Christmas in Snowflake: Three Heartwarming Holiday Tales

By Rusty Fischer

Molly Swift had a choice to make that fateful Christmas Eve: break her boyfriend’s heart or become a famous country music star. She chose stardom and, for awhile, all was a picture book fairy tale for Molly. She cut her debut album, made the rounds on the concert tour, and then...nothing.

When Molly’s agent dumps her just before Thanksgiving a few years later, she has nowhere left to go but her hometown of Snowflake, South Carolina. There she struggles to find work. That is, until she happens in on a little year-round Christmas restaurant called Café Kringle and finds her ex-flame, Nate Night, at the piano, tickling the ivories.

Can Nate forgive Molly for running out on him? What’s more, can Molly forgive herself? And can the two team up to bring customers into the Café Kringle before its owner decides to close the doors before the holidays?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Decadent Publishing
• Release date: Nov 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781613339343

Rusty Fischer

Rusty Fischer is a full-time freelance writer, multi-published ghostwriter and the author of dozens of published books across a variety of genres, from nonfiction to fiction, including his popular A Living Dead Love Story series from Medallion Press. Visit him at www.rustyfischer.com to read more!

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Prologue

December 24, 1995

Nate Night sat at his portable electronic keyboard, anxiously tickling out the strains of I’ll Be Home for Christmas and trying not to focus on the fact that his high-school sweetheart, Molly Swift, was over two hours late for their Christmas Eve date.

The lights on the cheap plastic tree blinked off and on in the corner, with one small present nestled underneath. When he’d plugged in the tree earlier that evening, it had been light outside. But the sky had turned dark, and the lights filled the otherwise empty apartment with a sad, almost baleful glow.

The doorbell rang, but Nate barely flinched. Without prompting, it opened and in breezed his realtor, Carol Chalmers, followed by a mousy older man with thin bifocals and graying hair to match.

Is she here yet? Carol’s voice boomed excitedly through the tiled foyer, thick heels clattering and sending Nate’s keyboard immediately off key.

Nate gestured to the empty living room in reply, but Carol’s gaze remained fixed on the semi-lavish decorations he’d put up since she gave him the keys to the condo just that morning.

Love what you’ve done with the place. She nodded first at the blinking tree before waving a hand at the flickering cinnamon spice candles lining the clean, white mantel and the lighted garland wound around the oceanfront balcony. Nate had to admit, looking at the scene objectively, it was just about the perfect setting for a surprise Christmas Eve proposal, if he did so say himself!

The older man behind Carol cleared his throat.

Goodness gracious, where are my manners? She spoke almost reluctantly. Nate Night, meet Phil Croft, my trustiest, traveling notary-for-hire.

Nice to meet you, Mr. Croft. Nate stood behind the portable keyboard he often used for outdoor gigs around town. Thanks for taking time away from your family tonight to help me seal this deal.

The notary nodded and opened his mouth, perhaps to wish Nate happy holidays, or even good luck, but Carol butted in and blurted, Of course, Nate, Phil will have to bill double time for working so late on Christmas Eve.

Carol’s hair was blonde and stiff, her eyes blue and shrewd, her expression knowing, and her tone unforgiving; Nate liked her anyway. Perhaps that was because she was never too busy to show Nate and Molly around the condo, or too distrustful to let them borrow the keys when they wanted to see it for themselves.

Nate grinned and said to them both, I’d expect nothing less.

The fact was, he’d pay both Carol and Phil, and anybody else who wandered through the front door triple-billion-quadruple time just to ensure that he and Molly were able to share their lives in the pristine condo by the sea.

Carol opened her briefcase on the kitchen counter, using the flickering flame of a cinnamon jar candle to examine the condo docs. Every so often she would stick little yellow tabs where both Nate and Molly would need to sign in order to take possession of the seventh-floor oceanfront condo they’d long since dreamed of buying together.

