Christmas in Good Hope (A Good Hope Novel Book 1) Read Free Page B

month, and over the Christmas holiday to boot?
    Blasted holiday season.
    The bells over the front door jingled, a grating sound that scraped against his last nerve. Busy tallying the figures for the day and counting cash, Beck didn’t look up. He resisted—barely—the urge to snarl. “We’re closed.”
    “Bah humbug to you, too.”
    Beck jerked his head up at the familiar voice. Despite his foul mood, he couldn’t help but smile.
    Max Brody, a local CPA and one of Beck’s few friends in Good Hope, pulled the door shut behind him. After making a big production of flipping the sign on the door from Open to Closed, he sauntered across the room to where Beck stood beside the ancient cash register.
    Dressed in jeans, a red ski sweater, and Columbia snow boots, Max looked like he should be crossing the countryside on skis rather than quoting tax codes.
    Although Beck was several years older than Max, both were athletic men, standing just over six feet two inches. That’s where the similarities ended. Instead of a dark brown, Max’s hair was the color of dirty sand. His body was also more muscular than Beck’s leaner frame. The biggest difference, though, was the accountant’s face held a perpetual smile. Max loved life and it showed.
    It had been that way for Beck once. He’d had everything.
    “If you keep that scowl on your face, Santa is going to bring you a lump of coal.” Max’s tone might have been light, but his eyes held concern.
    Beck lifted a shoulder, let it drop. “I’m not much for holidays.”
    “I’d never have guessed.” Max laid an envelope before him with a flourish. “Merry Christmas, anyway.”
    Beck raised a brow.
    “What I anticipate will be your fourth-quarter estimates for the IRS.” Max rocked back on his heels, grinned. “Now you can’t say I never gave you anything.”
    Beck laughed as he picked up the envelope and dropped it into the open leather briefcase at his feet. “You didn’t need to bring it over.”
    “The café is on my way home.” Max glanced around the dining area and gave a low whistle. “You’ve made some changes since I was last here.”
    Beck assumed the CPA was referring to the spatter of cobalt-blue paint on the white walls and the new mural.
    “The blue reminds me of rain. And that mural is amazing.” Max strolled to the far wall and studied the scene, which had been completed only days earlier. It was of a young girl in a bright red jacket with shiny red boots. She stood in the rain, kicking up water. “Who’s the artist?”
    “Her name is Izzie Deshler. She also painted the walls. She’s relatively new in Good Hope. Do you know her?”
    Max thought for a moment, then shook his head. “How did you find her?”
    “She approached me.” Beck saw no reason to mention Ami had given Izzie his name. He’d discovered—just as Ami had said—that the woman was desperate for work.
    He’d hired her, figuring whatever she came up with was bound to be better than boring white walls. If it hadn’t turned out to his liking, he would have had her paint over it.
    “She’s good,” Max said with what appeared to be genuine admiration. “These changes give Muddy Boots a modern feel.”
    Beck hadn’t been keen on the café’s name and had seriously considered changing it. But the place had been Muddy Boots for over forty years. Everyone but him seemed to love the name. “The reaction of patrons to the mural and the paint has been overwhelmingly positive. But really, anything would be an improvement over what was here.”
    Last summer, when Beck had walked into the café, he’d been stunned. The pictures the realtor had e-mailed him prior to the purchase had been heavy on the quaint exterior: the large windows facing the main street and a new, crisp blue awning with the café’s name and the trademark bright red boots.
    The interior shots had primarily focused on the recently updated commercial kitchen. Nothing had prepared him for the 1970s decor in the