“Actually, I am,” Ivy said. “I have my own marketing and public relations firm. Like you, I’m a small, one-woman shop. And I really believe I can help you.”
“Thanks,” Nancy said, “but I really don’t think—”
They heard a scratching at the front window. Ivy looked over to see Punkin, standing on his back legs, scratching at the display window.
“Is that your dog?” Nancy Bergstrom asked.
“Yes. Sorry. He’s gotten sort of … clingy since I moved here. Maybe I’d better put him in the car.”
“He’s adorable,” Nancy said. “It’s too cold for him to be outside. Let’s bring him in. He can hang out in the back room with my dog. Sugar is old and mostly blind, so she won’t mind.”
“There,” Nancy said, after the two dogs were companionably curled beneath a table in the back room. “Now, tell me again what it is you’re trying to sell that I can’t afford?”
Ivy set her laptop on the table and opened the file with the ad campaign she’d designed for Langley Sweets, featuring retro elves, beaming Santas, and wide-eyed children.
“Now, this would just be your seasonal holiday campaign,” Ivy explained. “We’d do other graphics for the rest of the year, but the feel would be the same—retro, fun, sweet. And the slogan would be used year-round.”
Nancy shook her head and bit her lip. “I love it. Truly. But I can’t afford anything like this. And anyway, it’s really too late—”
“You don’t understand. There’s no charge. It’s free.”
Nancy stared. “An advertising campaign like this probably costs thousands of dollars. You don’t even know me. Why would you do this for a stranger?”
Ivy repeated the words Ezra Wheeler had used when she tried to pay him for his handyman services. “I’m not a stranger. I’m actually your neighbor.”
“You live here?”
“I just moved into the Four Roses farmhouse,” Ivy said. “A new friend—do you know Lawrence Jones?—gave me some of your candy, and it was so different, so delicious, I looked up your website.”
“I know Mr. Jones. Such a lovely man. And you’re the new owner of Santa Bob’s house? I didn’t know it had sold. But welcome to Tarburton.”
“About the website?” Ivy prompted.
“Oh that.” Nancy grimaced. “I designed it myself. Pretty sad, huh?”
“Well, yeah, to tell you the truth, it’s abysmal,” Ivy said. “It doesn’t reflect your product at all. Candy should be fun, right? Whimsical. And your candy is unique. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
“My great-grandfather’s recipe,” Nancy said modestly. “He made his own extracts and flavorings. I still use his original recipes.”
“See,” Ivy said excitedly. “That’s what makes your product so unique. You should have that in your advertising.”
“I guess,” Nancy said. “But if I’m closing anyway…”
“Oh. Right. Exactly why are you closing? Did your rent go up?”
“No. I own the building outright. It’s just … I’m single now; my son is grown and gone. It all feels so overwhelming.”
“I get it,” Ivy agreed. “I’m newly single myself.”
She dug into her briefcase and brought out the vintage greeting cards and Santa photos and letters.
“Look,” she said, fanning them out across the tabletop. “Aren’t these great?”
“That’s Santa Bob!” Nancy Bergstrom exclaimed, tapping one of the old photos. “And oh my gosh, that’s Denise Gordon. We were in grade school together. I’d recognize that gap-toothed smile anywhere.” She leafed through more photos. “I’d swear that’s Kenny Zeigler. And this is his sister, MaryAnne.” She looked up at Ivy. “Where did you find these?”
“In a trunk at the house,” Ivy said. “Santa Bob’s son-in-law left them behind. He said he’s not the sentimental type.”
“Aww,” Nancy said. “What are you going to do with them?”
“I thought maybe you’d like to use them in here in the store,” Ivy said. “After the holidays, I’ll see if the local historical society would like them. And all these Santa letters and old greeting cards—would you like to borrow them?”
Nancy was smiling down at the retro images. “I could make a darling window display. Folks could see if they recognize themselves, or family members. Maybe it would drum up more business.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Ivy agreed. “So, what do you say? Are you ready for a rebranding? And a new website? Think of it as a makeover for Langley Sweets?”
Nancy Bergstrom hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure. Why not? What have I got to lose? When do we start?”
“Right now,” Ivy said. “I can get the website up today. I really think online orders—especially after Christmas is over—could revive your business.” She filled the candymaker in on her plans, got the password for her social media accounts, and even, reluctantly, agreed to an initial payment— of PepperyMint Patties—for her services.
She leaned under the table and roused her sleeping dog. “Come on, Punkin. We’ve got one more stop to make.”
Chapter 9
Lawrence Jones gazed down at the photo of his granddaughter and smiled wistfully. “This is how I remember Carlette. Always so serious. And always asking questions. Ev was like that too.” He tapped the photo with his fingertip. “I remember this dress. My wife made it. She was so happy to have a little girl to sew dresses for.”
“It’s beautiful,” Ivy said. “She was an adorable little girl.”
“She looked a lot like my wife. Everyone said so.”
Ivy looked around the tidy little living room. Her host had propped some Christmas cards on the mantel, beside a wooden manger scene, and there were two small wrapped packages under a tabletop Christmas tree that hadn’t been there during her previous visit.
“A real Christmas tree?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” her host said, nodding vigorously. “No fake trees for me. Nosirreebob! Nothing else smells as good as a fresh-cut Christmas tree. One of my neighbors always brings mine over and puts it up for me. Have you gotten your tree yet?”
“Don’t think I’ll bother with a tree this year,” Ivy said. “I’m still in the middle of getting settled in at the farmhouse, and after all, it’s just me.”
“So what?” he said gently. “I’m the only one who’ll see my tree, but it still makes me happy. I sit here and look at my tree all lit up, every night, and I remember the meaning of the tree and the Christmas season. My family might be mostly gone, but I still have my memories of them.”
“It looks like you’ve already had a visit from Santa,” Ivy observed, trying to change the subject.
“My great-nephew in Florida,” Mr. Jones said. “His wife is very thoughtful. And she’s quite the knitter.” To demonstrate, he wiggled his toes in their bright orange knit booties with blue and orange tassels. “These are from last year. I have two more pairs in my closet, and some scarves and an afghan and some potholders and a toilet paper cover. And a hot-water bottle cover too.”