“I’ll donate more—”
“You paid for the truck, and I know you’ll pay for repairs even if we tell you not to, but Claire, you’re already donating your time.” George wore his serious face, all laughter gone from his eyes.
“Look, kiddo, your time and talent are more than we could ever afford; you don’t need to keep donating money, too. Not when there are other options to cover the electric bills. We can cut back hours – evenings and weekends only.”
“We never have many visitors early in the week.” George had a point. She could make use of that extra time to go through the house. Maybe she’d find some treasures for Beverly to sell.
“Okay. If we can change the location, we can change the time, so long as Walter hasn’t ordered advertising.” Her shoulders relaxed and she crossed her arms.
“Nope. My daughter-in-law said she only needs twenty-four-hour advance notice at the print shop and I haven’t contacted the media yet.”
“I suggest Wednesday through Sunday, three to eight weekdays, nine to eight weekends. If that’s agreeable, I’ll spread the word to the police to get extra security.
“May as well have us stay open until nine. I’ll be up.” She’d be up past midnight, but even one hour added expense. “I guess we could set up a donation box. I worry it will cut into the other collections.
Walter considered her suggestion. “If we write a suggested donation to keep the trains running, maybe folks will be more likely to pay.”
“Maybe we can charge for parking instead.” George offered. “Clem might have tolerated that.”
“Someone would have to stand in the cold and collect it.” Walter chewed his cigar so ferociously, it had to be too soggy to smoke by now.
“Well forget that. I’ll keep thinking. It’s getting late. Dinah’s either worried that I’m not home or fast asleep. We should get going.”
“Goodnight George, Goodnight Walter.” She gave them each a hug, taking in the scent of barn and smoke respectively. The only thing missing from the comfort trifecta was Clem’s motor oil.
“Don’t stay up too late, kiddo.”
“I won’t,” she lied. With only a week until opening, she needed to get the adhesive work going immediately.
Chapter 17
Claire and Bob spent the Wednesday before Thanksgiving touching up paint and alternating between freezing cold from an open door and warm but wearing face masks because of the smelly air. With less than forty-eight hours until opening, every minute counted. Walter helped for a few hours after work, but Bob left at dinner time. When Sandy came by to pick Walter up so he had time to take his pills before bed, she brought an air cleaner.
“This place reeks of paint fumes. I’ll coordinate a few more and run them over in the morning.”
“Are you heading home too?”
Claire shook her head.
“At least prop the doors open. You don’t need to pass out from the fumes.” Surrogate mom struck again.
Claire gave her a hug. “I will.”
“Someone could come in.”
She put her arms on Walter’s shoulders and looked into his worried eyes. “I have mace and if anyone tries to vandalize the display, I’ll go psychopath on them. I’ll say the fumes made me do it.”
“Hrumph.” He pulled her in for a quick hug. “Don’t stay up all night.”
Claire said nothing. She didn’t want to make a promise she knew she wouldn’t keep. There was too much to do.
Hours later, a set of headlights splashed bright light across the walls and interrupted her reforestation. She paused, fir tree in hand. No-one in town should be out here this late at night. Clutching her pepper spray with one hand, she picked up a pen knife with the other. Not that its miniature blade would do much damage, but it gave her a false sense of security. After slapping off a bank of lights, she walked to the doors facing the parking lot, closed them, but peeked out the window.
A mix of relief and frustration swept through her body as she recognized the man walking toward her. Releasing the various security measures, she reopened the door.
“James? What are you doing here?”
“I got the security camera set up.” His cheeks flushed either from the sudden heat of the room or out of shyness. “I wondered if you could watch it with me. I thought you might recognize whoever it is.” His pleading expression lured her in. “I can’t think of anyone else who’d give me a straight answer or who would be awake at this hour.”
He needed her help and in spite of everything, she couldn’t turn him away. She understood his frustration, the sense of being surrounded by people who kept you at arm’s length or couldn’t be bothered to answer a question. She went through something similar with every new assignment.
“All right, but I have to finish gluing and flocking.”
“Flocking?”
“Adding snow to the trees.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Sure it won’t be too boring watching someone play with trains?” She refused to forgive his earlier digs at her job. She laughed in response to his glare. “There are chairs stacked up by the wall. Help yourself.”
Since he interrupted her forestation, she snapped a few photos from outside the train loop to use for reference. One fairy light was too exposed in the forest, and the shingles still needed work. She crawled underneath the risers, slipping on clean cotton booties before stepping onto the pristine snow of the fantasy portion of her train landscape. The adults generally preferred the more detailed realistic miniature world, but the fantasy land of gingerbread and Santa’s workshop had been the heart of the display since her grandfather first created it. The kids loved it.
Using tongs, she replaced missing oversized faux peppermint swirls on the roof of the gingerbread house. As she moved to the colorful gumdrops lining the edge, she sensed him watching her. She raised her head, surprised to see him standing about six feet away at the edge of the display.
“Is that the same house we pulled from the
