by Paula Messina

This story has never before been published. Enjoy this Christmas story with a bit of a crime twist.

“We can’t afford that.”

Margaret had spent a good chunk of time helping a customer select a pattern and yarn. In a second, that customer’s husband killed what would have been Margaret’s best sale in months. The wife was in love with a rich emerald cashmere, the most expensive yarn Purl Nation carried. Her husband had stood there the whole time fidgeting, his impatience palpable.

His wife finally settled on a much less expensive wool. Margaret’s time hadn’t paid off as well as she’d hoped, but a sale was a sale. Life had taught Margaret to be grateful for what she had, not mourn for what was out of reach.

As Margaret handed the package to the wife, Margaret said, “Merry Christmas.”

The wife smiled. “Same to you and—.”

“That’s offensive,” the husband said.

Margaret froze. The air had been electric with the excitement of Christmas Eve as customers picked out last minute presents. The husband’s angry words had destroyed the festive mood. Every person in the store stopped and stared at him.

Margaret always wished her customers a Merry Christmas. She’d been doing it since her first Christmas as owner of Purl Nation. Over the years, she’d built up a clientele that was friendly and faithful. She liked to think of them as old friends. After all, most of them had known Margaret for years. This was the first time anyone had objected to two words, two harmless, well-intentioned words that meant so much. Merry Christmas.

This man ignored his wife when she shushed him.

“Disgusting—”

“David, She’s just wishing us well. No harm—”

“Then why didn’t she say that?”

The wife pulled on his arm. “Let it go. It’s Christmas Eve, for Pete’s sake. Give it a rest.”

He complained all the way to the door. The wife looked back at Margaret and shrugged an apology.

“Talk about no Christmas spirit,” Margaret’s next customer said. “He acted like a three-year-old who’d missed his nap.”

Margaret rang up her order. “Thank you for shopping here. Have a happy holiday.”

“You mean a Merry Christmas. You can wish me a Merry Christmas any time, even in July. It doesn’t offend me. I hope you have a wonderful Christmas.”

That was Margaret’s wish for herself. She wanted this Christmas to be the best ever. She dug down deep to give the customer a big smile and thank you.

The next customer, Margaret’s oldest friend, asked, “How’s Brad doing?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“Tell him I’m praying for him, and Merry Christmas.” She gave Margaret a hug. “Everything will work out. You’ll see.”

“I hope you’re right.”

After her friend left, the shop felt empty, spooky. Margaret shook off the dread, blaming it on jitters about the store and worry about Brad. Maybe everything would work out. With twenty minutes until closing, there was still time for someone to make a big purchase and put Purl Nation in the black.

It had been difficult wishing everyone Merry Christmas. Margaret had managed to keep her worries at bay and give each customer a smile, all the while knowing that this would probably be the last Christmas Eve for Purl Nation. It was one of a dying breed. Knitting stores were nearly extinct.

Margaret would miss the shop. She enjoyed helping her customers pick out yarn. She believed she was really selling love. It was woven into every stitch her customers knit for the important men and women in their lives. It lived in the warmth of the garment they snuggled up to.

She’d miss teaching too. She was a natural and prided herself on her ability to teach a brilliant MIT professor or a girl with butterfingers. She’d done it for so long that she now had pupils whose mothers she’d taught.

But it wasn’t losing her shop that worried Margaret. The medical bills had piled up, and the savings had rapidly dwindled. Her husband’s prognosis was grim. It would take a miracle for Brad to last through the winter.

She glanced outside. The sidewalk was empty. No foot traffic. No sales. It was bleak out there. Only a street lamp’s blurred, yellow glow dented the dark.

It started to snow, big, wet snowflakes. The kind Margaret loved to catch on her tongue and savor as they melted. She took it as a sign. Brad had prayed for a white Christmas. Now he’d get his wish. Things didn’t seem so grim after all.

The door opened. A customer. Another sign.

“Oh, my God.”

A man pointed a gun at her.

She started to panic, then she heard what Brad said every morning, “It’s only money. Come home to me.”

High on drugs, his hands shaking, the man tossed a bag on the counter. “Fill it.”

She opened the cash drawer and pushed money into the bag. Her fears were realized. Any chance the shop would stay open was about to walk out the door.

He thrust the gun at her. “Hurry up.”

Tears welled in her eyes. She looked past him. The snow was coming down fast, piling up, sticking to the windows. At least her last Christmas with Brad, the man she’d loved for more than thirty years, would be white.

Margaret handed him the bag and took a deep breath. “Merry Christmas.”

He ripped the bag out of her hand. “Lady, you’re a piece of work.”

The door opened.

The man spun around.

“Drop it. Now.”

Margaret blinked. There was an angel, an angel armed with a gun, standing in the doorway. Not an angel. The angry husband, David, covered in snow.

“Police.”

The man’s gun thudded to the floor. The bag fell, spilling bills everywhere.

“Hands in the air.”

David kicked the gun across the floor.

“Kneel.”

The man hesitated.

“Do it.”

He dropped to his knees, and David put handcuffs on him.

“Ma’am, are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

“I…I’m fine.”

With his free hand, David took out his phone and called for backup.

The blue and green and red yarns turned into a dizzying kaleidoscope. Margaret’s knees buckled. She grabbed the counter for support. David’s words telling the man he was under arrest floated past her in a blur. It barely registered when the backup arrived and took the man away.

When her head cleared, she realized David was picking up the money. Margaret released her grip on the counter.

“What made you come back?”

David shoved bills into the bag. He stood and faced Margaret.

“My wife said I could sleep on the couch until Easter if I didn’t apologize.”

“That was some apology. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t owe me any thanks. Just doing my job.”

“No.” Margaret couldn’t stop the tears rolling down her face. “You have no idea.”

“My friends say I married up. Proved them right tonight. I was a complete jerk. I’ll help you close up, then take you home.”

“You don’t have to do that. You’ve already done enough.”

“I don’t have to. I want to. You taught me an important lesson.”

“And what’s that?”

“When someone wishes you well, don’t be a jerk.”

“I’m not sorry you were a jerk. I don’t want to think what would have happened if you hadn’t been.”

“Well, maybe not a complete jerk.” He flashed a sheepish grin. “Am I too late to buy that green yarn my wife wanted?”

“No, not at all.”

“Great. And before I forget, Merry Christmas.”

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Paula Messina Massachusetts-based writer and public speaker.