A Santa Stabbing

“Hello!” A shriek that sounds like an opera singer doing a full-on soprano scale breaks through my early Saturday-morning shower reverie. My scrubbing hands still on my soapy scalp. I know it’s Ralph who cried out. Ralph is my ten-year-old Amazon parrot—think the green bird on a pirate’s shoulder—with exceptional vocal skills. He’s also a spectacular watch bird. He’s in his cage in the family room, which means there’s a stranger nearby. Maybe knocking on the door of our second-and-third-floor home, above my shop. But most likely on the street one floor below. Nothing to get worked up over.

I go back to shampooing my hair, reveling in the Christmas shampoo’s peppermint scent. It’s still two weeks before Thanksgiving, but I’m all about the season this year—spiritually and commercially.

“I said ‘helloooo!’” Ralph’s tone is more strident, his volume full blast. I swear I feel my adrenals squeeze out heart-pumping hormones. There’s somebody either outside the front door, or—gulp—in my apartment.

What if it’s a robber? Or worse?

It’s not a robber. This is Stonebridge, Pennsylvania, not Highway 101 in Northern California. Where seemingly sleepy bedroom communities—

No. I stop my overactive brain before it trips into a neighborhood I should never go. The one that shows up after I binge three Netflix true-crime documentaries. As I did last night. And maybe the night before.

Okay, I admit it. Since I dropped the girls off at college a few months ago, I’ve been spending the nights with some of the most notorious serial killers of all time. And I believe I have the real Jack the Ripper identified, someone never discovered—

“Owwww!”

Another ear-shredding shriek from Ralph, imitating my cry when he occasionally nips me. It’s Ralph’s code for I mean it, Mom!

Is someone in the apartment?

I shut off the water and stand stock still, assessing my options. A first glance around the newly renovated bathroom yields a sucky arsenal. The best weapon I have that would knock someone out cold is a solid linden wood carved Santa figure, but it’s perched on a curio table next to the front door. A serial killer—no, not a serial killer—is between Santa dude and me. I’ve got to find something in the bath—

“Bad bird!” Ralph’s voice, able to mimic any human voice with eerie accuracy, sounds exactly like my very angry, very serious self. His cry is followed by a distinct thump.

As in a heavy footfall.

My heartbeat trips into clanging. Someone’s definitely in my apartment. I’m hot and cold all at once.

My second, frenzied gaze lands on the gargantuan bottle of salon-quality shampoo from Costco, shoved into the corner for the season as Candy Cane Locks takes center stage. The huge economy-sized bottle seemed like a treasure find after years of limited shampoo choices while I was stationed overseas. My bow to consumerism may be all that saves me. Will a plastic bottle weighing five pounds do it?

Of course it will. I’ve been to war and back. I’ve flown Navy helicopters through treacherous missions. I can make a large bottle of discount shampoo from Costco work. I bend over and reach for the bottle with soapy hands, clutch it to my—

“Don’t worry, Angel, it’s just me!” Mom’s shout reaches me inside the shower and triggers the scream I’d shoved down moments earlier. The shampoo bottle slips from my hold and slams against my big toe. I yelp, the pitch higher than my first scream.

“Angel, what on earth?” Mom’s in my bathroom, on the other side of the glass shower door, still holding her purse.

“Mom! Turn around. Please.”

To her credit, Mom’s quick on her feet and complies, but now she’s facing the wide mirror which, yeah, reflects me behind the glass door. In all my sudsy glory.

“I’m sorry, Angel, I rang the bell and knocked several times. And I thought you’d hear Ralph.”

“I did hear Ralph.” Talking through clenched teeth has become more regular since I moved back to my hometown. Especially with Mom. The well-meaning not-an-intruder. Kind of.

“Why don’t I make a pot of coffee while you finish up? Take your time.” Mom no doubt feels waves of my ire through the tempered glass. She leaves, and I lean against the shower wall to catch my breath.

