The Lindstrom Christmas Market

It was only half past six, but I was already freezing my butt off. The small space heater at my feet had melted the snow into puddles, which had then worked their way through my worn boots and into both layers of socks. Not only that, but the wind kicked up, blasting my face with icy air. Minnesotans are supposed to be above the cold, but I was over it.

Worst of all, I couldn’t even drink the coffee in the large urn in front of me. That was for customers, Grandma Alma had said. I could warm up after the Christmas market was over. 

Lindstrom wasn’t big enough to sustain a Christmas market for the whole month of December, so instead it became a weekend festival, where local businesses could set up booths and artisans could sell their crafts. Plus there were carriage rides, raffle prizes, and a line full of kids waiting to see Santa. And right on the outer edge was our booth, Alma’s Old World Scandinavian Bakery and Coffeehouse. Yes, I know it’s a mouthful. 

We weren’t doing nearly as well as we had last year, when our booth had been at the center of the market. That spot had been taken by Jammin’ Bean this year. It was the hip new coffee shop that people from my high school went to. I’d been in there once, just to check out the competition. They played the music way too loud, and there wasn’t enough seating, so people were constantly jockeying for a table. But the coffee was good, and they sold scones the size of my head. They’d stolen all of our customers except the most loyal ones, and now they’d stolen our Christmas market spot too.

I hoped everyone who worked there got a lump of coal in their stocking. 

“How are we doing?” Grandma Alma said, approaching the booth. 

“Not too bad,” I told her. We were managing to catch some people as they entered the Christmas market, mostly tourists who were unprepared for the cold. And then every once in a while a parent would cave and buy their kid a cookie or cinnamon roll. 

“Why don’t you take a break?” Grandma Alma said. “I can take over for a while.”

She was definitely dressed for it — a huge, puffy parka, thick wool gloves, a hat plus earmuffs. Grandma Alma was always prepared.

“Okay,” I said, ducking out of the booth. 

“Just text Anthony and ask him to bring another urn of coffee,” she said. 

“Okay,” I said again. I pulled out my phone and typed a quick text. My gloves weren’t nearly as warm as Grandma Alma’s, but the fingertips were touchscreen-friendly, and that made all the difference. 

I walked around the Christmas market, partly to do some Christmas shopping (I’d barely started), but mostly to try and warm myself up. I passed a fortune teller, a ceramics booth, and a stall that was filled entirely with birdhouses. I paused in front of a snow globe stand. I had a small collection in my bedroom, mostly ones my dad brought back whenever he was home on leave. Maybe I’d buy one for him this Christmas. 

Most of the globes had your standard fare: pine trees, snowmen, Nativity scenes. But one had a small cottage, carved in a Nordic style, that looked just like Alma’s Old World Scandinavian Bakery and Coffeehouse. I reached for it, but as I did another hand came out and tried to grab it. Our gloved fingers collided, almost knocking the snow glove off the shelf.

“Oops, I’m sorry,” I said, turning to the stranger. He looked to be about my age, but I didn’t recognize him from school, so he must have been either a college student or a tourist. 

“No, it’s my fault,” he said. He had a warm, easy smile, and his white teeth stood out brilliantly against his dark skin.

“Here,” he said. He plucked the snow globe off the shelf and offered it to me.

“Oh, that’s okay, you can have it,” I said. My Midwestern manners ran deep.

“I insist,” he said, smiling again.

I returned the smile and took the snow globe. It was perfect for Dad.

“I’m Hanna,” I said, holding out my hand. 

“Greg,” he said as he shook it. “Are you a tourist?”

“Oh, no I live here,” I said.

“Cool, me too,” Greg said. “I mean, I just moved here a couple weeks ago.”

Ah, that explained it. 

“Well you made the right call, coming to the Christmas market,” I told him. “It doesn’t get much better than this in Lindstrom.”

He laughed. “I’d better make sure to check out all of it then. Think you can give me a tour?”

I hesitated. I hadn’t planned on taking a long break — even with all her layers, Grandma Alma would probably be freezing before long — but I didn’t want to look a gift handsome stranger in the mouth. Especially when he was flirting with me. 

“Okay,” I said. I paid for my snow globe and led him down the aisle of benches and booths. 

