Read Don't Call Me Christina Kringle for Free Online Page A

knockers.
    On Saturday morning, two days after Thanksgiving, she had earrings that resembled sparkling snowflakes swinging below each ear. These were the size of hood ornaments. Maybe hubcaps.
    Ms. Dingler’s Shoppe was packed. New Age music tinkled from the speakers hidden in the ceiling, a CD featuring the Trans Hibernian Symphonique. They played the best tinkly-tinkle music of the season and made “Jingle Bells” sound like tinkle bells. Their CD ($19.99) was available near the cash register. Right next to the peppermint-stick incense ($15.99) and mistletoe lip-balm tubes ($9.99).
    â€œThis is the Angel Tree,” Ms. Dingler said to a customer admiring the Shoppe’s gigantic all-white Christmas tree in the hushed tones other people use in churches. The Angel Tree was decorated with a flock of elegant, all-white angels fluttering off the tip of every branch. Ms. Dingler carefully took down an angel, folded open its lacy white wings, and pulled out a fancy scroll of white parchment paper tied with curled ribbon, which was, of course, also white.
    â€œHere’s how the Angel Tree works,” Ms. Dingler said, her voice taking on the mystical lilt of a Gypsy reading tea leaves. “We write down the name of our dearly departed loved one here on this paper scroll. We roll up the scroll and tuck it back under the angel’s wings in this satin angel pouch. We hang our memory angel up on the tree and our loved ones are with us once again for Christmas. Forever and always.” She always touched both hands to her heart when she did the “forever and always” part of her spiel.
    â€œHow precious,” gushed the customer.
    Ms. Dingler nodded solemnly. “It is. Very precious. The spirits of Christmases Past can permanently hover above the merriment of Christmas Present.”
    â€œHow much? For an angel?”
    â€œWell, much like snowflakes, no two angels are alike.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œThey’re custom-made. Handcrafted. Hand-sewn.”
    â€œThey’re magnificent!”
    â€œThey’re seventy-nine ninety-nine.”
    â€œI’ll take three!”
    Ms. Dingler escorted her happy customer with her fistful of Memory Angels to the doily-draped cash register and rang up another sale.
    She was making a fortune.
    Of course, she could make an even bigger fortune if she had a bigger store, more room for the suckers, er, shoppers who flocked to her doors.
    She needed the shop next door.
    She needed to talk to Mr. Bailey, the banker.
    Because she needed Giuseppe Lucci to be evicted!
    Not that Ms. Dingler would ever forget the dear, dear old man.
    Of course not.
    Next Christmas, she’d scribble his name on a slip of paper and shove it up under an angel’s wings.

Fifteen
    Mr. Bailey, the banker, who had a thing for fancy women with brittle bubbles of artificially blonde hair, came running to Ye Olde Christmas Shoppe the instant Ms. Delores Dingler called him on his cell phone.
    â€œDon’t worry,” he said reassuringly as he attempted to maneuver Ms. Dingler underneath one of the clumps of mistletoe dangling from the ceiling. “Old man Guiseppe will need a Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanza miracle to pay what he owes before his note comes due. He’ll default on his loan, we’ll issue an eviction notice and, voilà—his store will be yours.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Bailey!” said the relieved shopkeeper.
    â€œYou’re welcome,” said the banker, puckering up his lips and closing his eyes.
    Nothing happened.
    â€œIs everything all right?” Ms. Dingler finally asked.
    When the banker opened his eyes, he saw his blonde bombshell batting her eyes confusedly.
    â€œWell,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows up and down, “we are standing underneath the mistletoe.”
    Ms. Dingler looked up at the ceiling. “No, we’re not. That’s holly. The red berries are LEDs. They light