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

up.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œInterested?”
    â€œNot in the holly,” said Mr. Bailey, as suavely as he knew how.
    â€œIt’s only $19.99 per clump.”
    â€œ$19.99 for three flashlight bulbs and a sprig of plastic leaves?”
    â€œBatteries included.”
    â€œWhat’s your profit margin?”
    â€œNinety percent, same as everything else in the store.”
    â€œDelores?”
    â€œYes, Harry?”
    â€œYou’re my kind of woman.”
    She gave him a wink and lightly touched her hard helmet of golden hair. “Call me after the holidays. We’ll talk. And here …”
    She tore an angel off The Angel Tree.
    â€œTake this over to the kid next door. Christina. Might soften the blow when you give her grandpa the boot.”
    â€œMy pleasure, Delores.”
    â€œWait. Hang on.” Ms. Dingler rooted through a basket of angel hats and halos on the counter. “You can personalize the Memory Angel to better memorialize your lost loved one. Accessorizing helps people remember who it is they’re trying to remember.”
    She found the miniature costume piece she’d been searching for.
    A fireman’s hat.
    She pinned it on top of the lacy white angel’s head.
    â€œIsn’t that sweet?” she said.
    â€œJust like you, Delores,” said Mr. Bailey, still wishing the holly had been mistletoe. “Just like you.”

Sixteen
    Christina and her grandfather sat on stools behind the counter of the empty shoe repair shop.
    They had no customers, even though a mob of holiday shoppers was bustling briskly up and down the sidewalk.
    â€œBusy out there,” Christina said.
    â€œBusy, busy,” said Grandpa sounding sad.
    â€œGrandpa—when you were going through all the Christmas stuff down in the basement this morning, did you happen to …”
    Guiseppe shook his head. “Sorry, Christina. I no find it. But one day—you will. I promise. …”
    The string of bells jingled over the front door. A customer stepped into the shop. It was the man in the tan trench coat.
    â€œGood morning!” he said, sounding very chipper and jolly. “Thank you so much for the loaner shoes. I was the hit of the party! Danced up a storm. And there wasn’t even any music; just me and my happy feet. Please express my sincerest gratitude to the prince.”
    â€œWho?” Christina had forgotten the story she had spun when the man was so angry about his mis-soled shoes.
    â€œPrince Oboe Longato?” said the man in the trench coat.
    â€œOh. Right. Medulla.”
    He handed Guiseppe the shoe box. “Are my own shoes ready?”
    Guiseppe’s eyes went wide in panic. “Er, well, uh …”
    â€œYou did fix them didn’t you?” said the man, not sounding half as jolly or chipper as he had two seconds earlier.
    â€œWell, uh,” stammered Guiseppe, “we have been so busy, busy.”
    The man scanned the empty store.
    â€œBusy?”
    â€œBusy, busy, busy.”
    â€œListen old man—”
    â€œPlease, sir,” said Christina, who didn’t like it when people called her grandfather an old man even though, technically, he was one. “Let me check in the back.”
    â€œFine.”
    Christina disappeared behind the curtains.
    â€œSo what did you do this time, pops?” She heard snarky Mr. Trench Coat say to Guiseppe. “Glue the shoelaces together? Paint the leather pink? Gouge out the eyelets?”
    â€œYou know what?” said Guiseppe. “I think maybe I took your shoes home to work on them in my special room. I’m gonna go check across the street. I’ll be right back.”
    Christina heard the scampering of feet, the jingle of bells, the slamming of the front door.
    â€œHey! Wait! Come back! I want my shoes!”
    Christina came in from the back room.
    â€œHere you go,” she said.
    â€œOh, my!” exclaimed the man.
    â€œThese are