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Grandma might have gotten run over by a reindeer, but on that Saturday morning in November, Frosty the Snowman was about to get creamed by a lead-footed golf cart driver at the Rockin’ Roseland Holiday Bazaar and Christmas Extravaganza. Frosty lunged for the sidewalk, trailed by a festive-looking Santa and three elves. Blasts of loud, shrill whistles ensued, and a gray-haired man in a red vest appeared ready to have a meltdown that had nothing to do with snow.
“Slow down!” the man in the vest yelled. Official North Pole Volunteer was lettered on it.
Unrepentant, the laughing driver—perhaps having sampled some of the bazaar’s famous volunteers-only eggnog—sped off and did doughnuts in front of the school gymnasium.
I was privy to the prebazaar revelry after pulling into one of the coveted VIP parking spots in the Lawrence J. Ellis Middle School lot, where I unloaded hampers brimming with my latest Emma Madison Designs jewelry. I piled the black canvas totes onto my collapsible rolling cart. The bazaar, held on the first Saturday in November each year, was the most highly anticipated event of the preholiday shopping season in Roseland, Georgia, and I was thrilled to have a booth for the third year in a row. Barely eight o’clock in the morning, it was almost two full hours before the show opened to the public, and I was eager to get my space set up.
“Are you an exhibitor?” The eager-looking teenage girl who approached me was adorable in her emerald-green elf costume.
“I sure am.” I smiled. “Are you the volunteer checking me in?” In years past, a registration table had been prominently placed by the front door, but I hadn’t yet spotted one that morning.
The chipper blond elf shook her head and pointed her giant faux candy cane in the direction of the Ellis Middle School cafeteria. “It’s supposed to be in the eighties today, so we’ve moved it indoors, where there’s air-conditioning. You’ll see the check-in as soon as you enter, but we’re available if you need any help getting your stuff inside.”
Despite the heavy tote in the crook of my arm, I could manage. “I’m good. Thanks for offering, though.”
She nodded and skipped away, no doubt in search of a needier vendor. Thanks to our unusually warm November temperatures, she and three of the other elves sported emerald-green flip-flops instead of boots.
My wardrobe was just as confused as that of the elves. I’d worn a red knit T-shirt and a matching lightweight shrug with a flashy new statement necklace featuring vintage ruby-colored rhinestones. And despite all that silly “Southern gals don’t sweat—they glisten” nonsense, I was already sweating profusely. Maybe I was simply suffering from the holiday overload I always experienced whenever Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas started bumping into one another.
My purse contained a few leftover pieces of my favorite Halloween candy, Goetze’s Caramel Creams, which I’d caught on clearance the week before. It also held an invitation to a Thanksgiving tea at my friend Carleen’s house, and I’d promised to take my secret-family-recipe pumpkin pie. Yet I was all dolled up in a glorified T-shirt masquerading as a Christmas sweater simply so that I could sell my latest jewelry designs at a Christmas bazaar in early November. It was utter madness. Not for the first time, I wondered why my town insisted on kicking off Christmas so early. No wonder folks had taken to saying, “Merry Hallowthanksmas.”
But a chipper “Merry Christmas!” rang out as I entered the school. Santa Claus and his helpers from the North Pole were in fine festive form. They found my name on the list, checked me in with a swift “You’re good to go!” and handed me a goodie bag. Santa said it was courtesy of the Happy Ho-Ho-Hometown program. Clever.
I peeked inside and spotted pens, pencils, notepads, sticky notes, two bottles of water, some packets of instant cocoa mix, a glittery red travel mug with the Happy Hometown logo on it, and some protein bars. Bazaar organizers had certainly upgraded the swag, and as a brand-spanking-new member of the Happy Hometown board, I was glad to see its logo splashed all over the place. I hoped it would help us get our name out to the community.
Apparently oblivious that a high of eighty-two was predicted for the day, the velvet-clad Santa welcomed everyone into a middle school that had magically morphed into a winter wonderland. A glance around the foyer revealed mountains of “snow”—fluffy piles of batting courtesy of the local quilt shop—that surrounded a small forest of towering Christmas trees, each one decorated in a different brilliant color of the rainbow. Someone with a fine sense of color harmony had ensured that the purple tree flowed into the blue tree, the turquoise tree, the green tree, and so on, all of them leading to one gigantic red tree decorated entirely with iridescent red-and-white candy cane ornaments.