They’d been house hunting for months, if only for something different to do on their infrequent days off together. They’d seen hundreds of apartments, condos, duplexes, homes, and split-levels in tiny Snowflake, South Carolina, but always kept coming back to the same oceanfront condo.

That’s what they called it, Nate and Molly—the condo.

Over the past few months, it had taken on an almost mythical status in their lives.

She’d say, You know what would make this dinner even more perfect? If we were eating it in the condo.

He’d say, If we lived in the condo, we’d already be home!

Just last week she’d seen a wreath decorated with shells and had pointed it out, saying, Wouldn’t that look great in the condo this Christmas?

He peered at it over the fireplace and nodded; it sure did.

For the moment, they lived separately. Molly lived with her dad, and Nate had a small apartment over a garage downtown. They’d never once broached the topic of moving in together, and yet it seemed perfectly natural to house hunt every weekend and speak of the mythical condo as if they already owned it. If everything went as planned tonight, they would own it, together, as man and wife!

It was a big step, Nate surprising Molly like this—on Christmas Eve no less. But he’d recently landed a job as the full-time pianist at a local jazz club and, with Molly singing at weddings every weekend and several local clubs during the week, he’d finally felt confident enough that they could swing the down payment and monthly mortgage. Okay, so it might mean eating lots of ramen noodles and saltines in the near future, but that was a small price to pay for waking up next to Molly every morning in such beautiful digs.

Of course, asking Molly to meet him at the condo—otherwise known as Unit #707 in the Snowflake Shores building—on Christmas Eve was giving a bit of the surprise away, but if getting their dream condo was the cake, then the modest but classic engagement ring sitting under the blinking Christmas tree was the icing. Or was it the cake and the condo was the icing? Nate would never know if Molly never showed.

Carol paced nervously, tapping the file folder full of docs with long, lacquered fingernails and glaring at her jewel-encrusted watch as she rolled her eyes knowingly at a bemused Mr. Croft.

You know, Nate, she said as prime time fast approached. We can just do this after the holidays. My office is closed tomorrow, but I’ll be happy to open early on the twenty-sixth if you two want to just swing by and—

No, he blurted, his nearly panicked voice echoing off the condo’s vaulted ceilings. I mean, that’s kind of you to offer, but I kind of had my heart set on making this Christmas special for Molly.

Be that as it may, Nate, Carol said a little icily, you can’t make it ‘special’ if the girl doesn’t even show.

She’s only an hour late, he lied nervously, looking to Phil Croft for a little moral support. "Well, okay, technically it’s two hours but…."

Phil chimed in before Carol could rain on Nate’s parade, My wife, Bea’s, always late, Carol; doesn’t mean she’s not the nicest gal alive! Besides, maybe traffic’s got her held up.

Look at you two romantics, Carol scoffed with a good-natured chuckle, examining the new laminate on the kitchen cabinets.

Twenty minutes later, she eyed the small color television the previous owner had mounted in the kitchen. "Listen, can we at least watch a little TV while we wait for Miss Molly? Local cable’s running White Christmas all day long, and I haven’t seen it this year."

Nate relented begrudgingly. Sure, but when Molly comes, will you turn it off? It’s just, well, I don’t want Bing upstaging me, if you know what I mean.

"If Molly comes. Carol chuckled. Sure thing, kid."

Nate turned back to his keyboard and fiddled with a jazzy rendition of Feliz Navidad he’d been experimenting with at the nightclub all week, if only to drown out the familiar strains of Bing Crosby crooning on the small television. He tried to picture Molly’s reaction when she walked through the door, only to find a realtor and a notary playing hide-and-seek in the kitchen and Nate serenading her with a Christmas song to welcome her to their new home.

He’d called her earlier that afternoon to make sure she’d be there and, though harried with last-minute shopping, she’d laughed. I don’t know why you want to keep teasing yourself with visiting that beautiful condo when you know we can’t afford it, but when it comes to you, I just can’t say no.

Since then, he’d tried her cell phone several more times to no avail.

