Page 23 of The Christmas Arrangement
She pulls on her white parka and a pair of gloves. Her one concession to the wardrobe is to wear the stiletto-heeled boots from our photoshoot rather than the weatherproof snow boots she eyes with longing.
I trade my jacket for the puffy black coat that’s currently trending, jam my beanie onto my head, and follow her out the door.
It’s a short, brisk walk to Blooms by Ivy, and as we pass the snow-covered storefronts, Ivy points out local businesses—jeweler, coffee shop, social club, soap store. They all sport whimsical names and holiday decorations. Is it quaint? Sure. It could pass for the set of Christmas romance. But how do people actually live here?
“It’s charming,” I say, and I mean it. “But where do you get groceries or things like paper towels and dog food?”
“There are all the usual big box stores in the valley. It’s not a far drive. But the town made a conscious decision to support small businesses, so you’d be surprised at how much you can source right here. Like Three Dog Night Pet Supplies, which carries everything from dog food to kitty litter and saddles. And there’s a year-round farmers market on the square where pretty much everyone does their grocery shopping.”
“Year round?” I don’t hide my disbelief.
“It moves inside the chapel narthax during the coldest months of winter. And during mud season, obviously.”
“Mud season? Never heard of it.” I tick off the seasons on my fingers. “Winter, spring, summer, fall. No mud season.”
“Well, Vermont definitely has mud season. Our fifth season falls between snowmelt in late March or early April and usually wraps up around Memorial Day.”
“And it’s … muddy.”
“To the extreme. All the mud.”
I pull a face. “Decidedly less charming.”
“We make the best of it. There’s even an annual Mud Pie Festival the first week of May.”
Assuming that the denizens of Mistletoe Mountain aren’t making actual mud pies, I hazard a guess. “Mississippi mud pies?”
She scoffs. “Of course not. Vermont mud pies. Crushed cookies for the crust, covered with a pint each of chocolate and coffee ice cream, topped with chocolate sauce, caramel sauce, and fresh whipped cream. Served with chocolate mousse if you’re feeling decadent.”
“It sounds both delicious and sickening.”
“Right on both counts.”
She’s still smiling at the thought of the mud pie concoction when we reach the small yellow brick townhouse turned storefront. A blue sign over the door identifies it as Blooms by Ivy. She unlocks the door and waves me inside.
I knock the snow off my boots on the cheerful welcome mat while she turns on the lights and flips the ‘closed’ sign around to ‘open.’ I frown at my watch.
“But aren’t you closed? It’s after five.”
“Sure but I was away most of the day for our photo shoot. I can’t afford to have someone cover the counter, so if anybody came by while I was closed, they might stop by again before the tree lighting. I’m here. So I might as well stay open.”
“That’s top-notch customer service.”
She shrugs. “Seems like the right thing to do.”
She powers up a tablet and opens a spreadsheet, then hands it to me. “This is a list of tomorrow’s orders. They’re all in the refrigerated case against the wall.” She points to a triple-door glass case stuffed full of floral arrangements. “Everything should be set to go, but I was pretty tired yesterday, so we should double check the orders.”
“Got it.” As I pull open the first door, she turns on a laptop and starts going through emails, typing rapid responses.
When I hear a pause in her typing, I mark my spot on the order sheet and say, “Mud pies aside, you never wanted to move away?”
Her answer is immediate and unequivocal. “Never. I lived at the inn and commuted to the community college in Stonebridge.”
“And your sisters?”
“Holly went to college in Burlington, then law school in New York. She moved back the day after she graduated.”
“What about Merry?”