. Remove shot glasses from display case, replace with snowflake ornaments. Remove blank journals and fill endcap with Holiday by the Lake. Easy-peasy.”

We only have a four-hour shift. “Looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us today.”

He looks down at me with a glint in his eyes, like I’ve issued a dare. “You think we can’t get it done?”

I peer at him. “Is this motivation I detect? What have you done with the Teddy Rivera we know and don’t love?”

He shuts the locker door and leans his shoulder against it. “Guess I had some fun last night, and I just thought…” He trails off.

“What?”

“Might as well try to take it easy on you for our last shift together.”

“So you’re going to say yes to whatever I ask you to do?” I cross my arms.

“Yeah. I will.”

    “All right, then.” I brush past him and head toward the shop.

From behind me he says, “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”



* * *





An hour after opening the gift shop, I’m wiping down the doors of fingerprints when Teddy emerges from the hallway. He’s carrying a box to the register labeled Icicle lights. He looks pained; I asked him to take on the lights, and I know his “suggestions” are ready to jump off his tongue.

It doesn’t take long. “Here’s what I think—”

I laugh. He’s so predictable. “Nope. We’ll outline the windows just like Ms. Velasco asked.” I scrub the glass harder.

He grimaces. “Fine.”

The windows on three of the four sides of the Bookworm Inn gift shop are floor to ceiling, with thick panes of glass. They’re the second thing you see as you crest over the hill. The first, of course, is the turret of the main house, lit like a beacon every night. Add the lake behind it, which is a sparkling ribbon under the bright night sky and all together, it’s a gorgeous sight.

When lights outline the windows, it takes the shop from impressive to spectacular. Because what warms the heart more than twinkle lights?

Whoever put the lights away last year, however, did not take their time. It was clearly the work of a seasonal part-timer who wasn’t thinking about the people who would have to unravel them. I lift up the nest of wires and bulbs. This is going to take forever.

Teddy groans, and I can’t even blame him.

Customers enter and head straight to our gift shop books area, to the biggest display: The Holiday by the Lake cookbook.

    “I’ve got this.” Teddy gestures to the box when a customer meanders close to the register.

“Sure?”

A grin lifts the right side of his face. “This isn’t rocket science.”

“I’m just saying.” I hold both hands up with a laugh. “You’re not exactly patient.”

“Oh, I’m patient, Santos. I think you’re confusing strategy with refusal.”

“What do you need to strategize?”

“Everything’s a puzzle. How many T-shirts we put up. How we get these lights on the window. Even where we set up the bobbleheads.” He nods to the stack, now positioned in another part of the store. “Without strategy, you can be aimless.”

“Like my rainbow shelves?” I gesture to the free library, which is now back in order.

“You don’t think it did its job?”

I pause and consider. Since I put the books back in order, I have noticed fewer people milling around the gift shop. “I…guess it did.”

“Aha! You liked it!”

“Maybe.” I try to keep my smile contained, but it has a mind of its own. I might have made my point that it’s sometimes better to do what’s on the list, but every other time Teddy veered from it, something good emerged. The bobbleheads are now safely out of the way of traffic. Even my rainbow shelves, though technically incorrect for classification, was received well by library goers.

Is the predictable way the best way? Or is there room to be creative? Can I still be creative even with a bio major? What happens to my blog when my focus is on school?

My runaway thoughts have me on my feet. “I’ll be back.” I smile at a group of women, clustered where the tree ornaments are displayed, grateful for the distraction. “Good morning! Welcome to the Bookworm Inn.”

    They’re swift in their choices—they must be part of those tours that only allow a half hour at each stop—and approach the counter as a group. They coordinate with matching shirt colors, each with a travel cup of coffee in their hand (no wonder they’re so chipper), wearing elf accessories. Their perfumes mix into what I imagine is a plume of smoke emanating above them. They all want a piece of the counter, like there are more secrets to the film behind the register.

The leader of the group, a Black woman wearing elf earrings, looks like she’s about to burst. “So, we heard that Jonah Johanson is coming to the Inn. Is it true?”

“It is. Actually…” From under the counter, I retrieve a freshly printed flyer. Hands fly toward me like I’m a card dealer in Vegas.

“Oh my God,” says a woman of Asian descent, with an elf hair clip holding back her silver-black hair, as she fans herself. “We have to find a way to come back!”