A kerfuffle came from the kitchen, and Nate looked away from his electronic keyboard to see Carol and Phil pointing at the television.

Nate, honey. Carol’s face had turned ghostly white, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. I don’t think Molly’s gonna make it tonight, you poor thing.

Poor thing? He laughed good-naturedly, figuring the feisty realtor was just pulling his leg, maybe even in cahoots with Molly to prolong the torture before she burst through the door, surprising him! What do you mean?

Sorry, Nate. Phil Croft sighed as he moved aside to let Nate into the cramped kitchen. There, on the tiny screen, Molly Swift was wearing a short-cut glittery red gown and crooning Silent Night to a packed studio audience on the local cable channel’s annual Holiday Spectacular.

"At least she sounds good, Carol said. The room fell away, and Nate watched Molly sing passionately to the studio audience. Did you know anything about this, dear?"

No. A cold, hard rock grew in the pit of his stomach. Well, I mean, I know she’d auditioned for the local Holiday Spectacular, but she told me they’d gone in ‘another direction.’ She was really hurt about it, actually. That’s why I thought I’d cheer her up by surprising her tonight.

Nate’s voice trailed off, and Carol blurted, "Well, looks like you’re both surprised."

Phil shushed her, but Carol ignored him. Listen, Nate, you know I love you and want this for both of you, but both of you need to sign these condo docs for me to put the sale through and with only one of you here….

I’m sorry you guys, Nate murmured as they prepared to leave. "I really thought this would be the perfect evening."

Carol waited anxiously at the door, a house full of well-heeled socialites no doubt awaiting her imminent return back home. Phil put a soothing hand on Nate’s shoulder. Maybe this is a surprise that’ll work better on New Year’s, Nate. Like they say, timing is everything.

Nate nodded and watched them both leave. He was walking back to his keyboard when Carol poked her head back in. "Oh, and Nate, do you mind keeping up the tree until then? Maybe that garland out on the terrace? And, well, I do love that seashell wreath you hung over the fireplace. It’s just that, well, if you’re backing out, I may have to show the place over the holidays, and it really does add to the ambience."

Nate grinned. He packed up his keyboard and slung the padded case over his shoulder, before blowing out the candles and unplugging the tree to avoid setting the condo on fire.

Although on second thought, it wouldn’t be a bad idea since his dreams of spending the rest of his life with Molly there had crashed and burned—and all on national television. Well, okay, local cable access television, but still….

He put the ring box in his pocket and stood on the balcony, watching the waves crash violently on the shore below. He’d always pictured standing there with Molly, their lives entwined much like the moon and the sea drove each other, needed each other. But he knew where Molly’s heart really lay, and the thought of proposing to her left him feeling cold and alone.

It was a simple thing, he knew; he’d been stood up. Big deal, happens to guys all the time—but not to Nate, not from Molly. The condo was sacred, and if he’d been desperate enough to ask her to promise to meet him there that night, she knew there was a bigger reason behind it than some Christmas Eve shenanigans. Instead, she’d chosen her career over Nate, for the very first time.

Well, he decided, what was good for the goose….

He turned and headed for the door. There was a blues club one town over. The drive was short, the night was young, and, heck, he already had his keyboard with him. He knew the owner would be happy for another pianist to jam the night away. Free entertainment for a rowdy holiday crowd? It was just the thing Nate needed to drown his sorrows and forget the pain, the heartache of Christmas Eve.

The best part was, Molly didn’t know about the club, so she wouldn’t show up apologizing after her gig was over in a few hours.

Chapter One

November 12, 2001

Molly Swift sat across from her manager, Willy Slim Wrangler in his oak-paneled office, squirming in her seat. It wasn’t because she didn’t love Slim; after all, he was the reason she’d moved to Nashville in the first place. He’d been a powerhouse from day one: producing her first album, getting her paying gigs at local clubs, and cutting her generous royalty checks every month.