But the tile is cold, soap is dripping in my eyes, and I’m shivering. I turn the water back on and let the heat wash away my annoyance.

I love my Mom. I love my Mom. I love my Mom.

Five minutes later, I walk into the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a sweater with JINGLE JINGLE in glitter cursive written across the chest. Mom’s at the table, looking at her phone and sipping from my RUNWAYS ARE FOR BEAUTY QUEENS mug, a memento of my helicopter days when the only runway that mattered to me was onboard an aircraft carrier. I grab a white porcelain mug imprinted with holly leaves that I bought at the Luxembourg Villeroy & Boch outlet for one euro. It might only be mid-November, but with my shop opening soon, I’d committed to Christmas, 24/7 in September. I figured if I’m going to launch a new business, a new life, at the height of the season, I needed the long warm-up.

Mom’s face lights up the minute she sees me, as if I’m the sole source of her happiness. Since I’m the youngest of three and she adores my brother and sister, I know it’s not true, but for now I’ll take it. Ignoring any lingering annoyance from her break-in, I drop a kiss on the top of her head. She’s dressed in a cute white-and-blue-striped button-down, worn over her jeans with the sparkly threads.

“You look great, Mom.”

“Thank you. You know I try. You slept in a bit today, didn’t you? Good for you. Rest won’t be easy to catch once the store opens.” People have asked me over the years how I survived the rigors of the Naval Academy. They wouldn’t ask if they’d met my mother. She’s a bundle of energy from the moment her feet hit the floor before dawn.

Mom’s bright amber eyes match mine, and I suspect that if I ever decide to stop dying my hair—chestnut number ten—I’ll have her striking silver streaks, which she shows off in a shoulder-length bob.

“I’m fine, Mom.” I purposefully overlook the jab about sleeping in. It’s not yet eight on a Saturday, and my shop isn’t open for business yet.

“Sit down with me.” She motions to the kitchen table.

So much for my plans to sit upstairs on the balcony with Ralph and my first cup of the day. I remind myself that it’s a blessing to be back in my hometown after twenty-plus years of globetrotting. Most importantly, it’s great to be near my family again. Isn’t this what I want to have with Ava and Lily years from now?

I won’t be a stalker mother, will I?

Sipping as I sit down, a sweet, spicy flavor hits my tongue.

“You put cinnamon in it.” Warmth rushes into my chest, and just like that, I’m grateful Mom busted in on my Saturday morning. I take a deep gulp. “Mmm.”

“Your father won’t drink it without a solid tablespoon over the grounds.” She started adding the secret ingredient years ago when someone told her it’d keep an hours-old pot of coffee from turning bitter.

“Is Dad golfing?” A rhetorical question. Dad’s always on the course on Saturdays. And any other day that isn’t snow-covered or rained out. Which in south central Pennsylvania equates to approximately two-hundred-plus days per year.

“Yes, but he’s going to wrap up at noon. We’ve got a date.” Mom smiles as if she’s sixteen instead of sixty-seven. “We’re driving down to Baltimore later for dinner.”

“Nice! But a long drive home after.”

“Oh, no. We’re staying at the Sagamore Pendry.” Mom glances away as blush crosses her cheeks, still smooth thanks to copious amounts of sunscreen, moisturizer, and Grandma’s genes.

“Oh.” We’re too close to TMI. I’m happy for my parents, grateful they are still enjoying…you know. But spare me the deets. “I’m glad you’re taking time for yourselves.”

“Me, too.” Joy emanates from my mom like the sunshine gleaming off the granite countertops. “Have you got all you need set for the shop’s first day? I was hoping we could go over your plans for the grand opening party.”

I smooth my hands over the table’s solid wood surface. “My goal is Small Business Saturday, I was hoping for a soft opening a few days sooner but decided to focus on one big day.” The Saturday after Thanksgiving is only two weeks away, but I remind myself it’s a target, not set in stone. I can open earlier, or later, if need be. One thing I want to do differently from my previous career is not put so much pressure on myself, not get backed into deadline corners. In the Navy, deadlines often mean life or death. In the civilian retail world, they mean being able to pay my employees and put food on my table. Important, absolutely. But not the same as having enemies put their crosshairs on you.

