Cardinal Christmas

By Elle Brownlee

Welcome to the Cardinal Christmas Market, an exclusive holiday experience where the offerings are as unique and quirky as the people and town who run it.

Douglas is a first-time vendor, and he's determined to make a splash and grow from there. A mix-up means he has no choice but to share a booth with Boyd, one of Cardinal's own.

Douglas and Boyd don’t like each other’s style... or one another. But in the ensuing weeks working the booth, with help from a little Cardinal Christmas Market magic, they find their art, world views, personalities, and passions are complementary—even compatible. Can they get past feeling like the coal in each other's stockings to a sweet happy ending, or are they destined to be holiday humbugs?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dreamspinner Press
• Release date: Nov 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781641083416

Elle Brownlee

Elle Brownlee always followed her creative, adventuring spirit. Growing up she loved reading, watching Westerns, and taking long hikes, where she’d craft miniature worlds with moss and rocks while making up stories of what happened there. As an adult, not a lot has changed. She still loves all these things—which makes being a writer such a joy. She also loves rainy days in autumn, National Parks, birding and quilting and stickers, and the perfect cup of tea.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Blurb

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

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Cardinal Christmas

by Elle Brownlee

Welcome to the Cardinal Christmas Market, an exclusive holiday experience where the offerings are as unique and quirky as the people and town who run it.

Douglas is a first-time vendor, and he's determined to make a splash and grow from there. A mix-up means he has no choice but to share a booth with Boyd, one of Cardinal's own.

Douglas and Boyd don’t like each other’s style… or one another. But in the ensuing weeks working the booth, with help from a little Cardinal Christmas Market magic, they find their art, world views, personalities, and passions are complementary—even compatible. Can they get past feeling like the coal in each other's stockings to a sweet happy ending, or are they destined to be holiday humbugs?

For my dearest Writing Gals, the very best gift that keeps on giving.

Chapter One

DOUGLAS LISTENED to the final strains of Jingle Bell Rock, pulled his earbuds out, and resolutely exited his car. He kinda hated that song, but it sure got the holiday blood flowing. The air was cold, it was the Monday after Thanksgiving, and from that morning until Epiphany, he wanted to live and breathe Christmas. Not the business of Christmas—the magic of it. Cinnamon and pine, twinkling lights and corny sentiments, fellowship and caroling and whatever all else came with that.

First time for everything, he muttered and patted his pocket to double-check the car keys were there. He stretched and sucked in the cold morning air until it hurt, welcome invigoration fresh off a ten-hour drive, and then followed the line of giant candy canes to go check in.

He’d stumbled into crafting by accident after watching hours of tutorials when one of his start-up jobs launched a crafty how-to streaming service. Douglas preferred understanding the nuts and bolts of everything he engaged in, so he gave some tutorials a whirl, found he appreciated the meditative qualities and creative outlet, even if he was no artist. Him being him he set goals but these had resonated differently—improvement in technique and finished product rather than any metrics.

A month ago he’d quit his job, planned and prepared for this venture to the minutest detail, and vowed to let go and enjoy everything he could once arrived. He still wanted to do well, run a tight ship and make a good showing, but in the spirit of the season, not the bottom line.

Excitement—or nerves—surged as he found the vendor check-in station. He readied a smile, pushed past the swinging doors, and waved at an empty room.

Oh, he exhaled.

The small cabin was charmingly chaotic—a mess, really. Corkboards covered in possibly relevant and very dated notes and clippings dominated the wall to the left. Under that was a table that looked to have been salvaged from a diner booth, two comfortable mismatched chairs, and several butter-cookie tins—filled with actual butter cookies—marked Help Yourself.

Along the opposite wall, a ledge pretending to be a counter had a pyramid of paper towel rolls, a tiny microwave, and columns of disposable cups alongside bins of instant coffee, cocoa, and teabags. In the back corner, a narrow door led to a miniscule bathroom. In the center of the cabin on a rickety stool was a handwritten back soon text me if you need anything sign and a bold arrow markered on a piece of paper.

The arrow indicated Douglas turn around.

Behind him stood an old stepladder beneath a chalkboard where Take One of Each was scrawled. The ladder’s three wide treads each had a pile of papers on it. He did as suggested and found an instruction sheet, a map of the market, and a welcome letter.

Douglas scanned the welcome letter, searched for his assigned booth, and frowned. His name was listed as Douglas T, which he didn’t get as his last name was Bader, but it had to be him as there was no other Douglas. His booth was in a back corner, well away from what he considered the primo locations for the best foot traffic.

Hardly a grand start to things.

For a Christmas market so renowned for its holiday charm and unique offerings that people would drive from neighboring states for the yearly event, this wasn’t quite what he’d anticipated. Still, maybe it was exactly what he needed.

He pored over the brief but clear instructions. Sellers were invited to drive to their space for setup, conditions allowing. Since conditions allowed, Douglas did just that.

The aisles between booths were wide and thickly carpeted with chunky wood chips and straw, and the pine scent that wafted up gave Douglas’s mood a lift. He set up to his satisfaction in the pleasant quiet of the early morning, packed what he didn’t need back in the car, and parked in a space close to the exit in the vendor’s lot.

More vendors had arrived, and voices of greeting and calls of recognition floated around as he walked back to his booth. A few people waved in his direction, and Douglas nodded back, but no one motioned him over. He didn’t stop to try and chat as he surveyed what filled the booths as he went.

Quilts, knitted goods, felted animals and nativity sets, hand-blown glass, woodworking, wind chimes, some photography, and some illustrations. He’d have to circuit again to catalog everything, but that gave him a sense and bolstered his confidence that his offerings fit in.

Douglas tinkered with forming an efficient traffic pattern through his booth with three narrow tables, covered them with lengths of different holiday-colored plaid fabric, and then he stood back to think about how to present his various displays.

Oh, cool. I didn’t know we’d get assistants. Or help.

An unpleasant itch moved like a stray hair against his neck. Douglas waited to see if more was forthcoming, or if it was said in passing to someone else and he happened to hear, but he sensed someone nearby wanting an answer.

Are you meaning me? he asked as he turned around.

When he