Chloe (Angel Institute #4)

Chapter 4

Four

CHLOE

I stand before the grand entrance of Hanks’ Department Store, my hand hovering over the brass doorknob. The morning air nips at my cheeks, and snowflakes dance around me, dusting my dark hair with tiny crystals that sparkle in the early sunlight. Despite the cold, there’s a warmth to this town that I can’t quite shake off, no matter how hard I try.

The store’s large frosted windows showcase elaborate holiday displays that would put any big city store to shame. Vintage toys, twinkling lights, and festive garlands create miniature winter wonderlands that have a small crowd of children pressed against the glass, their eyes wide with wonder.

Taking a deep breath, I push open the heavy wooden door. The cheerful jingle of bells announces my arrival, and I’m immediately enveloped in a cocoon of warmth and the rich scent of cloves and oranges. The interior of the store is even more of a throwback than the outside, with high ceilings adorned with ornate moldings and brass chandeliers casting a warm glow over the merchandise.

Wooden display tables are laden with carefully arranged holiday gifts, everything from plush toys to fine scarves, all wrapped in bright, festive paper. A grand staircase, its banister wrapped in evergreen garlands and twinkling lights, leads to a second floor that promises even more wares.

“Well, look who’s back,” a deep voice calls out, tinged with amusement. I turn to see Oliver Hanks approaching, a box of ornaments in his arms. His sandy hair is charmingly disheveled, and his hazel eyes sparkle with good humor. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. Couldn’t stay away from our old-fashioned charm, Ms. Anderson?”

I feel a smile tugging at my lips despite myself. “Just thought I’d see if you’ve come to your senses about modernizing, Mr. Hanks.”

Oliver chuckles, setting down the box on a nearby counter. “Still beating that drum, huh? Well, I hate to disappoint you, but we’re still as delightfully outdated as ever.”

As he speaks, I can’t help but notice the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, or how his rolled-up sleeves reveal muscular forearms dusted with a light tan. There’s something undeniably attractive about a man who works with his hands, a thought I quickly push aside.

“Well, since I’m here,” I say, trying to regain my professional composure, “at your invitation, perhaps you could show me around? I’d like to see how this... traditional approach of yours works in practice.”

Oliver’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but his smile widens. “I’d be happy to give you the grand tour, Ms. Anderson. Though I warn you, it might just change your mind about the value of a personal touch.”

As we move through the store, I’m struck by how different it feels from the slick, efficient retail spaces I’m used to. Here, every item seems to have a story, every display a personal touch. Oliver introduces me to his employee, Sam, who is busy arranging an assortment of garish Christmas socks and continues to greet each customer by name, asking after their families or commenting on recent town events.

“Mrs. Johnson.” he calls out to an older woman examining a display of hand-knit scarves. “How’s that granddaughter of yours doing at college?”

Mrs. Johnson’s face lights up. “Oh, Oliver, she’s doing wonderfully. Just made the Dean’s list. I was actually looking for something special to send her as a congratulations gift.”

Oliver nods thoughtfully. “I think I have just the thing.” He leads her to a display of delicate, hand-painted ornaments. “These just came in from a local artist. Each one’s unique, just like your Milly.”

I watch in fascination as Mrs. Johnson coos over the ornaments, finally selecting one that, according to Oliver, “has Milly’s spirit.” The entire interaction takes nearly fifteen minutes—wildly inefficient by my standards, but I can’t deny the genuine joy on Mrs. Johnson’s face as she leaves the store, her purchase carefully wrapped in tissue paper and nestled in a festive bag.

“You see,” Oliver says, turning to me with a knowing smile, “that’s something you can’t replicate with an app or an online store. That personal connection, the ability to really understand what each customer needs and wants—that’s the heart of Hanks’ Department Store.”

I nod slowly, beginning to understand. “But surely there must be ways to streamline your operations without losing that personal touch? I mean, just keeping track of inventory alone must be a nightmare.”