“Okay, then. It’s your store, of course.” It has to be killing Mom to not express her thoughts, not chastise me for ignoring any kind of formal schedule. She’s all about planning. “You know I’m here, ready to help. At least let me order the cake.”

“Actually, I was going to get an assortment of treats from different places. Baklava from Hellenic Café, Tiramisu cups from Ducci’s Dolcis, chocolates from Belgian Bites. And for the more traditional, I’ll get pies and such from Applebaum’s Farmers Market.” Supporting local business is the name of the game in Stonebridge. In turn, I hope they’ll send my shop some love in the form of customers. “I’m thinking of running out there this morning.” I wasn’t, really, but I knew it would calm Mom down if she thought I was on top of it.

“Great idea, Angel. I’ll put on my thinking cap to come up with a few more.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Mom grins, and we sit in comfortable silence for a few heartbeats.

“I know you don’t like me to bring it up, but how are you really doing, honey, with the girls gone? You haven’t been alone since Tom passed. Not really.” Sure enough, Mom can’t keep her internal dialogue internal.

“I’m good, Mom.” No, I don’t want to talk about it. Do I miss Tom? Yes. Am I over the grief of losing him five years ago to a rare form of incurable cancer? Can one ever be? But I’m not not over it, either. Shop ’Round the World will allow me to keep him close, as we did so much curio collecting together. Our sentimental treasures are the inspiration for my stock.

“You need to talk about it, Angel.” Mom’s mistaken my quiet for angst.

“I appreciate your concern and support, Mom. I know you’re here, and it means a lot. If I need to talk, I will.” I focus on my coffee, which needs another pour of half-and-half.

Mom finally hears me and backs off, whistling at Ralph, who ignores her. His insouciant parrot attitude reflects in his deliberate silence, how he glares at Mom. Rude, but I get it. If she’s not breaking into the house, why bother?

“Have you met up with any of your local friends yet?” Mom can’t let go.

“There hasn’t been time.” When Mom says “friends” all I see in my mind’s eye are the several high school classmates who also own small businesses in town. All great folks, don’t get me wrong, but at this point another box to fill on my long to-do spreadsheet. They’ve been pressuring me to attend the local small business association, the Stonebridge Business Buddies, meetings. “I’ll have plenty of time to get with my friends once I get the store going.”

“Hmm.” Mom finishes her coffee and takes her mug to the sink. “I’ve learned that we have to make the time for fun, or it won’t happen. I understand that you’re under the gun while you set up shop, but you’re not in the Navy anymore, Angel. You’re in business for yourself. It’s okay to take some time off. You keep saying you’re going to get back to flying. And don’t overlook the networking opportunities friends bring.”

“I won’t. Thanks, Mom.” I don’t bother to remind her that while I have a private pilot’s license, I do not have my own plane and flight hours aren’t cheap.

We hug and she scoots off, on her way to Skeins and Baahls, the local yarn shop owned by my older brother Bryce and his husband Nico. I haven’t been in their quaint shop nearly enough these past weeks. I enjoy knitting, but I’m channeling all of my creative energies into the store. It’s going to have to be enough fun for now.

I finish getting ready in the quiet, and find it unhinges me. No matter how much I remind myself that I’m safe, that it was Mom who “broke in,” my sympathetic nervous system is still in overdrive. Not unlike the aftermath from a dangerous flight mission.

Yeah, I need to trade my Netflix serial killer binges for the home decorating channel.

My sister phones as Ralph and I enter the shop twenty minutes later. I press my wireless headset’s button.

“Hey, Crystal.”

“Good morning, Sunshine!” My older sister’s exuberant energy is the perfect antidote to my often too-serious countenance. “How’s it going?”

