Page 68 of Merry Christmas, You Filthy Animal
“Getting a better view. Really wanted a look at those fruitcakes going in the oven, because after all, that’s where the magic happens, isn’t it? Some people say magic happens in the bedroom. Not me.” I shake my head. “I say magic happens in the bedroom, I mean... oven. It happens in the oven.”
“Is that the truth?” he asks, looking genuinely curious.
“About magic happening in the oven?” I ask.
“No, about wanting a better view.”
“I want to say yes.” He eyes me suspiciously, so I clear my throat and bring it back to him. “Were you honestly getting us a treat from the vendors?”
“I want to say yes as well . . .”
I gasp and then point at him. I knew it! “You were going to leave, weren’t you?”
Flummoxed, he shoots right back, “Uh, so were you.”
“Only to give us a reprieve from the mind-numbing conversation.”
“Mind-numbingis a little harsh, don’t you think?” he asks.
“What would you have called it?”
“Awkward and painful.”
“How is that better?”
“Because I said it with charm, whereas you said it with disdain.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Wow, you’re arrogant.”
His eyes widen. “I’m arrogant?” He points to his chest. “I’ve been nothing but civil toward you. Besides”—he holds up his finger—“that night I was trying to peek in, but I learned my lesson. So drop that.”
“What about chasing me around your farm?”
“My God, it’s like talking in circles with you.” He pulls on his head. “For the love of God, realize that you’re the one in the wrong in this scenario.”
“What scenario? The leaving unannounced or . . .”
“The entire scenario that we’re in.” He flails his arms around. “The one where you’re trying to steal ideas from my farm and use them as your own.”
“I’m not stealing ideas. I’m making sure not to make the same mistakes.”
“What mistakes?” he shouts and raises his hands in the air. “Please, tell me what mistakes we’re making. Because as far as I see it, we’ve been in business for an exceedingly long time.”
“Well, since you asked,” I say, holding out my hand and ticking my fingers off as I list the mistakes I’ve seen. “First and foremost, not having a paved parking lot. Dirt and snow create mud. Mud gets everywhere, even on the tree when you’re dragging it out to your car. Also, not having fully paved sidewalks. There are some but not a lot, and if you want people to be able to access everything, you should really pave all avenues. Not to mention your suppliers are robbing you blind with extra charges, which is why you have to up-charge the fake trees. That’s fine now, because you’re the only place to get them besides Baubles and Wrappings, but even they have to up-charge. There are other, more earth-friendly suppliers that will provide more profit margin. Also, you serve one treat. Gingerbread. That screams a lack of knowledge of the Christmas treat industry. Sure, your vendors have some baked goods, but as the owner and proprietor, you should treat it as a Disneyland situation, providing customers with several options. And make them seasonal.” I cross my arms over my chest, proud of myself. “That’s just to name a few things I’ve noticed so far.”
He stares at me, blinking. Unsure of what to say, because he knows I’m right. I’ve looked at what Evergreen Farm offers,and although it’s a cute farm, there’s so much more potential. Not having competition has made them complacent and, dare I say, lazy. Why implement alternatives when what they’re doing seemingly works? I bet they haven’t done a market analysis or research into other Christmas markets in years. If ever.
“Well... that’s... informative,” he says, his eyes racing as I can practically hear his brain attempting to calculate everything I said.
“Brother, what are you doing? Didn’t think we’d see the reigning king at a Christmas Kringle competition until the passing of the crown,” a guy who looks nothing like Atlas says as he comes up behind him. “Oh, who is this?”
I can see Atlas grow tight in the shoulders as another man walks up behind him.
“Who is who? Oh.” Weathered eyes land on me, and a smile passes over his lips. “Yes, who is this?”
Atlas shakes who I’m going to assume are his brothers off him. “Ansel, Felix, this is Betty. Betty, these two morons are my brothers.”
“Betty, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Ansel.” He takes my hand and shakes it but lingers a little longer than normal, causing Atlas to tug his brother’s hand away.
