1. Help Wanted

CHAPTER 1

Help Wanted

R esumes in hand and comfortable walking shoes on my feet, I trotted down the front steps of the charming wood-frame house I’d leased the preceding week. The place was small, only six-hundred square feet divided among two bedrooms, a tiny bath, a basic but functional kitchen, and a cozy living room. But it was plenty of space for me and my three gray tabby cats. Miss Marple, Sherlock, and Nancy Drew were named after my favorite fictional crime solvers. The furry trio gazed out the front window from the perches of their carpet-covered cat tree, watching me as I turned to head down the sidewalk.

At the risk of having my new neighbors deem me a “crazy cat lady,” I stopped to give my pets a wave and blow them a kiss. I could see myself in the reflection of the glass, my dark high-volume hair wrangled into a pony tail to keep it out of my face, my trench coat and oversized green cable-knit sweater that did nothing for my figure but kept me nice and warm. In my book, comfort trumps fashion, especially on a brisk day like today.

My lungs took in the crisp autumn air as my feet carried me down the sidewalk and my eyes admired the breathtakingly beautiful oranges, golds, and reds of the fall foliage. It took me only a minute or two to reach the old-fashioned Main Street. The little North Carolina town of Berwick Valley sat just east of the Tennessee border and boasted a mere 3,000 full-time residents, but many more people were part-timers with vacation homes in the surrounding mountains. Nobody could agree on whether the tree-covered peaks were officially part of the Great Smokies or the Blue Ridge Mountains, but everyone who lived here agreed they were gorgeous. Tourists did, too. That’s why so many of them ventured up to the town for a relaxing getaway.

Until recently, I’d been one of those occasional weekend visitors. But the gift shop I’d managed in Charlotte had been unable to compete with online retailers that offered a wider selection and free shipping directly to the shopper’s door, and had permanently closed its doors a few weeks ago. Finding myself out of work and unable to afford my pricey downtown apartment, I’d decided what the heck. Why not spend a year or two in the mountains to regroup and reassess? After all, I had nothing keeping me in Charlotte. No job, no house, and no husband or even a boyfriend. I saw my friends only on rare weekends as it was, many of them having married and begun the process of reproduction. At thirty-three, I was beginning to feel a bit like an old maid. They’d warned me against moving to the small town, told me there’d be few romantic prospects, and they might very well be right. But I figured that if I matched up with a good prospect from Charlotte on a dating app, I could always make the two-hour drive back to the city for dinner or a movie, and spend the night in a friend’s guestroom or on their couch. If a guy proved to be a keeper, I’d move back to the city.

The irresistible scent of blueberry scones and fresh-brewed coffee lured me to my first stop on Main Street, Peak Perk. After ordering a quick breakfast at the front counter, I inquired whether they might be hiring.

“Sorry.” The woman handed the warm cardboard cup of coffee to me. “We’re fully staffed right now. But I saw a ‘help wanted’ sign in the window of the new toy shop down the block.”

A toy store? That could be fun. Happy, smiling children looking for the perfect item to spark their imagination. Parents and grandparents picking up a special surprise for their kids or grandkids. Spoiled brats throwing a noisy temper tantrum when they didn’t get what they wanted. Hey, how did that negative thought sneak in? I’d been doing my best to stay optimistic and positive. With little going my way lately, it wasn’t always easy.

I thanked the woman and took a seat at a table, where I quickly ate my scone and chased it with the delicious hazelnut-flavored coffee. Fully caffeinated now, I was ready to land that job. I exited the coffee shop and headed down the block, keeping an eye out for a toy store. I passed an art gallery filled with paintings of wildlife and wood carvings of bear, deer, and eagles. I walked by a bustling diner. An elderly couple opened the door to enter, releasing the enticing smells of hash browns and fresh-baked biscuits, along with the chatter of conversation and the clinks of silverware. At the corner, I glanced across the street to see a real estate office with a sign at the curb in front that read RESERVED PARKING FOR D. DICKSON. A late model, high-end Mercedes sedan was parked in the spot. I continued scanning that side of the street, my gaze moving to the next block. There it is.

I crossed the street and made my way to the shop. The sign over the wide front window featured the shop’s name, Timeless Toys, as well as its logo, the face of a clock with no hands to tell time. Judging from the classic playthings in the window, Timeless Toys was the perfect moniker. There were rag dolls and teddy bears, wooden train sets and stick horses, along with basic wood blocks painted with alphabet letters. I saw kid-sized musical instruments, too, including ukuleles, xylophones, drums, and easy-to-master wooden recorders. The sign on the door was turned to CLOSED. The posted hours were noon to 8:00 pm. I glanced over at the clocktower in front of the post office two doors down. That clock, which thankfully had hands, indicated it was only half past nine. Darn.

I thought I’d have to come back later, but then movement inside caught my eye. Through the glass, I could see someone working in the storeroom at the back of the shop. I raised my hand and used a knuckle to rap gently on the glass. Rap-rap-rap.

A moment later, a man in his thirties appeared in the doorway of the storeroom. His broad shoulders filled the frame. He had hair the color of maple syrup, and sported a full but neatly trimmed beard. He wore a red and black buffalo plaid flannel shirt, blue jeans, and black boots. He looked like a young, modern, sexy Santa. Ho, ho, hunk!

I stood there, staring at him, quite likely gaping. He stared back for a moment, then smiled and called, “We open at noon!” He pointed to the store hours posted in the window.

I cupped my hands around my mouth and called back to him. “I’m not here to shop! I’m here about the job!” I pointed at the other sign in his window, the one that read HELP WANTED.

Acknowledging my response with a nod, he came to door, unlocked it, and opened it wide, holding out an arm to invite me inside. “Come right in.”

