choosing a local station that was playing Christmas carols. All right. Now they were ready. They pulled away from the curb, singing “Jingle Bells.”
They’d only just entered the freeway when Lalla yelled from the backseat. “Stop it, Carlos!” This was followed by, “Mommy, he’s poking me.”
“Carlos, cut it out,” Missy said in her firm mommy voice.
“I’m bored,” Carlos complained.
“Well, look for Priuses,” she suggested. Dumb suggestion because this game called for the first person who saw a Prius to say “Beep-beep” and slug the other Prius hunter in the arm. “Never mind,” she amended. “Just...” She fumbled around in the paper bag on the seat next to her and found what she was looking for. She tossed the plastic bag of munchies into the back. “Have a carrot.”
“Yuck,” said Carlos.
“Yuck,” parroted Lalla.
“Well, you guys sure aren’t getting any more sugar,” she informed them.
“Are we there yet?” Lalla demanded.
Hmm. Maybe she should’ve picked someplace closer for their perfect Christmas.
It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas
Olivia Wallace’s Icicle Creek Lodge was decked out for the holidays. Her oldest son, Eric, and his burly friend Bubba Swank had hauled in her antique sleigh from the lodge’s storage garage and it was now set up in the lobby, brimming with brightly wrapped faux presents. The staircase banister was dressed in greenery, and mistletoe had been hung in various key spots around the lodge and in the private family quarters. The big tree on the front porch was decorated with lights. Red poinsettias filled in any gaps.
Olivia Wallace smiled as she surveyed her domain. George would have been so proud.
That thought always comforted her. And made her a little wistful. How she wished her husband was here to help her run this place. Not because Eric wasn’t doing a wonderful job. He loved the lodge as much as Olivia did, and would probably take it over someday. No, it was more because she knew how happy she and George would have been. They’d shared the vision for this place and he’d never lived to see what a huge success it had become. They’d grown, added on, developed a reputation. Oh, yes, George would have loved this.
Well, most of it. Olivia hid a frown as one of her more difficult guests came down the stairs with his wife, his rolling suitcase thump-thumping behind him. He missed the last step and went tottering off sideways.
Oh, no! Please don’t fall. This descendant of Ebenezer Scrooge would sue her by New Year’s Day if that happened.
He righted himself, thank God, and she could hear him muttering all the way across the lobby to where she was manning the reception desk. “Those stairs are uneven.”
At times like this Olivia really didn’t like being an innkeeper. She braced herself for the barrage of complaints.
Sure enough, Mr. Braxton marched to the reception desk, his wife walking behind him like a reluctant shadow, and slammed down his keycard. “We didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Olivia said.
“The people down the hall were up partying all night.”
There had been two younger couples who’d been en route to Seattle to spend Christmas with family and had decided to stay the night. Olivia had suggested they try Zelda’s for dinner and they’d gone merrily off, full of good cheer. They’d probably overindulged in huckleberry martinis or the other house specialty, a Chocolate Kiss. She imagined they’d been a bit noisy on the way back to their rooms. Still, that wasn’t her fault.
“Making a racket in the hall at all hours,” Mr. Braxton continued.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Olivia said. “I do wish you’d come down and said something to me. I’d have been happy to talk to them.”
“Ha! Come down in my bathrobe and pajamas? I think not. And breakfast this morning.”
Olivia stiffened. “What about breakfast?”
“All those carbs.”
No one made crepes like Olivia. She served them stuffed with wild huckleberries and berry-flavored whipped cream. And she always served some sort of protein along with them. “If I remember correctly, breakfast also included sausages,” she said, some of the sweetness seeping out of her voice. “And fruit.”
“I thought it was very good,” said Mrs. Braxton, her voice barely above a whisper.
Her husband ignored her. Now he produced his printed bill. “I want a refund.” Behind him, his wife studied her feet.
Ooh, of all the cheap, contemptible... Olivia would have liked nothing better than to tell this man exactly what she thought of him.
But men like this rarely saw their shriveled souls for what they were. So, instead of saying, “You win the bad-boy lump of coal award for the day,” she said, “I’m sorry your stay wasn’t to your satisfaction. We try hard to give all our guests a pleasant experience.”
“Well, you failed with me!”
“I can refund fifty percent of your room price.” Sometimes, when guests had a complaint (and that was rare), Olivia gave them a gift certificate for a free night. Not Mr. Edward Braxton. She had no intention of encouraging him to return.
“I want a full refund,” he insisted.
This man was a bully. And there was only one way to treat bullies. “Mr. Braxton,” she said firmly, “you stayed in a lovely room with a beautiful view. We even left Sweet Dreams chocolates on your pillow.”
“My wife ate mine,” he muttered.
“And we gave you a lovely breakfast this morning, featuring my very own gourmet crepes. Which you ate. You made no complaint at breakfast, nor did you inform me of any special dietary needs when you registered. And there was a place on your registration form to do so. Now, you are a businessman, correct?”
He looked at her suspiciously. “Yes.”
“Then I ask you, would you give yourself a full refund?”
His brows formed an angry V. “Now, see here.”
“It’s Christmas, and in the spirit of the season, I’m offering you a fifty-percent discount. Would you like it?” she finished in a tone of voice that plainly said, “Take it or leave it.”
“Fine. I’ll take it.”
“An excellent decision,” she said.
“But I don’t like it,” he growled after they’d finished the appropriate paperwork.
“I’m sure you don’t,” she agreed.
“Come
