The Naughty List Bundle with The Night Before Christmas & Yule Be Mine. Fern Michaels
over it and got down to work. As she started scrubbing she supposed she should be thankful the town meeting was keeping her shop thin of customers.
She needed to be at that town council meeting, to hear, firsthand from the man himself, exactly what the proposed changes were going to be for Hamilton, and to join ranks with the other shopkeepers to make sure their voices were heard, and heard loudly, in dissent.
It wasn’t that she was opposed to finding ways to improve the financial bottom line of Hamilton. Lionel Hamilton and his predecessors had created the economic center that was still, literally, Hamilton town square. What had grown into Hamilton Hardware, Hamilton Automotive, Hamilton Gas, and even Hamilton Herefords over the past century had become Hamilton Industries, an ever-expanding conglomerate of business, both local and countywide, with Lionel’s personal investments reaching across the country, and beyond, as far as the Pacific Rim.
Though its ever-growing business center was parked right outside the town limits, the town itself had never lost its old-time quaint charm. It was, to her mind, the absolute best of both worlds. Unique, diverse, yet traditional and close-knit.
Then Lionel had to go and introduce a land shark into their otherwise peaceful and nonthreatening waters. A man who was going to take their unique big-industry/small-town dynamic and turn it into some kind of global, international theme park. She might make cupcakes for a living, but that didn’t mean she wanted to live in a cookie-cutter world.
Muttering under her breath again as she got the last of the fondant off the floor, she emptied the rolling bucket and filled it with a disinfectant cleanser. “Lovely scent to greet my customers, first thing in the morning.” She glanced up at the wall clock, then mentally juggled her commitments for the next forty-eight hours. The shop hadn’t had a single customer this morning—if she didn’t count the visit from the devil.
She glanced back at the clock again, then finished cleaning up, before scrubbing her own hands and finally taking off her chef’s coat. She’d close the shop for three hours, hit the town meeting, then double back and reopen to catch the after-school/end-of-workday crowd. It wouldn’t leave her any time to bake or decorate, but she could put in an all-nighter and get caught up. Eventually, things would even out. They always did.
3
Griffin stood to the side of the wide screen that filled most of the high school auditorium stage and narrated as pictures of his planned future for Hamilton scrolled across the screen. “By diversifying, and creating a unified theme for your village and the independent shops that line your charming town square, we can create a unique environment that will draw in not only your average American tourists, but travelers from far beyond your county lines, state lines, and even the shores of your country.”
He was careful not to lay it on too thick, knowing better than most never to talk down to or underestimate an audience. The herd mentality was a good thing when it worked in his favor, but could quite easily shift against him. Then all his carefully laid plans would blow up in his face. “We don’t want to change what makes your shops, your village, special. We want to focus on that, figure out what it is that makes the charming atmosphere you’ve created, then capitalize on it, smooth away the rough edges, and make what you’ve worked so hard to build a bright and shiny showpiece. You’re sitting on a veritable gold mine here.”
He scanned the audience, trying to gauge his relative success. Folks were nodding, sitting comfortably in their seats, seemingly willing to hear him out, even eager in some cases. More smiles than frowns, which was very good indeed, but he’d be happy with simply knowing their minds were open to change. He noted the door opening in the back of the auditorium, and stuttered over his next sentence as he spied the lovely cupcake baker slipping in and taking a seat on the aisle. He lost another critical moment wondering what she’d done to overcome her early morning crisis, or if she’d simply locked the door and decided to deal with it later.
The crowd began to murmur, and he quickly shifted his thoughts back to the far more important matter at hand. “This presentation is a preview of the more detailed information that will be coming your way at the official town hall meeting the end of this week. At that time we will encourage your questions and do our best to answer them, as well as allay any concerns you might have as to how these changes are going to affect you and your businesses personally.” The crowd started to murmur in earnest, and he lifted a hand to stall what appeared to be the start of some questions and hand raising. “I don’t wish to put any of you off, but I won’t be taking questions this morning. I have brochures and printed information, detailing everything I’ve shown you and gone over this morning. My hope—our hope—is that you will take these materials, go over them, and think about everything you’d like to discuss, then send those questions and any concerns you have to the e-mail addresses provided. When we reconvene here at the end of the week, we can have a productive, comprehensive meeting that will launch us into the next phase of this exciting time of growth and prosperity for you and your fellow businessmen and women.”
He smiled broadly to the audience and clicked the photo on the big screen back to the one of the huge Hamilton Industries logo. “The information packets are stacked on the tables outside the auditorium doors as you exit. Thank you all for your patience, your participation, and your enthusiasm in getting in on the ground floor of what is going to be the most exciting thing to ever happen in Hamilton village.”
He listened to the applause, gauging whether it was enthusiastic or merely polite, and was, overall, quite happy with the tone of what he was hearing. But just as people started to rise from their seats, a strident voice rang out, freezing everyone for a moment, then returning them to their seats.
“Mr. Gallagher, isn’t it true that rather than capitalize on the unique features of a town—I’m sorry, village—you simply remodel it into your own vision of the place? I realize that things are different in old-world countries like England, Switzerland, and Italy, where I understand you’ve had enormous success.
“But Hamilton is not some fourteenth-century village in need of sprucing up, Mr. Gallagher. We don’t need people coming here looking for a theme park resort, five-star hotels, and a championship golf course. We’re already a thriving community, happily capitalizing on the successes of Hamilton Industries and our own individual business acumen. If you’re merely interested in making Hamilton Industries more successful, thereby giving us greater opportunities, then we’ll all rejoice and give you our undying support. More prosperity is never a bad thing. However, it appears you’re looking to fix a part of us that isn’t broken.
“I think I am speaking for the majority here when I say we like who and what we are, and what we’ve become, through the hard work and sweat that comes with building our own business from the bottom up. In many cases, for multiple generations. Your own family can speak to that, Mr. Gallagher. Certainly that’s something you can identify with, right? If you would focus all your growth potential energy, of which you seem to have an endless supply, on increasing the bottom line of Hamilton Industries, the rest of us will still stand to profit and prosper. But also keep what makes us unique. Otherwise, Mr. Gallagher, our ‘village’ doesn’t need your help.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, as the rest of the folks in the audience shifted their gazes between himself…and Melody Duncastle.
Of course it was her.
Griffin knew the next few seconds were critical in keeping the edge he’d worked so hard to gain. But before he could open his mouth to rejoin Miss Duncastle, and jovially charm the townspeople into continuing to give him their open-minded attention, someone put their hands together and began to clap. He couldn’t make out who it was, but the sound came from the other side of the auditorium, drawing the gazes and glances of the audience as they, too, shifted to see. Then someone else started clapping, and another, and yet another.
The throbbing in Griffin’s temples returned with a swift vengeance as he watched all of his carefully calculated work dissolve. The herd was turning against him. Or, at least, toward Melody Duncastle.
“Miss Duncastle,” he said into his mouthpiece, loudly enough that for a moment, the clapping paused. He pounced