Okay, not so generous lately but, still, a paycheck was a paycheck. If it weren’t for Slim, she’d be flat broke. Not that she was all that far from it. Truth be known, Molly hadn’t had a real job since high school. Singing, singing, and more singing was all Molly knew, be it here in Nashville or back in her tiny hometown of Snowflake, South Carolina.

No, she was squirming because of the caterwauling coming out of the sleek, white Bose speakers on top of Slim’s cluttered desk.

Hear that? he said in his put-upon country twang. Slim was originally from New Jersey. That’s the future, Molly.

"That’s insane, Slim, Molly fumed, noting the tart little blonde on the album cover Slim had just handed her. Her anger had only grown after he had slipped his new discovery’s CD in the player and pushed play. Not to mention an obvious child labor violation! Why, this girl can’t be over fifteen."

She checked out the name on the album cover—Nadine Nightingale. She blew air through her lips, making a mini-raspberry sound. A stage name if she’d ever heard one! At least Molly had the class to keep her given name, bland as it was.

Like I said, darlin’, the future.

Slim sat back in his pleather chair, cowboy hat resting atop his thinning black hair. He was tall and bony, with a kind face and a sharp nose.

Does it matter that she can’t sing a lick? Molly’s tone was hopeful.

Not a bit, Slim said confidently. I’ve got her booked solid through the holidays, and that album’s gonna release first of the year. We’re already leaking the first single on Thanksgiving, and she’s in the studio working on a Christmas song as we speak.

A C-Christmas song? Molly sounded hurt. "But you told me there wasn’t time to record a song this year."

Slim looked chagrined, as if he’d spoken too soon. Well, darlin’, where there’s a will, there’s a way….

His voice trailed off, as did his eyes. Molly found herself admiring the brim of Slim’s hat.

She slid the CD cover back on his desk and asked what she’d wanted to ever since he called her into his office for the meeting. "So, uh, Slim. What does this have to do with me?"

He finally lifted his limp green eyes to look at her, a knot of dread tying itself in her stomach. I’m sorry, Molly, he murmured then peered down as he shuffled contracts and royalty ledgers on his giant desk. I love your voice, you know I do, but I just can’t find a place for it on the contemporary country music scene these days.

But what about that jazz demo I cut for you last week? She tried—and failed—to keep the note of desperation from creeping into her panicked voice. If I can’t compete with fifteen-year-old tarts, let me at least go after an older demographic.

I’d love to help you, Slim said. I’ve played your jazz record all around town, and everyone has the same reaction…great voice, loved her first single, but time’s moved on. As you know, Nashville ain’t exactly jazz country.

Molly had been so proud of her new, jazzier single. It was still country, just more upscale, with a talented trio behind her and less of the telltale twang that had made Molly’s first—and only—album, Her Cheatin’ Heart, a bronze seller on the competitive country charts.

So, where does that leave us? But she’d already guessed the answer as the dread that had taken up residence in her stomach moved to other parts of her anatomy.

Slim tore a check out of his old-fashioned bank ledger and handed it over with a dramatic flair of finality. Settling up, he stated. That there’s your last royalty check for the quarter. We’ll call it even and part ways friends, right, Molly?

"Part ways? She slid the check quickly into her purse without even looking at it. That’s it? We’re through? After all we’ve been through together?"

Like I said, darlin’, the future’s calling and I’m not getting any younger. I’ve got to put my focus on selling acts, and this little Nadine Nightingale girl’s selling like hotcakes. I wouldn’t be any good to you now, anyway. You know I’ve never been one for jazz.

"But it’s not jazz, Slim, she begged. It’s jazzy; there’s a difference."

Not to the record labels, he cautioned, the reedy tone in his voice signaling his patience—and this meeting—were nearly at an end. "And not to the club owners in these here parts. I say ‘jazzy’ and they hear ‘jazz.’ Either way, what they don’t hear is country; and they don’t hire you. So where does that leave me?"