“Good. Mom just left.”

“You’re kidding. How early did she get there? Did she wake you up?”

“She scared me at first, because I was in the shower. I wish she’d get the text-first thing down.”

“Tell me about it. She almost caught Brad and I…you know.” She snorts. “No offense, but I’m relieved she’s got an extra life to direct. Takes a bit of the pressure off me and Bryce, you know?”

“Trust me, she was equally adept at long-distance manipulation.” We laugh. I have zero business whining over Mom’s irreverence toward personal boundaries. Crystal’s right. It’s about time I came back and took some of the pressure off of her and our brother Bryce. Mom’s motive is always love, but she can come across like a sledgehammer.

“Did she mention where she’s headed next?”

“To the yarn shop. The Saturday Stitchy Sisters.” It’s the knitting group that meets at Bryce’s yarn shop.

“Did you tell her about our coffee date?”

“Nope. She’ll be stitching while we catch up.” We chuckle in sisterly commiseration. Doing things with Mom is great, but we need our private girl talk, too.

“I’m already in the shop.” I try without success to keep the impatience out of my tone. It’s almost nine o’clock; I’m used to starting my workday three hours earlier. Some military habits die harder than others, even on a Saturday.

“Did the contractor finish the shelving yesterday?”

I sigh. “No, and I’m not thrilled with what they’ve done so far. I asked for simple floating shelves all along the walls, yet the contractor kept trying to install bookshelf-type built-ins. They don’t usually work on Saturdays, but Phil’s agreed to fix it and finish in time for my grand opening, as per our contract. But…wait for it…they’re not coming today; some emergency came up. Which means they’ll still be here all next week.” After doing such a spectacular job on my kitchen and bathroom, Phil had to peel off from the project to handle a larger home renovation and left me with what I’m coming to appreciate as his B team. Good, capable, but without the focus of their boss.

“Hold firm, Sis. Your vision is superb. I have faith in you!” Crystal’s serious, I kid you not. Big sis by birth order, spiritual shaman by choice, she’s my self-appointed life coach. At least she thinks she is. I can lose patience with her encouragement, and I have to remind myself she’s missed having me nearby for over twenty-two years. Save for our summer trips home and my family’s infrequent visits to us, it’s been a long haul. I’ve missed my family, too, but I did have my girls and the flying to keep me fully occupied. Not to mention the plethora of exotic duty destinations. And for precious parts of it, I had Tom.

Tom. My heart does that little squeeze I don’t think it’ll ever stop doing when I remember him.

“Thanks, Sis. See you later?”

“Yes. I’ll be done with my morning deliveries by ten-thirty, see you then!” We’d agreed to meet when Crystal was done since it’s her half-day, and I hoped to be well into stocking my new inventory. I’m looking forward to meeting her at Latte Love, Stonebridge’s single fancy coffee shop. It’s a new addition since two summers ago, and I have to say I’ve enjoyed the change from the bracing Navy coffee, a.k.a. battery acid, I was used to.

The call disconnects and I can get down to business.

“Let’s do it, Ralph.”

Ralph mimics my laughter perfectly, followed by a quick “See you then!”

“You’re a nosy old man, do you know that?” No one eavesdrops like my feathered buddy.

Ralph and I walk through the front retail area to the back hallway that connects my office and a nice-sized storage area. The room is stuffed with boxes and cartons, all screaming for me to open them. Seeing stacks of boxes used to dismay me. After thirteen moves in twenty-two years, and the arduous work of unpacking every single item we owned each time, who can blame me for popping a hive or two at the sight of all that corrugated cardboard? But there’s no corresponding squeal of packaging tape being ripped from its reel, no heavy scent of sweaty movers loading a truck parked awkwardly in front of our home. These boxes represent treasures I’ve spent a career finding.

“Hello.” Ralph reminds me I’m holding him.

“Hey, sweetie pie. The workers aren’t going to bother us today. Let’s put your cage in the front room so that you can look out the window.”

