Chistmas Ever After Read Online Free Page B

there… What’s the engine?”
    Mrs. Wintergreen smiled proudly. “292 V8, automatic transmission. But it doesn’t have power steering.”
    “Your husband restore it?”
    Mrs. Wintergreen scolded him with her eyes. “No… I did! I did it completely by myself! And, I’ve done others as well.”
    He nodded, dubiously, looking first at the car and then back at Mrs. Wintergreen. “Remarkable.”
    “I’m glad you approve.”
    She was dressed in a full-length bright red coat, with a white collar and trim, heavy black snow boots and red mittens. Her apple-cheeks added a wholesome look.
    The admiring man strolled away, but glanced back one last time, as if trying to remember something.
    There was a comfortable familiarity about Mrs. Wintergreen that one couldn’t easily understand, and when people passed, they often turned and smiled before moving on, as if they had known her for years. But then almost immediately, they hesitated, glanced back, and tried to remember where they’d last seen her. Surely she was someone’s grandmother, who hadn’t been to town in a while or, perhaps, she was a volunteer who had come to town to help bake cookies, candies and fudge for the Christmas Festival. Her expression was kind and wise, like someone who knew the world well and loved it passionately—unconditionally—in all of its mystery, adventure and pain.
    Mrs. Wintergreen waved to everyone as she approached Cards N’ Stuff and paused to stroke the arched back of Tippy Toe, the tan and white cat who lived at the firehouse up the street.
    As usual, the shop was boiling with energy and excitement. Mrs. Wintergreen entered and stamped the snow off her boots onto the black plastic welcome mat. She could barely nudge her way in. The ringing doorbell brought a smile as she closed it quietly, allowing two sturdy women to muscle by. Reaching for one of the three-inch tall Santa Claus dolls, the first woman exclaimed, “They are so adorable!”
    “Absolutely fabulous!” the second woman answered.
    “And so reasonably priced. I just love Jennifer Taylor’s taste,” the first woman said.
    Mrs. Wintergreen spotted Jennifer on a footstool, reaching for a jewelry box. Standing below her was an impatient, heavy-set woman, who couldn’t seem to make up her mind.
    “No, not that one! What is the matter with you?! I want the one next to the gold one!”
    This was Agnes Stanton. She was a slow, somber woman in her middle ‘60s, who often carried several chips on her narrow shoulders and an impatient glare in her silvery eyes. She was the wealthiest person in town and famous for letting everyone know it. Her sharp tongue was legendary, and everyone feared it. No one, including Reverend Talbot, was exempt from its sting.
    Agnes Stanton’s bulky, black woolen coat was designed to hide girth, and it was largely successful. She wore a white, wide-brimmed hat for dramatic flair, and to ensure that she’d be noticed, catered to and, in her own words, “indulged.”
    Jennifer was doing her best to notice, cater to and indulge. On a foot stool, she struggled to grasp a golden jewelry box located on a top shelf.   She reached, stretched, teetered and grabbed. Successful, she stepped down and presented it to Mrs. Stanton, who hastily opened the lid. It played Jingle Bells . Mrs. Stanton made an ugly face and slammed the lid closed. Shoppers turned toward the sound to see Mrs. Stanton give Jennifer a withering glare.
    “I hate the song, and I despise the style of this box!” Mrs. Stanton snapped, thrusting the box back at Jennifer, as if it were a smelly piece of old garbage. “Your choice of products leaves much to be desired, young woman! And while I’m at it, please don’t let your garbage cans spill over in the alleyway on garbage pickup day! They are an unhealthy eyesore and their presence shows that you have careless and indiscriminate habits.”
    With a climactic flourish, Mrs. Stanton whirled and shoved her way through the crowd and