to be working for wise guys.”
“We’re two hundred miles north of New York City,” Holly cried. “I don’t think this is a hotbed of mob activity. Look around. We’re in the middle of a Norman Rockwell painting.” Holly turned slowly on the sidewalk to take in the gentle snowfall, the quaint streetlights, the huge Christmas tree sparkling with lights in the center of the square. She’d never seen anything quite so pretty. It was like a scene from It’s A Wonderful Life.
One side of the square was dominated by a majestic old courthouse and the opposite by a department store right out of the 1920s called Dalton’s, its elegant stone facade and wide plate-glass windows ablaze with holiday cheer. Small shops and restaurants made up the rest of the square, each and every one decked out for the Christmas season with fresh evergreen boughs and lush, red ribbon.
Meg surveyed the scene suspiciously, her eyes narrowing. “That’s what they’d like us to think. They’re luring us in, making us feel comfortable. It’s like one of those stories where the town appears perfect on the surface but it’s got a seamy underbelly that would—”
“Who is luring us in?” Holly demanded.
“Exactly my point,” Meg said. “This morning, we get a mysterious letter with a huge check signed by some phantom client with very poor penmanship. We’re given just a few hours to go home and pack, then take a train halfway across the state of New York and you don’t even know who we’re working for. Maybe it’s the CIA. They celebrate Christmas, don’t they?”
Holly glanced at Meg, then looked down at the letter clutched in her hand. The overnight missive had arrived in the Manhattan office of All The Trimmings just that morning at the very moment she’d learned her struggling business was about to finish yet another year in the red.
She’d started All The Trimmings five years ago and this Christmas had become a turning point. She was nearly twenty-seven years old and had all of $300 in her savings account. If her company didn’t show at least a few dollars profit, Holly would be forced to close down the tiny office and try another line of work. Maybe go back to the profession she’d trained for and failed at first—interior design.
Though she had plenty of competitors, no one in the Christmas business worked harder than Holly Bennett. She was a Christmas consultant, holiday decorator, personal corporate Christmas shopper and anything else her clients required. When called upon, she’d even dressed a client’s dog for a canine holiday party and baked doggy biscuits in the shape of candy canes.
She’d started off small, with residential installations, decorating New York town houses both inside and out. Her designs became known for unique themes and interesting materials. There’d been the butterfly tree she’d done for Mrs. Wellington, a huge Douglas fir covered with colorful paper butterflies. Or the decorations she’d done for Big Lou, King of the Used Cars, combining gold-sprayed auto parts ornaments and nuts and bolts garland. Over the next few years, she’d taken on corporate clients—a string of shopping malls on Long Island, a few boutiques in Manhattan—and the demand for her services had required a full-time assistant.
Holly had always loved Christmas. From the time she was a little girl, she’d anticipated the start of the season, officially beginning the moment Thanksgiving was over and ending on Christmas Day—her birthday. No sooner had her mother put away the Indian corn and Horn of Plenty centerpiece than she’d retrieve all the beautiful Christmas ornaments from the dusty old attic of their house in Syracuse. Next, Holly and her dad would cut down a tree and the whirl of decorating and shopping and cookie-baking wouldn’t stop until midnight on the twenty-fifth, when she and her mother and father would tumble into their beds, exhausted but already planning for her next birthday and the Christmas that came with it.
It was the one time of year she felt special, like a princess, instead of the shy, unpopular girl she’d been. She’d done everything to make the holiday perfect, obsessed with the tiniest details, striving for perfection. Holly’s mother had been the one to suggest that she turn her degree in interior design toward something more seasonal.
At first, Holly had been thrilled with the strange path her career had taken and she’d doted over the designs for her earlier clients. But lately, Christmas had become synonymous with business and income, profits and pressure, not happy memories of her childhood. After her parents had moved to Florida, Holly usually spent the holidays working, joining them once all her clients were in bed on Christmas night.
Without a family Christmas, she’d gradually lost touch with the spirit of the season. But it was impossible to make the trip to Florida and still keep watch over her business. So Christmas had turned into something she barely tolerated and had grown to dread, filled with last-minute details and loneliness. She sighed inwardly. What she wouldn’t give for a real family Christmas this year.
“I’ve got it!” Meg cried. “This guy we’re working for is in the witness protection program and he’s left his family behind because he doesn’t want to burden them with—”
“Enough,” Holly interrupted. “I’ll admit, his request for an immediate consultation is a bit unusual. But look at the bright side, Meg. Now that all our other holiday installations are complete, we really don’t have that much to do.” She could certainly find time to make Christmas perfect for a client who chose to pay her a $15,000 retainer for a two-week project, even if he was in the witness protection program.
“Nothing to do?” Meg asked. “We’ve got six new commercial installations with mechanized reindeers and sleighs to maintain and you know how temperamental those singing reindeer are. And that tree we did for Farley’s courtyard on Park Avenue is going to take a lot of maintenance. If we get a stiff wind, all the decorations will end up in the East River. Plus we’ve got a list of corporate Christmas gifts we still need to shop for.”
“We can’t afford to turn this job down,” Holly murmured. “I’ve already spent my inheritance keeping this business afloat and my parents aren’t even dead yet!”
“So how are we supposed to know who we’re meeting?” Meg asked.
“The check was from the TD One Foundation. And the letter says he’ll be wearing a sprig of holly in his lapel.”
That very moment, Holly saw a tall gentleman approaching with the requisite holly. She jabbed Meg in the side and they both smiled graciously. “No more cracks about the mob,” she muttered.
“Miss Bennett? Miss O’Malley?”
“He knows our names!” Meg whispered. “He probably knows where we live. If we make a run for it now, we might be able to get to the train before he sets his goons on us.”
He held out his hand and Holly took it, noticing the fine cashmere coat he wore and the expensive gloves. Her gaze rose to his face and she felt her breath drain from her body. If this man was a mobster, then he was the handsomest mobster she’d ever seen. His dark hair ruffled in the wind and his patrician profile looked like carved marble in the dim light from the street lamps.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “And thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“Mr.—I’m sorry,” Meg said, holding out her own hand. “I didn’t catch your name.”
His cool expression didn’t change as he brushed off her indirect question. “My name isn’t important or necessary.”
“How did you know it was us?” Meg asked, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“I