Molly opened her mouth to protest, to threaten, to bargain, to beg, to reason, then she closed it. She was tired of singing her old hits, and sales hadn’t been big enough on the first album to warrant a second, so there were no new hits for her to sing. At thirty-two, she was already washed up, a one-hit wonder who, really, never had a hit to begin with.

She stood quietly, stuck out her hand as she choked back tears. Thanks, Slim, for everything.

Slim stood and picked up one of his patented black-and-gold business cards from his desk. He flipped it over before handing it to her. Listen, Molly, I don’t want you to leave empty handed. I’ve called in some markers to three of my favorite club owners in town. You go by these guys next week, see if they can’t put you on the stage three or four nights a week until you can find yourself a new manager, okay honey?

Honey? She slid the business card in next to the royalty check that would be her only income for the rest of the year. Honey is what Slim called strangers, or waitresses, or new, farm-fed, fresh-faced girls he hadn’t signed yet—and probably never would.

Thanks. She turned from the door. But he just gave her a wave, already working the phones and no doubt turning down booking dates for his newest star, Nadine Nightingale.

Oh well. Molly sighed, slinking into the front seat of her eight-year-old pickup in the parking lot and sliding the check out of her purse. At least I’ve got— She did a double take, looking at the figure on her latest royalty check. $179.62!

Her heart sank as she bypassed the grocery store, where she’d been meaning to stop, en route to her single apartment. It was barely the second week in November, and she only had one hundred and eighty dollars to last her through to New Year.

She fingered Slim’s business card in her trembling hand and hoped the club owners listed on the back owed Slim—big time!

Chapter Two

Nate saw the giant Christmas tree blinking from three blocks away and wondered who was so eager to rush the season that they’d stoop to lashing a twelve foot blinking Christmas tree to the top of their roof midway through November!

He pedaled his trusty mountain bike slowly, breathing in the cool night air as downtown Snowflake, South Carolina, shimmered into view. It was a greeting card type of town, with clean sidewalks and quaint, charming storefronts, empty trash cans, and streetlights that always worked. Despite its obvious charm, he’d never understood why the town was called Snowflake. After all, Nate had lived there all his life and had only seen a few frosty mornings, let alone an actual snowflake.

Still, he never minded the goofy name around this time of year. He’d always loved Christmas in general, and Christmas music in particular. Already he’d slipped a Christmas carol or two into his nightly act at Jolene’s Jazz Joint, the only jazz club in town—and the site of his full-time job for the last six years.

He liked to think his jazzy renditions of Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, Oh Tannenbaum, and even Feliz Navidad sounded little like their up-tempo carol cousins and, so far, none of his standing-room-only audiences had complained.

Who knows? Nate wondered as he pedaled his sturdy mountain bike closer to work. Maybe they dig living in Snowflake this time of year as well.

The huge tree blinked green and red as he got closer and closer to Jolene’s, and darn if it wasn’t on one of the roofs near his place of employment. Which seemed odd, since the only two places open downtown at this hour were a greasy spoon diner across the street that could hardly afford a dishwasher, let alone a blinking tree you could see for miles. Then there was the gas station around the corner. But why would they put up a tree that big, so soon? and—

Hold on. Hold up! The ridiculous tree wasn’t on top of one of the competing businesses. It was on the roof of Jolene’s Jazz Joint.

Nate approached Jumbo, the burly dishwasher taking up residence on the back dock and grabbing a quick smoke in between the dinner and dessert rush. What’s with the blinking, twinkling nightmare?

Didn’t you hear? Jumbo growled, grounding out his cigarette under his thick, black work boot. Jolene’s been bought out.

Bought out? Something fluttered in his throat as he clicked the bike lock in place and took the steps out back two at a time. By whom, Kris Kringle himself? He paused on the landing outside the back kitchen doors.

Jumbo gave him a surprised look. How’d you know?

Nate ignored the smart aleck remark and rushed through the kitchen to find its proprietor, Jolene, holding an impromptu staff meeting next to the cigarette machine in the employee break room.