I place Ralph atop his open cage, then wheel it down the hall and into the center of the store. The entire front window is his view, which should keep him entertained. He fluffs his iridescent green feathers in approval.

Back in my office, I pull up the project manager software on my tablet, and do my best to ignore the fingers of loneliness that tug on my hard-won serenity.

I have my Navy tour in Belgium to thank for Shop ’Round the World. I had already acquired quite the holiday collection of ornaments from each duty station—Hawaii, Japan, Italy, San Diego, the UK, Washington State. But the Belgium tour catapulted my predilection to collecting pretty things into near hoarder status. If the Navy didn’t put a weight limit on household goods, it would have been impossible for me to stop myself from adding more to my trove than I already had. But the collecting gave me the vision of a local shop filled to the brim with handcrafted treasures.

With the grand opening two weeks away, I have to focus on getting the stock inventoried and on display.

The back office is normally quite large—a mirror of the storage room. But the contractors have set up their wood shop in here, complete with a couple of scary looking saws atop both ends of a huge piece of plywood. Rustic sawhorses support it all.

I squeeze between the makeshift workbench and World War II–era industrial desk left by the previous owners to get to the stack of invoices I’ve printed.

There’s no time to waste, as this is my first day in six without the incessant bang of hammers and whine of the super-sharp blades. I take a deep inhale and relish the scent of fresh cedar as I match invoice numbers with boxes. My gaze catches on an open box of recyclables and trash that I left in the middle of the floor last night, when I worked until almost midnight.

I function better in a clear space, so I open the back door that leads to the low concrete stoop and place the box there, letting a decent breeze into the building for a few moments to clear the air. The loud screech of the hinges reminds me to get a can of lubricant to spray them. I don’t go out this back door much, save for dumping trash.

As I lean over to set the box down, footsteps on the lightly graveled lot startle me. I straighten. A tall figure looms over me, blocking out the sun. This time it’s not my mom.

“Hey!” My voice is loud and low, automatically back in Navy Commander mode. I take a step back, ready to slam the shop door closed. Yes, it’s Stonebridge, PA, not Serial Killer, PA, but the back alley appears deserted.

The muscular dude spots me and halts. His eyes grow wide before he grins at me from under his Hershey Bears ski cap. It’s Max, one of Phil’s workers. Relief flows like Christmas morning through my veins, loosening my shoulders. Irritation blooms in my gut. Mom’s unexpected appearance earlier still has me on edge.

“Whoa! Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Wow. Glad I didn’t whack you with one of these.” His laugh sounds forced. I scared him as much as he did me. “Uh, the boss wanted me to swing by and drop these off for work first thing Monday.” He lets out a breath, offers me another smile as he nods at the long planks in his arms. “We aim to get the shelves exactly how you want them, Ms. Warren.”

My mouth opens to ask him to please call me Angel, then shuts. Annoyance tugs on my composure. I’d been hoping for uninterrupted work time this morning.

“I’ve no doubt you will, Max. I’d expect nothing less from Phil’s team.”

I swear his chest expands on command. Guess I still have the magic touch when it comes to empowering someone, even when I mistake them for a murderer.

“Uh, do you mind if I set these inside the shop?” Max still holds the heavy boards, and I move aside, opening the door wide for him. I figure he’s about twenty-five, one of the oldest on Phil’s B team.

“Go on in. Watch out for trip hazards.”

“No problem.”

He takes the boards to the front of the store. When he passes me his soap, cologne, or some other variety of body scent adjuster wafts around him. His collared shirt and dark, un-marked jeans indicate he’s on his way to something other than work.

Max sets the boards down and straightens, his gaze resting on Ralph. I’ve kept Ralph upstairs when the carpenters are working. Paint fumes and wood shavings are toxic to avian lungs.

“Cool bird.” He holds up his pointer finger to Ralph, perched atop his cage. Ralph shrinks away from the looming stranger.

“Careful! He bites.”

