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“You don’t know that.”

I didn’t answer, and the not-answering went on long enough to be an answer.

I had two weeks of evidence and no proof.

Apparently, that was the definition of faith.

Pearl squeezed my hand hard enough to hurt. Then she let go, stood, and wiped down a section of counter that was already clean. “Go open your shop,” she said. “And tell him about Ivy and the dumpster sometime. He’d like that one.”

I didn’t tell her I already had.

Winters Wonderland was quiet when I unlocked the door at nine. The ornaments caught the morning light in ways I never got tired of.

I’d chosen this shop—chosen Holly Creek, chosen this block—not inherited it or fallen into it the way some people fall into belonging. I bought a going concern from a woman who’d run it for nineteen years, wanted to move to Arizona, and never looked back. I had spent every year since earning the right to stand behind her counter. This shop, this street, and these neighbors mattered to me before Griffin Cole arrived, and they would matter after. Whatever happened with Griffin would not change that.

At ten, a boy came in clutching three one-dollar bills. With a serious expression, he asked what he could buy for exactly three dollars.

I showed him the tin ornaments beside the register. They cost a dollar fifty each.

He chose two. “Can you wrap them in different paper? Otherwise it looks cheap.”

He counted his bills twice before handing them over. When I told him three dollars covered everything, his shoulders relaxed. Oregon’s lack of sales tax had produced its smallest Christmas miracle.

He thanked me with the dignity of a bank manager and left with his hood pulled up against the cold.

That is the whole business, if anybody ever asks. That’s what the roof is for.

After him, it was a slow morning of the kind November specializes in. Two women from Albany walked the whole shop for forty minutes. They bought one candle and apologized, though they didn’t need to. They’ll be back on December twentieth with a list. They always are. A man returned a nutcracker whose sword had come off in the box. He took the replacement, then spent ten minutes telling me about his mother’s collection. That is the real transaction.

By noon I had reorganized the ornament display, and then I’d put it back the way it was, which is at least an improvement on the way I used to handle a Thursday.

My phone rang at twelve fifteen. The screen showed an unknown number.

“Is this Nora Winters?”

The woman sounded polished and friendly, the way people do when the fine print is not going to favor you.

“It is.”

“This is Janet Park, executive assistant to Victor Crane at the Meridian Group. Mr. Crane spoke with Griffin Cole yesterday about Meridian’s financial interest in the six Main Street buildings.”

I braced one hand on the counter. “He spoke to Griffin yesterday?”

“That’s right.”

“What did they discuss?”

“You’ll need to ask Mr. Cole about the conversation.” Her voice remained pleasant. “I assumed he had mentioned Mr. Crane’s call.”

He had not.

“Mr. Crane will be in Holly Creek on Monday to inspect the properties. He saw a photograph of your window display in the regional paper and would appreciate twenty minutes of your time.”

“Why does he want to meet me?”

“Mr. Crane likes to meet the business owners affected by Meridian’s investments.”

That was not an answer, but it was enough of a threat to sound like one.