Many of you have heard, Jolene was saying, withered fingers clutching the tarnished broach that clung to her old-fashioned collar, I’ve sold the Jazz Joint and will be turning over ownership of the club throughout the week. You may have already noticed a few changes around here, notably a fully lit, fourteen-foot noble fir on the roof, but…I’ll let Mr. K tell you about those himself.

Mr. K? asked Scout, the anorexic busboy-slash-wannabe rapper-slash-after-hours DJ sitting in the front row. Is that, like, his stage name or something?

Jolene touched Scout’s shoulder gently and paused, as if to answer, then turned and sped abruptly from the room, bustling right by Nate as she scurried back to her office. Nate considered following her, but the look on her face suggested tears, and he didn’t want to make what was already an obviously upsetting night even worse.

He greeted several of the servers as they filed past, but no one seemed to be in the talking mood. Scout stayed behind, fingering a fresh pack of smokes from the machine and perking up when Nate walked into the room wearing his trademark black slacks and crisp white shirt with the thin, black tie.

What’s up, piano man? Scout gave him one of his patented six-move, herky-jerky handshakes that Nate never felt he’d done right, though he never complained.

Not much. Nate grinned even as Scout peered past him to the kitchen just beyond the break room. He purposefully stood in Scout’s line of vision, just to watch the peeved expression on his face.

Oh, I’m sorry, Nate joked. "Are you waiting for someone?"

Scout’s smooth white face flushed as he looked at Nate and smiled. Naw, he lied, blush creeping from his long, white throat to his hollow, apple cheeks. Just seeing if our new owner’s on the premises.

Yeah? You’ve seen him?

He was here earlier when I clocked in, Scout said conspiratorially, as if this might be top secret information or something.

What’s he like?

Scout shrugged, wiping a lock of ridiculously dyed-blond hair out of his clear-blue eyes. Just an older dude with a long, white beard and a big, fat belly, and a red ski cap.

What? Nate scoffed, wondering if he’d just stepped into a holiday episode of the Twilight Zone. Seriously?

Just then, the scent of cheap perfume wafted into the break room, and Scout stood erect, as if transformed into one of Pavlov’s dogs. Gotta bolt, my man. He didn’t bother to give Nate one of his ultimately confusing handshakes.

Nate turned to see Hazel Crisp, the Jazz Joint’s stunning young hostess, saunter past Scout as if she didn’t even know he existed. He also kind of figured that was the point. He looked wounded, and Nate vowed to have a chat with the tempting little hostess about giving the poor kid a little more respect.

He caught Nate looking and, despite the sudden blush that crept from his stiff, white collar, the gangly young busboy gave him an It’s cool shrug and grabbed a fresh onion ring from the rack by the fryer, as if maybe that had been his destination all along.

Nate ignored the greasy, starchy shift meal behind the cook’s line and headed through the swinging kitchen doors. Stepping onto the club floor, he let his eyes adjust to the darkness that permeated the dimly lit room before slinking to the bar and pouring himself his nightly shift drink—a small, smooth scotch in a fat rocks glass.

It was decadent, no doubt, but he had a long five hours ahead of him, and he’d make it stretch through at least half of that. After that, he could decide whether he had enough in his tip jar to spring for a second.

The piano sat black, and lacquered, and familiar in the corner as he took his seat, noting the full house and expectant eyes upon his hands as they fiddled with a few sheets of music. Smooth jazz pumped quietly overhead through the live music feed, but once he gave Scout the signal, the dutiful busboy would flip the switch and it would be all Nate, all night.

He warmed up his fingers with the opening strains of Route 66 until he was happy the piano sounded smooth enough, then caught Scout’s eye from across the crowded club. In seconds, the room had grown quiet and still. Even the sound of knives and forks against clean white plates dimmed as Nate’s fingers struck the keys with a familiarity that, at last, made him smile.

If only Molly could be there, sitting in the audience, watching him play as she had all those years ago.

Oh well. He picked up the tempo as the spirit moved him. Maybe one day….