“Really?” He frowns.

Max’s disbelief doesn’t surprise me. A lot of folks haven’t listened over the years, and got a nice quick nip from Ralph as a reward. Just enough pressure to let them know he could have broken skin if he wanted to. Maybe a bone, if it was a pinkie.

“Yes, myself included. With me they’re mostly love bites because he’s bonded with me. Ralph’s not so friendly with everyone else.”

“Okay, well, then…” He trails off, shoves his hands into his pockets. It strikes me that he seems a little lost, but I have to remind myself that he’s not one of my sailors. Max doesn’t work for me—he’s employed by Phil. Thus, it’s not my job to figure out what makes him tick.

“Thanks for dropping off the lumber, Max. See you Monday?” It’s all I can do to not shove him out the door. I have to get back to the invoices.

“Sure thing, Ms. Warren.” He lets himself out the back. I shove the box full of trash out the door and pull it tightly closed.

I spend the next hour unwrapping the dozens of wooden Santas that have arrived from one of my Russian handcrafts suppliers, matching them to the invoices. So far my Santa source, Tatyana, has sent me nothing less than exceptional product.

Which is why I’m less than thrilled with the Santas I’m unwrapping. They were supposed to be classic Russian Santas, hand carved and painted hardwood. I ordered only Christmas-themed Dzed Moroze, Father Snow, the Russian version of Santa Claus. Sweeping robe-like coats and matching hats, intricately carved staffs coated in gold paint held by mittened hands. Santa faces with rosy cheeks and bright eyes, boasting winding white-and-gray beards.

These are nowhere near what I ordered. This box of six-inch statues is full of Santas sporting various NFL logos, and their hats seem pointier than normal. Did she order from a new artist? Or mix my invoice up with another?

If these were nesting dolls instead of the Santa figures, I’d go with the flow. It’s common to have various themed Matryoshka dolls; I’ve ordered several Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, and Pennsylvania pro- and college-team themes for the nesting collectibles. But my Santa inventory is meant to be top of the line, pure Christmas. I sigh, wondering if Tatyana has enough time to accept a return and get what I ordered delivered. I look at the whiteboard calendar on the office’s far wall. It’s possible, but the shipping might be cost prohibitive. I reach for my phone to call her—

“Ouch!” Ralph’s shriek startles me. He must see someone in the front window. I don’t hear knocks at the shop entry when I’m this far in the back. I spin on my foot to see who it is. My sudden movement catches my hip on the corner of the workbench, and the row of unwrapped Santas jiggles. Time slows as thousands of dollars of inventory threaten to jump off the plywood.

“No!” I reach over with both arms, stopping all but one of the football Santas from launching into midair. I watch in dismay as a Santa flips, hits the side of the contractor’s buzz saw, and splits into two jagged pieces that hit the floor with two sickening thuds. I kneel and pick up the pieces of the destroyed Santa. And mentally calculate the cash loss.

Business isn’t open yet, and I’m already destroying my profits. I throw the Santa halves into the box that rests against the back door. The tinkling crunch of the half-dozen malformed glass swizzle sticks I threw out last night underscores the weight of the broken Santa, and a shot of sadness slices through my hurried activity. An artisan in Russia spent hours perfecting the now unsaleable Santa. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

It’s part of being in retail.

I’m still on my knees, grasping the workbench to stand back up, when an unfamiliar clicking sound sounds, followed by a distinct scratching at the back employee-only door. Keys against the steel door. I stop breathing as my heart races. Mom has keys to the front door, to my apartment upstairs. No one else has the keys to this back entrance, except the girls and their keys are with them at their respective universities.

Someone’s letting themselves in, picking the lock. All that separates us is a standard push-lever commercial door. I can always get out, but no one should be able to get in without a key.

Ralph’s whistle echoes through the building.

It’s his way of warning me.

I’m not going to let anyone think they can even try to get into my shop. Navy training kicks in as I cut to the chase and press the lever. The door flings open.