The Christmas Company. Alys Murray

east off of the town square, and unlike the Dallas offices, it was not an imposing block of concrete and steel, made up in an intricate Art Deco style. It was a humble, two-story building with a flat roof and little else to speak of besides the embarrassment of Christmas lights decorating the front windows. A hand-painted sign with flippable numbers read: “0 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS.” Clark ripped it from its hook as Michael went for the spare key.

      “You really aren’t into this Christmas stuff, are you?”

      Given he’d only known this guy for a few hours, Clark spared him the tragic backstory and instead took the key and let himself in. The building’s exterior appeared humble, befitting a small-town center of business operations, but the inside ruined his every hope of a muted, respectable workplace environment. It was too fancy. Though years of red-clay-covered boots marked and stained the carpet, the wood finishes of the desks and the crown molding belonged in a palace rather than a satellite office building. Christmas decorations, no doubt charged to his family’s accounts, cluttered every available space. Even the coffee machine was top-of-the-line, but something else bothered him more. He made a beeline for the wall beside the receptionist’s desk.

      “What are you doing?” Michael asked.

      “Turning the heating off,” Clark replied, searching for the temperature gauge instead of asking what in the world he was doing standing around here when Clark had made it clear their little tour had ended at the graveyard gates.

      “It’s, like, forty degrees outside.”

      “And we all carry coats, don’t we? Heating is expensive.”

      The other man’s shocked gaze bore into Clark’s skin. He paid it no mind. He was a practical man in every sense of the word; he didn’t indulge in luxury. He wore fashionable but reasonably priced clothes, even stitching buttons and cuffs himself when they showed signs of wear. He wore his father’s timeless suit jackets, having them tailored to fit perfectly. He wasn’t very well going to heat an entire building, especially when no one worked inside to enjoy it. Besides, chill increased productivity. Hundreds of workplace studies said so. He’d stopped heating the office in Dallas; everyone here would get used to it. His next order of business, while Michael underscored his movements with a warbling whistle version of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside,” was to find the receptionist’s black book. When he finally procured it, he flipped through the pages, holding them close enough to his face to read them. He’d forgotten his glasses back at home.

      “What’re you doing now?”

      “Calling my staff. I didn’t give them the day off.”

      “You really think that’s a good idea?” he asked. His boldness lasted up until Clark shot him a narrowed look over the secretary’s desk. “It’s just… They made plans. Want to see their families, you know.”

      “Why are you here? Why aren’t you at work, I mean?”

      “The foreman gave us the day off. We were all supposed to be out working on the festival to help with the Christmas Eve crowds. The 24th and 25th are packed. You wouldn’t believe it.”

      “You work for Woodward?”

      “Yep. On Ranch 13 on the Eastern lot.”

      Clark raised an eyebrow and flipped to another page in the contact book. No wonder the company suffered so much during the month of December. All of his employees were getting free passes from his foremen. If he had any say, everyone would be coming in to work this afternoon.

      “I’ll have to call him, too.”

      Passing pages upon pages of personal numbers and shoved-in food delivery menus, Clark finally reached the work associates section of the records and searched for his Head of Production’s number. Whoever he was, he’d be getting an earful. Anyone who wanted to keep their job would be coming in, and that was final. Everyone in the Dallas office was working; there was no reason anyone else should have the day off. His fingers flew over the expensive black phone—only to receive the dial tone as Michael pressed down on the termination button. His eyes flashed with fear. Fear of what? Of hard work? This guy, with his big, calloused hands, didn’t seem unaccustomed to hard work.

      “Listen, I have to tell you something.”

      “…Yes?”

      Returning the phone to its cradle, Clark waited for his companion to speak. Michael checked his watch, a gesture Clark couldn’t help but note. Their tour had lasted an eternity without Michael checking his watch once; now he read the thing like the gospel. The entire air hummed with nervous panic, though Clark couldn’t for the life of him understand what Michael had to be nervous about. Surely the company’s employees weren’t this afraid of a hard day’s work…right? Or did they really fear losing their precious day off so much?

      “You know Kate Buckner?”

      It wasn’t the question he’d expected. Perhaps he should have. She’d been hovering in his thoughts like heavy-handed foreshadowing all day. He filtered her in his mind like sea water, never quite seeing her clearly.

      “I’ve met a Kate,” Clark offered. The taste in his mouth soured and he offered a silent prayer that Michael’s sudden declaration did not concern the Kate who cornered him outside of Town Hall last night. Dear God, let him be talking about a different Kate. Please. If this strange small town had taught him anything so far, it was this: no one wanted to tangle with her.

      “Pretty? Dirty blonde hair? Looks like she always wants to dance or fight?”

      Clark wouldn’t have put it that way. She never looked to him like a dancer or a fighter, though she carried herself with the natural grace of either. If he put any amount of real thought into her, he might have described her as a helper. She looked ready to help anyone and anything who needed her, even if helping meant she had to fight. It was an endearing quality; he would have admired it if he didn’t think it was against her best interest.

      “Yeah. I’ve met Kate Buckner.”

      “She’s up to something.” Michael spoke, gaining momentum with every word like a freight train. “She’s at your family’s house right now. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, and I don’t really know what’s going on, but I think it’s important you go home right now and check it out.”

      Truth be told, Clark hated that old place. He’d tried to avoid staying there the night before, but every hotel or bed and breakfast he approached informed him, polite as could be, they had no vacancy, so he’d bitten the bullet and returned to the mansion’s creaking halls, choosing to sleep on a couch in the front living room to avoid diving too deep into the body of the house. He hadn’t been there since he was a kid, and the memories wrapped around him heavier than the musty old blanket he’d slept under.

      “The Woodward House?”

      “Yeah.”

      He dreaded returning in the daylight, but he knew he had no choice. He didn’t know her plan, but he couldn’t let any harm come to the estate. The sham castle built on a hill still held the spirits of his family, and they required protection.

      It was all he had left of his parents.

      Collecting his coat, he tossed Michael the keys to his rental car, which he’d rescued from the tow yard this morning.

      “Drive me there.”

      Chapter Four

      “This all looks amazing! Can we move those candlesticks to the end of the hall? Oh, be careful with those ornaments! Just put the boxes down in the living room. We’ll decorate the tree later.”

      Kate wasn’t one to toot her own horn, but even she had to admit it: the Woodward House looked amazing. It wasn’t all her doing, of course. She merely lugged a few boxes and used her copy of the house keys to let everyone inside. When she called Miss Carolyn