“None of my business,” Bea insisted, although her conspiratorial smirk said she wasn’t buying it.
“Anyway . . .” I said, begging to talk about anything else. “How’s Pops? Looks like the town’s decorating wars are in full swing.”
“It’s getting brutal out there. Have you seen the two-story yeti outside Grover’s Hardware yet?”
“I can’t believe I missed it.”
“Just went up this morning,” she said. “Last year it was a twelve-foot nutcracker. I keep telling the town commerce committee we need a height limit. They’re completely out of control.”
“Next it’ll be a dozen sugar plum fairies casting a shadow down Main Street.”
Her face turned severe. “Don’t even joke. They’ll hear you.”
By Christmas, this place would put the Macy’s Parade to shame. I couldn’t wait to walk the streets once the official voting period for the contest opened.
“So, what brings you around today?” I asked Bea, who didn’t seem in any particular hurry.
“Refreshing The Snowdrift’s library. A couple of times a year we like to turn over the selection. Want to help me pick out some new titles? We don’t let Delilah do it anymore because she only picks the smuttiest rom-coms and the most gruesome murder mysteries. Lots of snowed-in motel stuff. Scares the guests.”
“I can see why.”
After I deposited my dishes at the counter, we first took a glance at the Featured Release display. There were little handwritten cards under several titles with quotes and recommendations from various town personalities and business owners.
“Hey, that’s you,” I pointed out.
Delilah and Bea’s names were side by side and I chuckled at how different they were, even in reading preferences. Bea had recommended a memoir I’d heard about on the daytime radio that played in The Denver Drip every morning. Delilah’s choice was a psychological thriller by a Colorado author. She described it as visceral, gripping and unputdownable, about a twin who gets murdered, and her sibling is the number one suspect.
“See what I mean?” Bea grimaced at the book as I picked it up to glance at the inside flap and the fittingly moody author portrait. “She’s a little scary sometimes.”
“Let’s see what else we can find,” I laughed, setting the book back on the shelf.
“So, what about you?” she asked, leading us toward the non-fiction section. “I see the Hawthornes do let you have some time off?”
“Sure. More than I expected, actually. They’re out of the house a lot, which occasionally leaves me with not much to do. Made my first attempt at skiing yesterday.”
“How did that go?”
“I didn’t die.” Which felt like a significant accomplishment. “But I think maybe I’m better suited to the après lifestyle than the slopes.”
“Speaking of which . . .” Bea paused at a shelf to scan several covers from a selection of coffee table books about wildlife and travel. “Have you seen that Après Brie account on Instagram?”
My face flushed pink while I quickly grabbed a random photography memoir off a shelf. “Um . . .”
“They mostly post incredible-looking food. But also, a ton about Maplewood Creek. Shops, cafes, and whatnot.”
“Sounds neat,” I said anxiously.
I had picked up quite a few new followers recently, but the whole idea of a pseudonym was to remain anonymous. Not that I was posting anything private or salacious. The content was strictly food and fluff. Still, I was walking on eggshells where Mrs. Hawthorne was concerned. I didn’t want to give her any reason to look at me sideways.
Well. Other than making out with her son. But that was beside the point.
“Everyone in town is talking about it. Business owners are starting to get jealous about who’s showing up in posts and who isn’t. One more competition for everyone to fight over.”
Oh, great. I’d just gotten here and already I’d started a new Cold War.
“We’re all trying to figure out who’s behind it,” she said. “My money is on some influencer paid to stay at one of the absurdly expensive Airbnbs. Any day now, they’re going to be posting promo codes and referral links. Watch.”
“Yeah,” I said, relieved. “I’ll have to check it out.”