As I struggled to wheel my stack of jewelry totes into the cafeteria while propping open the heavy double doors, I grabbed one of the middle totes, which was threatening to trigger a jewelry landslide. A cute brunette in a bright-green elf costume raced to open the door, ushered me through with a flourish, and plopped an oversized candy cane into my topmost tote as she cheerfully wished me a “rockin’ Roseland Christmas!”
With a nod and a “Thanks,” I looked past Santa’s helper and entered the cafeteria. No school lunches were needed on a Saturday, so I was one of a hundred twenty-five exhibitors who had packed the space for the annual fundraiser for the Roseland Foster Parent Association. Fifty percent of admission proceeds went to the charity each year. And to ensure that our latest event was another resounding success, Miranda Hargrove, a newcomer to Roseland and the first executive director of the Happy Hometown program, was marching through the lunchroom with the military precision of a general commanding his troops in Normandy.
“Miranda, hi,” I said. “I believe my booth is supposed to be—”
Her eyes shot to her list. “Madison, Emma. Row four, space nine.”
I guess being your newest board member doesn’t earn me any special privileges, huh?
She pointed her fuzzy-white-pom-pom-topped pen at the spot where I would set up shop for the day. “The other exhibitors are already in place, so please hurry up so that it doesn’t look like there are any vacant spots. I don’t want our visitors to think we weren’t able to fill the show, because we most certainly were.” She tossed her head, and her lush auburn locks fell in perfect spirals down her back and onto the red velvet of her Mrs. Santa costume, which had fluttery white feathers trimming the sleeves and hem.
I looked at my glittering red-and-green-rhinestone Christmas watch. “But the show doesn’t start for another—”
Miranda strutted off before I could finish.
“Hour and forty-five minutes,” I whispered as my artist friend Savannah Rogers walked up.
“The drill sergeant blow you off too?” Savannah cut her eyes in Miranda’s direction.
“She’s probably just busy getting everyone in place before the show opens.” I propped my overloaded tower of totes against the nearest empty table and set down the one I’d been carrying, giving my aching limb some momentary relief.
“She might be busy, but that’s no excuse for being rude.” Savannah planted her hands on her hips as she surveyed the cafeteria, tracking Miranda’s path through the room. Savannah and I served on the local arts council together, and her watercolor prints and note cards were always hugely popular items at the bazaar.
“I got my application in by the deadline, but she claims I left some line blank on the form this year and said I really should have been disqualified. And out of the goodness of her heart, she’s letting me share a spot with the crochet club.” Savannah wrinkled her nose. “Nothing against the crocheters, of course.”
I stared at her. “You’re kidding me, right?”
Miranda Hargrove had moved to Roseland from Rochester, New York, in August after being hired to launch the local chapter of the national Happy Hometown program, which had generated a lot of buzz for helping downtowns all across the country flourish. City leaders had hoped she would bring some fresh ideas to the local Christmas bazaar as well. She’d been quoted in Roseland’s Daily Tribune as saying that her inaugural event would have lots of surprises in store and promised to be the most memorable bazaar in Roseland history. I hoped she was right. If she was dissing one of the town’s favorite artists, however, she was in for a rough ride.
“But enough of that.” Savannah picked up one of my totes. “Let’s get you set up. My display sure didn’t take long this time.” Her wry laugh told me she wasn’t thrilled about that.
We headed to the open spot on row four—it had a great view of the stage—and sure enough, Savannah had only a tiny display area near mine. All she had room for were her note cards and a small placard that read Signed Prints Available. In the past, Savannah had always displayed her prints on a large table. The new setup couldn’t be good for her.
I pointed at her sign. “Why don’t you give me two of your prints, and I’ll use them on the table behind my jewelry. When customers ask about them, I’ll send them your way.”
Savannah’s eyes lit up. “You’d do that? Oh, Emma, you’re the best!” Savannah plopped the tote down in front of my booth and headed off to gather some prints. I usually displayed a small placard advertising my custom designs, but I was already up to my eyeballs in special orders and wouldn’t have time to design many more custom pieces before Christmas. Showing Savannah’s prints would solve a dilemma for both of us.
As I worked on my jewelry displays, Nat King Cole’s Christmas tunes streamed through the sound system, and I caught a whiff of the decadent burnt-sugar smell from the Kiwanis Club’s kettle corn. I’d heard a rumor that an elaborate make-your-own-hot-chocolate station was set up for the exhibitors. And warm November or not, I intended to sample some of that hot chocolate before the day ended.
The PA system screeched with an eardrum-splitting “One, two, three, testing! Merry Christmas!”
I jumped and blew out a breath, longing for some of that hot chocolate or at least a strong cup of coffee.