Oliver’s smile falters slightly, and for the first time, I notice the shadows under his eyes, the slight slump in his shoulders. “Well, I won’t pretend it’s not challenging,” he admits. “But we manage. The important thing is keeping the spirit of the store alive.”

Before I can press further, the bell over the door jingles merrily, and a familiar voice calls out, “Hello. I brought some homemade gingerbread.”

I turn to see Rebecca breezing into the store with a festive tin in her hands. Her golden hair is frosted with snowflakes, and her cheeks are pink from the cold. She stops short when she sees me, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Oh. Chloe, I didn’t expect to see you here,” she says, her smile bright and genuine? “Are you doing some Christmas shopping?”

“Just getting to know the local businesses,” I reply, studying her carefully. There’s something about Rebecca that doesn’t quite add up, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.

“Me too.” Rebecca smiles. Whatever I thought I noticed yesterday seems to be gone. Perhaps she does like me. “Thought I’d deliver some Christmas goodies to the local shops.”

Oliver looks at us, confusion clear on his face. “You two know each other?”

“We’re neighbors,” I explain, watching as Rebecca’s smile falters for just a moment. “Rebecca introduced herself when I arrived in town.”

“Oh,” Oliver says, still looking puzzled. “That’s... nice. Though I must admit, I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. Are you new in town?”

Rebecca laughs, a tinkling sound that seems almost too perfect. “Oh, you know how it is in small towns. Easy to overlook people. I’ve been here... well, it feels like forever, really.”

I narrow my eyes, my suspicions growing. How could Oliver, who seems to know every person in Benton Falls by name, not recognize Rebecca?

Before I can voice my doubts, Rebecca thrusts the tin of gingerbread into Oliver’s hands. “Anyway, I should be going. Lots of holiday cheer to spread. Enjoy the gingerbread. And Chloe... it was nice to see you again.”

With that, she’s gone in a swirl of golden hair and the lingering scent of gingerbread. Oliver and I stand in silence for a moment, both seemingly unsure of what had just happened.

“Well,” Oliver finally says, opening the tin, “at least the gingerbread smells amazing. Would you like a piece, Chloe?”

The use of my first name startles me, but I find I don’t mind it coming from him. “Sure, why not?” I say, reaching for a perfectly shaped gingerbread man.

As I bite into the cookie, the rich flavors of molasses, cinnamon, and clove explode on my tongue. It’s possibly the best gingerbread I’ve ever tasted, and for a moment, I’m transported back to childhood Christmases, to a time before success and money became my sole focus.

“This is... really good,” I admit, surprised by how much I’m enjoying it.

Oliver nods, a wistful expression on his face. “It reminds me of the gingerbread my mom used to make. She’d bake dozens of cookies every Christmas, and we’d spend hours decorating them as a family.”

There’s a warmth in his voice, a depth of emotion that catches me off guard. “That sounds... nice,” I say, unsure how to respond to such an open display of sentiment.

Oliver seems to shake himself out of his reverie. “It was. But hey, that’s what Christmas is all about, right? Creating those kinds of memories, spreading joy to others.”

I nod noncommittally, but inside, I’m conflicted. The warmth and genuine happiness I see in Oliver’s eyes as he talks about family and traditions stir something in me, a longing I thought I’d buried long ago.

As we continue our tour of the store, I pay more attention to the customers, to the way they interact with Oliver and his staff. There’s a sense of community here, of belonging, that I’ve never experienced in my world of boardrooms and business deals.

We’re examining a display of handcrafted ornaments when I notice Oliver’s shoulders slump slightly. “These are beautiful,” I say, picking up a delicate glass snowflake. “But they must be expensive to stock.”

Oliver nods, a shadow passing over his face. “They are. And to be honest, they’re not selling as well as I’d hoped. With the new big box store that opened on the outskirts of town, we’ve been struggling to compete on price.”

I feel a pang of sympathy, surprising myself. “That must be difficult,” I say softly.