I glanced around as I stepped inside, noting the handmade wooden toy chests and ornate Victorian dollhouses, all artfully crafted. Seven-year-old me would have been in absolute heaven in this shop. Even at my age, I wanted to play with the dusty rose dollhouse with the ivory shutters and trim.

He held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Nick Klaus.”

As I took his hand to shake, I thought he’s got to be kidding, right?

My thoughts must have been written on my face because he said, “I know, I know. My name sounds like Santa Claus. But, trust me, I’m no saint. I curse a blue streak every time I hit my thumb with the hammer.” A mischievous glint danced in his eyes.

I released his hand and gestured around. “You made these toys?”

“Not the dolls or stuffed animals or board games,” he said. “I order those wholesale. But I make the wooden train sets, the blocks, the toy chests, and the dollhouses.” He hiked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the rear room from which he’d emerged. “My workshop is in the back.”

I stepped over to admire one of the dollhouses more closely. The attention to detail was amazing. Each shingle had been perfectly placed on the roof, and the front door even had a tiny knocker I suspected might have been a repurposed nose ring. Clever. “You’re very talented.”

“Thanks. And you are …?”

“I’m talented, too. Just with business, not crafts.”

“No. I mean, your name ?”

I slapped a palm to my forehead. Sheesh. I’d totally forgotten to introduce myself. “Ciara Doubrava.” For a woman who’d been given a movie-star name, I was actually very down to earth. Turning from the toys to the matter at hand, I said, “I have over fifteen years of retail experience. I managed a gift shop in Charlotte for years.”

He cocked his head. “Why are you no longer there?”

“The store went out of business.”

He arched a brow. “That fact doesn’t exactly recommend you.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t. But we didn’t go down without a valiant fight. I tried lots of different things to try to make the place more profitable, but the shopping malls of yesteryear simply don’t get the foot traffic they used to.” I circled a finger in the air. “But quaint tourist towns like this? You’ve got a lot of profit potential.”

“I hope so,” he said. “I opened three days ago and haven’t had many customers.”

It was Thursday, meaning that so far his shop had only been open during the week. “That’s to be expected. Weekdays are always much slower than weekends. What did you do for your grand opening?”

He shrugged. “I unlocked the door and turned the sign around.”

“That’s all?” I gave him a pointed look. “It’s not enough to simply exist. You need to do some marketing, get some attention for the shop.”

“You know how to do that?”

“Do I know how to do that?” I issued a pshaw and waved a dismissive hand. “Of course. I studied business in college.” While I hadn’t earned a four-year degree from a major university, I had achieved a two-year associates degree in business from a community college, and had been a straight-A student.

I sensed Nick was gaining interest. He pulled a couple of stools from behind the counter. He took a seat on one and held out a hand, inviting me to take the other. “Tell me some of your ideas.”

I perched on the stool and looked around, considering. “First, you should throw a little party for the locals. Serve some pastries or appetizers from the coffee shop or diner down the street. One hand scratches the other in small towns like this. Offer a ten-percent discount certificate to everyone who comes to the grand opening, but give the coupon a one-month expiration date. You could hold a stick horse race, or see who can stack the most blocks without them falling, and offer gift cards as prizes. Put a decorative snowman out front, at least until there’s enough snow to build a real one. It would be cute and grab people’s attention.”

His head bobbed as he took in my suggestions, and the gleam in his eyes told me he liked them.

I’d barely scratched the surface. “You could use the alphabet blocks to spell out things in the window. Maybe even short jokes.”

He cocked his head. “Such as?”

“Such as – What do you call a train with a mouthful of bubble gum? A chew-chew train.”

He snorted. “That’s awfully corny.”

“People like corny,” I insisted. “I’ve got another one. Did you hear about the horror movie in which a man smashes toys? It’s a real blockbuster .”

He groaned, alone, but afterward we shared a laugh.

I acquiesced. “Maybe the blocks could just spell out ‘Come in and play.’ You could have one train set and a dollhouse display that you allow children to play with. Their moms and dads will see how much fun they are having and, once the kids try the toys, they’ll beg their parents for them.” I came up with some other suggestions, such as customizing toy chests with a child’s name for an extra fee, offering gift wrap for a small additional charge, and extending his hours so that the shop opened at eleven in the morning rather than noon. “That way, you’ll catch the early lunch crowd. You could even host birthday parties here where kids can assemble and paint their own toy, like a balsawood airplane or a tea set or a caboose.”

“Wow,” he said. “You’re full of good ideas.”

I gave him a cocky smile. “That’s why you should hire me right now, before someone else snaps me up.” I raised my hand and snapped my fingers for emphasis.

His eyes narrowed. “Not so fast. I’ll need to check your references.”

I handed him a copy of my resume, and pointed to the bottom. “The name and phone number for the owner of the gift shop are right there.”

He pulled a cell phone from the back pocket of his jeans and dialed my former boss. After identifying himself and telling her why he was calling, he asked, “Would you recommend I hire her?” He eyed me as he listened for a minute or two, then he thanked her and returned the phone to his pocket.

“Well?” I asked.

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “She told me you were a lousy employee. Rude. Always late. Lazy.”

“What?!”

A grin played about his lips. “Just kidding. She sang your praises. My only worry now is that I can’t pay you what you’re worth. I’d only planned to hire a sales clerk, not an assistant manager.”

“What wage are you offering?”

When he told me, I scoffed. “You’re right. I’m worth much more than that.” I tapped the tip of my index finger on my chin while I mulled things over. “Tell you what. Pay me a five-percent commission on top of the hourly rate. That way, you only have to pay me if the shop profits, and you know I’ll work hard because I’ll have skin in the game.”

“It’s a deal.” He extended his hand once more and we shook on it. “How soon can you start?”

I unwrapped the scarf from my neck and slid out of my coat. “How about now?”