Chapter Three

Molly tightened her grip on the straps of her backpack purse and gritted her teeth. But Slim said you might have a spot for me opening up this week, she reiterated to the harried club manager in front of her, who was busy marking off boxes on his latest liquor order.

He’d barely glanced up from the stacks of boxes since she’d walked into the deserted nightclub five minutes earlier.

Slim who, darlin’? He finally looked up red-eyed and bleary from his clipboard and sounding less than patient.

"Slim Wrangler, she said for the third time, careful to keep her tone polite—although after the week she’d had, she was tempted to scream it to the rooftops. My name’s Molly Swift, I had that hit song a few years ago. ‘Her Cheatin’ Heart’?"

He smiled weakly. Oh yeah. My wife liked that song.

Molly’s heart fluttered with hope at the thought of not having to dine on potted meat and Ramen noodles for Thanksgiving dinner, then fell to the floor again when he jabbed the pencil he’d been using behind his ear.

He shot her a glare. "My ex-wife, that is."

She rolled her eyes. Ouch, well sorry about that.

He gave her a good once over. "Slim did call and I told him, last week, that I don’t have any openings. I’m sorry, Mary, I just—"

Molly, she corrected, careening straight past Polite Street and entering the city limits of Desperate Town. Are you sure there isn’t anything? I mean, it doesn’t have to be onstage. I waited tables all through high school and hosted every summer, maybe there’s an opening on the schedule for just a few nights a week or…. She sounded strange and pitiful even as she continued to blather on about her pathetic waitressing skills that were at least a good dozen or more years old. The old Molly would have left six minutes ago, but the new Molly was desperate—and hungry.

I’m sorry, Molly. He used a little heat to her name this time, as if he was anything but. Nothing through the end of the year, sorry. You can try back in January, but I can’t make any promises.

She thanked the club manager as politely as possible and walked briskly outside. Once she was out of his sight, she crumbled into the nearest empty chair, which just so happened to be in front of the tiny café next door. To her surprise, and great consternation, the front window featured a poster announcing none other than Nadine Nightingale’s newest holiday single, Jingle Bell Shop.

She hung her head and groaned. It was as if the fates were smiling down, laughing at her, punishing her for all her past holiday sins. Nearby a throat clear, and she looked up to see a waitress, short but slender in comfortable shoes and a tight white blouse featuring a fresh jelly stain on the collar.

Molly ordered a small coffee from the waitress. The woman was older, wiser, and brought back a hard roll with the coffee. On the house, sweetie, she said when Molly looked up to protest the added expense on her bill.

The gesture was so kind, so unexpected, tears burned her eyes. If only it was a new emotion. She’d been on edge ever since leaving Slim’s office last week, and the weekend spent cooped up and staring at her own four walls hadn’t helped matters any.

She seemed downright fragile—a far sight from the headstrong, ambitious heartbreaker who’d stormed Nashville six years earlier. The kind—and much appreciated—gesture from a well-meaning stranger could prove to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Instead of melting into a puddle of tears, Molly somehow focused her trembling hands to fill the coffee with cream and sugar and stared out at the empty street beyond the sidewalk café’s front entrance, the cool November air chilling her hands as she gripped the coffee cup and brought it to her lips.

It tasted good and sweet, hot and smooth all at the same time, and she sipped it faster, realizing she’d skipped breakfast, again. It had been a long week since Slim let her go, and she realized that without an agent, Nashville wasn’t as kind to her as it once had been.

All those dates she’d played, all those long club nights, all the free encores and extra hours and blood, sweat, and tears she’d poured into building a name for herself mattered little when there were so many acts out there on the strip, all younger, hotter, and more radio-friendly than Molly Swift.

The country music industry was like any other, she quickly learned. It didn’t just want young; it wanted fresh, new, and hot. Once upon a time, she supposed, it had been Molly that fit that bill. Why else would a guy like Slim be trolling public cable channels in South Carolina for the next big thing, and call her out of the blue like that? On Christmas Eve, no less?

In the