Oliver shrugs, trying to put on a brave face. “We’ll manage. We always do. The store’s been through tough times before.”

But I can see the worry in his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands as he carefully rearranges the ornaments. For the first time, I understand the actual cost of maintaining this old-fashioned approach to business.

“Oliver,” I say hesitantly, “have you considered... I mean, there are ways to modernize your operations that could help cut costs without losing the personal touch. My app, for instance—”

Oliver holds up a hand, his expression a mix of gratitude and resignation. “I appreciate the thought, Chloe, I really do. But Hanks’ Department Store isn’t just a business. It’s a piece of Benton Falls history, a legacy my grandfather started. I can’t just change everything to chase profits.”

I want to argue, to explain how he could preserve the store’s character while still turning a profit, but the look in Oliver’s eyes stops me. There’s a determination there, a belief in something greater than just the bottom line, that I find both admirable and frustrating.

As we make our way back to the front of the store, I’m struck by the contrast between Oliver’s financial worries and the joy he clearly finds in his work. He stops to help a young boy pick out a gift for his mother, spending several minutes crouched down at the child’s level, listening intently to his thoughts on what his mom might like.

The scene stirs something in me, a memory of my own mother, of the few precious Christmases we had together before she passed away. I remember the way her eyes would light up at the simplest gifts, how she always said it was the thought that counted.

For the first time in years, I question my beliefs about money and happiness. I’ve always equated financial success with security, with worth. But watching Oliver, seeing the genuine connections he forms with his customers and the pride he takes in his work, I wonder if I’ve been missing something all along.

As the day winds down and the last customer leaves the store, Oliver turns to me with a tired but genuine smile. “Well, Ms. Anderson, what’s the verdict? Have we managed to sway you to the charms of old-fashioned retail?”

I laugh softly, surprised by how much I’ve enjoyed the day. “I’ll admit, there’s something special about this place. But I still think there are ways you could improve your operations without losing that charm.”

Oliver nods, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe you’re right. I suppose I’ve been so focused on preserving the past that I have given little thought to the future.”

We stand in silence for a moment, the soft glow of Christmas lights reflecting off the polished wood counters. I’m acutely aware of Oliver’s presence beside me, of the warmth radiating from him in the quiet store.

“Thank you for today,” I say finally, surprised by the sincerity in my voice. “It’s given me a lot to think about.”

Oliver’s smile widens, reaching his eyes and making them crinkle at the corners. “Well, that works both ways, Chloe. You’ve certainly given me some food for thought as well.”

As I prepare to leave, bundling up against the cold night air, Oliver hesitates, then says, “Benton Falls really shines at Christmas. A lot of fun things to do. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

I pause, my hand on the door. My first instinct is to decline, to retreat to the safety of my grandmother’s house and my familiar world of spreadsheets and profit margins. But something stops me—the memory of Oliver’s kindness, the warmth of the store, the unexpected joy I found in simply being part of something larger than myself.

“Uh... maybe you will,” I say finally, offering Oliver a small smile.

Stepping out into the chilly night air, snowflakes swirling around me, I look back at the store. Through the frosted windows, I can see Oliver moving about, straightening displays and tidying up. The sight stirs something in me, a warmth that has nothing to do with the cozy interior of the store.

Walking home through the quiet, snow-covered streets of Benton Falls, I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted inside me. The twinkling lights of the houses I pass, the distant sound of carols drifting from an open window, even the crunch of snow beneath my feet—it all seems somehow more vibrant, more alive.

And as I reach my grandmother’s house, the Christmas lights twinkling merrily in welcome, I realize that maybe, just maybe, there’s more to life than balance sheets and profit margins.

Maybe, somewhere between the shelves of Hanks’ Department Store and the snowy streets of Benton Falls, I’ve begun to rediscover a part of myself I thought was long lost. A part that remembers the joy of giving, the warmth of community, and the magic of Christmas.

As I unlock the door and step into the warmth of the house, I hum a Christmas carol under my breath. And for once, I don’t try to stop myself.