But before I could contemplate indulging in a hot beverage, I needed to double-check the to-do list on my cell phone. I whipped out the totes packed with cute display pieces I used when selling my jewelry. The Christmas shopping season was the perfect time to offer glittering jewelry sets for gifts as well as impulse purchases. Few women could resist some cheerful new Christmas jewelry, so I offered it in every color and style imaginable. Lately, I’d experimented with broken china jewelry and created charms with pieces of Spode’s famous Christmas Tree pattern. The pieces closest to my heart, though, were my new Ruby & Doris line, necklaces and bracelets constructed entirely of vintage elements and named in honor of two of my great-grandmothers.
Christmas pieces were some of my best-selling jewelry of the whole year, and I was eager to see if my new designs would do well at the bazaar. As I looked up from a rack of Ruby & Doris bracelets I had just set out, Savannah approached with a small stack of watercolor prints, and Miranda was fast on her heels.
Some tiny white faux feathers from the trim on Miranda’s outfit arrived before she did, and I quickly brushed them off the black velvet jewelry display where they landed.
“I told you, Savannah, only one seller per space. You cannot sell prints at both your space and Emma’s. That’s a violation of the rules.”
From the set of her mouth, Savannah’s normally gracious manners were strained.
I piped up, “Actually, I needed something that represented Roseland as a backdrop for my Christmas pieces, so Savannah’s letting me decorate with a few of her Christmas prints. You don’t have a problem with me filling out my display, do you?”
Miranda humphed. “As long as you don’t mind, I guess I don’t have a problem with it.” She fluffed one of her white cuffs. “We really must kick things up a notch if Roseland wants to increase attendance at this bazaar. I’m trying to elevate the event so that it doesn’t seem so small-town.”
“But Roseland is a small town.” It popped out before I could think.
“Yes”—Miranda narrowed her eyes at me—“but it doesn’t have to act like it.” She marched off.
Savannah and I shared conspiratorial grins, and I hoped we’d banished the drill sergeant for a while.
I was all for supporting Miranda in her new role leading the Happy Hometown program, but she had already ruffled a few feathers by implying we weren’t as sophisticated as the good people back home in New York.
“Here, let me have that print.” I reached for Savannah’s watercolor of a historic Roseland home with Christmas topiaries on the veranda and placed it on a display easel behind some bangle bracelets. “Can you set the matching one over there?”
While Savannah arranged her prints, I pulled my bins of bagged jewelry sets from their totes and snapped into businesswoman mode. After graduating with my degree in journalism, I’d worked as a reporter at Roseland’s Daily Tribune. Seven years in, I realized the news biz had changed so much that I didn’t enjoy it anymore. Meanwhile, the part-time jewelry business I’d started as a side gig had turned into something bigger and more lucrative than I’d ever dreamed. Making and selling jewelry was how I’d earned my living for the past few years. For the Christmas bazaar, I had outdone myself, designing some of my best and boldest pieces ever.
“Ooh, what is that?” Shareta Gibson, my basket-weaving friend from the arts council, dropped off some of her miniature woven baskets at the table across the aisle from mine. Her eyes sparkled as I set out a linen-covered torso modeling one of my latest creations.
I pushed the display toward her. “Do you like it?”
Shareta stared at the hunter-green necklace on its plush black-velvet choker. With its lush green marbleized beads wired to resemble the petals of a flower, the pendant could certainly be considered Christmas-like if worn with red and green during the holidays, but it didn’t scream jingle bells and candy canes either, so a woman could get a lot of mileage out of it.
Bob Mathis, another friend from the arts council, bolted over to my table in a huff, red-faced and waving his hands. “Did you hear what she’s done now?”
Shareta and I looked up.
“What who’s done?” I asked.
“That Miranda! She said my wooden bowls weren’t ‘festive’ enough to be on the first row, so she decided to move me to the very last row, in outer Siberia.” Bob jabbed a pudgy finger toward the far reaches of the cafeteria. “Way back there.”
“Didn’t you sign up for your old spot like always?” Shareta looked puzzled.
Bob had been one of the founders of the bazaar thirty-three years ago and, by tradition, always got a spot near the entrance.
“I sure did.” Bob whipped out a handkerchief and wiped his glistening brow. “And I told Miss Rochester that I want it back pronto. She said there’s nothing to be done about it this year and we’ll talk about it for next year.”
I’d never seen Bob so mad. I didn’t blame him for being disappointed about losing his old spot, and I had a feeling Miranda didn’t realize who she was messing with.