“Oh, you have to try one of these samples,” I said as we stopped in front of The Cheese Lady. 

Greg speared a cube of gouda with a toothpick and popped it into his mouth.

“Damn,” he said.

“I know.”

We kept browsing, stopping every once in a while to admire handcrafted canes or homemade jewelry. Greg bought a small bag of cookies from the booster club bake sale and held it out to me.

“Thanks,” I said, pulling out a cookie and taking a bite. It wasn’t as good as the ones I’d made for our booth. I smiled.

“So who’s Santa?” Greg asked, pointing to the man sitting on the red velvet throne at the center of the market. An elf was ushering a little girl forward; neither of them looked very happy about it.

“That’s Mr. Warner,” I said. “He actually teaches geometry and advanced algebra at Lindstrom High.”

Greg laughed. “Let me guess, he’s also the basketball coach.”

“Oh no, that stomach is real,” I said. “He’s the girls’ golf coach.”

Greg was still chuckling to himself as we ducked around the Santa line.

“You want some coffee?” Greg asked. “I sure could use some.”

I stopped. We were standing in front of the Jammin’ Bean booth.

“I’m okay, actually,” I said. “You know, I’m working at another booth that sells coffee, if you want to follow me—”

“Hey, Greg!”

I turned to see Alicia Macmillan, directing her perfect cheerleader smile at Greg from behind the Jammin’ Bean booth. Of course Alicia already knew the cute new guy.

“Hey,” Greg said, sounding a little uncertain. 

“You back already?” Alicia asked.

I looked between them, confused. 

“Just looking around,” Greg said. “Hanna’s about to show me her booth.”

Alicia turned to me and smirked. “First customer?”

Normally I would’ve told Alicia to go to hell, but I didn’t want Greg to get the wrong idea and think that I was the mean one. So instead I just scowled and took Greg’s hand, leading him away from Jammin’ Bean and their stupid scones.

“Sorry about that,” I told him when we were out of earshot. “There’s sort of a rivalry between Jammin’ Bean and our place.”

“And what place is that?” Greg asked.

“Alma’s Old World Scandinavian Bakery and Coffeehouse,” I said. “It’s kind of a mouthful.”

Greg laughed. “The best places always are.”

“See, it’s my grandma’s bakery, and it’s been around forever,” I explained. “But then Jammin’ Bean opened a year ago, and they’ve been stealing all our customers. 

“And their food isn’t even that good,” I said. I was on a roll now. “People just go there because they want to feel cool, and it’s like, who are you kidding, this is Lindstrom! 

“Sorry,” I added, realizing too late that I shouldn’t be trashing our town in front of the new guy. “I mean, Lindstrom’s nice, but it’s not exactly Minneapolis, you know?”

“Sure,” Greg said. “I bet your grandma’s place has a lot of old-school charm.”

“It does,” I said, relieved. Greg understood. He wouldn’t jump on the Jammin’ Bean bandwagon, no matter how much Alicia Macmillan smiled at him.

I stopped walking. We were almost back at Grandma Alma’s booth.

“Hey,” I said. “I had a lot of fun tonight.”

“I did too,” Greg said. And he really meant it, I could tell.

“Do you want to stick around for a while?” I asked. “I mean, I’ll have to work the booth for a bit, but it’s kind of fun, and after maybe we could—”

“I actually better get back,” Greg said apologetically. “I’m sort of helping out with a booth tonight too.”

“Really? I thought you just moved here.”

“I did. I just got a job a couple days ago,” Greg said.

“Oh wow, congrats,” I said. “Where are you working?”

Greg paused. Then he said, “Jammin’ Bean.”

My brain stuttered to a halt. He was one of them.

“But, you know,” Greg said, “maybe when we’re both done we could hang out, finish touring the Christmas market.”

“Sorry, I’m busy,” I told him flatly.

Greg gave me a look that plainly said he wasn’t buying it. I didn’t care. I was so mad, so flustered, that it was hard to think straight. Of course I finally meet a nice guy, and he ends up working for Jammin’ Bean. Of course.

“I’ll see you around, Greg,” I said, and before he could say anything else I marched over to Grandma Alma’s booth. I’d sell cookies for the rest of the night if it killed me.