Propping my hip against the counter, I snag a snowman letter opener from my pen-and-pencil cup and rip open the letter.

Dear Town Council Members:

As you all know, Jingle Bells has been steadily losing tourist trade and employment opportunities since the distribution center closed a year ago. A new opportunity. . .blah, blah, blah. . .Online company Summer Valley Outdoors is interested in acquiring the empty Benning Building and opening their first brick-and-mortar store in our fair town.

Yep. I called that one, didn’t I? An early Christmas present for Jingle Bells. “Investor surveys”… blah, blah, blah ... His letters are just like his speeches—a lot of words to say a little.

We would do well to set aside sentimentality for the sake of the people we represent and consider their petition to change the name of Jingle Bells to Summer Valley.

Change the name of Jingle Bells? I sink to the stool at my workbench and stare blindly at the words.

Please let this be an elaborate practical joke.

Another examination of the envelope reveals the mayor’s official seal beside his name. No one would dare to forge that.

“Kristianna.”

I spin the stool around, the letter clutched against my paint smock.

My best friend, Ami Manchester, stands in the doorway of my workshop, holding two steaming coffees. “Girl, you look terrible.”

“Thanks,” I mutter.

She hurries over to me. “Bad news?”

“The mail came while you were gone.” I trade her the letter for one of the coffees, grateful to inhale the calming aroma.

She reads the paper, then looks up at me, her hazel eyes puzzled but reflecting none of the panic currently twisting through me. “Change the name of the town? Has Uncle Gus lost his mind? Why would he even consider such a thing?”

Mayor Augustus Harding isn’t blood kin to either of us, but like most Jingle Bells natives, he might as well be. I sigh. Just like with real relatives, I know his weak spot. “Easy enough. He owns that empty building. He probably had a hard time typing this letter for the dollar signs in his eyes.” Can’t fight city hall. The old phrase flits through my mind and hits me like a punch.

“Well, he’ll have to sell the building without changing the town name. People won’t go along with a crazy plan like this.” Ami calmly spoons sugar into her coffee, then holds another spoonful over my cup until I nod for her to dump it in.

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” I pick up my phone, run my finger down the ragged list Scotch-taped to the wall, and punch in the number for city hall.

While it rings, Ami retrieves the half-and-half from my tiny fridge and pours creamer in our drinks, then stirs them. I’m amazed by how unrattled she is. I’m a Jingle Bells resident by way of inheritance and love. But she was born here. Where’s her outrage?