Bob’s eyes widened as if he’d had a flash of insight. “I know. I’m calling the mayor.” Roseland Mayor Jim Mathis was Bob’s younger brother. “Jimmy’ll put a stop to that woman’s foolishness. He told me he was already sick and tired of her thinking she runs this town anyway. Wait till he hears about this!”
Then Bob darted off again.
I looked at Shareta. “Sounds like Miranda needs to read that book about how to win friends and influence people.” I bit my lip. “I mean, I know she’s new and all, but this show is important to a lot of people in town. I hope she understands that.”
“I don’t think she gives a rip about what the exhibitors want.” Shareta wore a sour expression.
“And you say that because?”
She glanced at the entrance to the cafeteria, where the auburn-haired woman in the Mrs. Claus getup was jabbing her clipboard in the face of yet another exhibitor who had apparently shown up for the bazaar and received some unsavory news. The man had a cart full of pink and red Christmas cactuses beside him, and Miranda picked at their leaves with a look of disdain.
“She said that my traditional African baskets weren’t as colorful as she’d thought they would be and asked if I could make them in cherry red and grass green next year.”
“Seriously?”
Shareta nodded. “That woman is not going to last long in this town if she doesn’t climb down off her high horse and stop telling everyone how they used to do it in Rochester. I’m not from here, and even I’m tired of her criticizing everything and everyone in Roseland. One more of those comments, and you know what I’m going to tell her, don’t you?”
I laughed and nodded. “Delta is ready when you are.”
The saying was a favorite among Southerners when they got aggravated with those who moved to the South and wanted to change the old-fashioned charm that had drawn them in the first place. The comment was even funnier coming from Shareta, who had lived in Roseland for the past ten years but was originally from New Hampshire. She considered us family now.
“Emmaaa.”
I would have known that screech anywhere. Turning around, I spotted the smiling face of Harriet Harris, owner of the Making Memories Antique Mall—and the woman who happened to be my number one competitor when it came to scooping up the vintage and junk jewelry so essential to my livelihood.
“Gotta run.” Shareta winked at me. Locals knew that any conversation with Harriet was likely to be a long one, and Shareta probably needed to get back to her booth. Smart woman.
I had a love-hate relationship with Harriet. I loved her antique mall and had found quite a few deals there since I’d started “upcycling” jewelry using old and orphaned baubles. But I also sold vintage costume jewelry online, and I hated—or at least was extremely jealous of—the way she always beat me to the local garage sales and flea markets. As she made a beeline for my booth, Harriet tucked a wayward wisp of her gray pixie cut behind one ear and peered at me over her black reading glasses.
“Looking forward to a big day of sales?” Harriet cast an appraising eye over my display.
I followed her gaze and admitted, “Fingers crossed.”
Harriet motioned toward the front of the cafeteria. “Holly’s a little late checking in, so I’m here to help her set up her new jewelry display. She’s started making her own line of jewelry, too, you know. But don’t worry. Her sales shouldn’t affect yours at all.”
Holly Harris Burke was Harriet’s twentysomething daughter and the mother of young twins. Occasionally, Holly filled in for her mom behind the front counter at the antique mall. Inwardly, I bristled at the news that Holly was designing jewelry, but I knew I was being ridiculous. Lots of women tried their hand at jewelry making, and Roseland was certainly big enough to support two jewelry artisans.
“That’s great.” I pasted a smile onto my face and determined to remain upbeat. “Where’s her booth? I’ll be sure to tell the jewelry lovers who visit me to check out Holly’s jewelry too.”
“Actually, they’ll see her booth before yours.” Harriet’s eyes crinkled. “When she applied, Holly told them she had to have a spot near the entrance where the light would best reflect off her glass beads.” She pointed at the space where Holly appeared to be looking around as if she wasn’t sure what to do. To my chagrin, her space was one of the first ones visitors would see when they walked in. Those booths were usually reserved for the local nonprofits and a few veteran sellers—like Bob Mathis. Even if she’d put in a request, I wondered how Holly had finagled that spot. I didn’t at all like the jealousy that had come over me and tried to shake it off.
Harriet wore a look of motherly pride.
“Good for Holly, then.” I tipped my head toward Harriet’s daughter. “Listen, I really need to finish setting up my booth, so...”
“I understand, dear.” Harriet peered at me again over her reading glasses. “And good luck. I know how hard you work on your little jewelry line.”
I nodded and tried not to let her set my teeth on edge. My “little jewelry line” is making me a comfortable living these days. But all I said was “Thanks.”
Having survived yet another encounter with Harriet, who had a knack for getting under my skin, I knew my day had nowhere to go but up, and I couldn’t wait for the bazaar to open.