The Christmas Pic

13. Ava

CHAPTER 13

AVA

I step out of my rental in front of the nicest restaurant in town, which isn’t saying much. It’s a two-story building that looks like its interior was sucked straight out of 2014 LA, but it’ll do.

I pull down my vintage Prada LBD and adjust it according to my reflection in the shiny car. This may be a work dinner, but I pride myself on being the best-dressed CEO on the planet at all times. Unfortunately for me, it’s also approximately thirty-seven degrees outside.

I throw on a blazer Max draped over the passenger seat–they know me too well. I gave them the night off from chauffeur duties to do some more brand reconnaissance, aka interrogating the hotel staff for everything about Jo, Emma, and all things The Photo Truck. Max loves when I assign them sneaky tasks; they live for going undercover and using their charm to squeeze information out of unsuspecting prey. If they didn’t also love to gossip, they could probably be a massive asset to the FBI.

I search for the valet, car still running, when the beep of a lock sounds behind me. I turn to see Jo approaching in a collared shirt tucked into flowy pants. It’s so… effortless. So mething bubbles up from my stomach. Jealousy? Nerves? I’m not entirely sure.

“You just gonna leave that there?” she says, nodding toward my car.

“The valet is missing,” I report. “I was about to go inside to–”

“They’re missing because they don't exist. This is the Midwest; we park our own cars.”

“Right. That’s embarrassing.” I gesture to her outfit. You…”

“Look nice?”

“I was going to say ‘aren’t in flannel,’ but sure.” She rolls her eyes.

I’m nailing this whole image recovery thing.

We’re seated at a table on the first floor. The vibe is moody and a little more date-y than I had planned, but I’m pushing ahead with tonight’s agenda because I don’t have a choice.

“So, tell me more about the truck,” I say. “Your internet presence was a little… lacking.” Sure, there is some information I could (and did) dig up, but I want to hear the story from the horse’s mouth.

She huffs. “That’s because the entire town already knows the story. My dad started the business in the eighties, taking pictures for Christmas cards–”

“Christmas? In this town?” I jest.

She doesn’t bite. “I was always my dad’s helper, then I took over when he couldn’t do it anymore. I’ve been running it with Emma as my assistant ever since.”

“So, unpaid intern?” I jab.

“I pay her!” she retorts. “What I can.”

“And I’d like to help with that.”

“How could you possibly–”

I can tell she’s about to rip me a new one, but then she stops and takes a deep, intentional breath.

“What’s your pitch? ”

Now we’re talking.

“I’ve done a deep dive on your business operations thanks to Gramsta AI.” I catch her wince at the mention of artificial intelligence. “The truck is an all-year business like you mentioned, but has most activity during the holidays?”

“Hence why her name is Chrissy, yes.”

“The truck… has a name?” I swear, this town can’t get any more sentimental.

“Chrissy. The Christmas Truck,” she laments. “Dad named her.”

“...Cute,” I say, unsure of the proper response to this sort of statement. I forge ahead with my pitch. “I’d like to take a look at your cash flow, but I’m certain the truck could be much more profitable at other times of the year by expanding your business in a few areas.”

“Expanding?” Jo’s skeptical. “Folks here are simple. They’re not like people where you’re from.”

“What does that mean?” I don’t mean to be defensive, but I love my sprawling city, filled with packed freeways and the vague smell of marijuana everywhere you go.

“With all due respect, people in Harmony Springs don’t need photos of themselves for Gramsta holding the latest fit tea they’re trying to sell to their followers.”

That is actually cute; fit tea was so 2016.

“I suppose you’re right about that,” I concede. “But I had bigger things in mind. Would you follow me?”

I guide us up the stairs and out to a vast patio overlooking the parking lot. Even though management had closed it off due to the freezing temps, Max worked their magic and convinced them to open it up for us. The setup is classy yet simple. Dare I say, I’m actually a little impressed?

“Sure you can handle the cold, beach babe?” Jo catches me shivering before I even notice myself .

“Oh, I’m a babe now?” I laugh. “Better than being a monster, I suppose.”

“I never called you a monster,” she says.

“Everyone else does,” I tell her. “And I’m aware you probably feel that way, based on our first conversation.”

“I don’t like to judge people until I actually know them.”

“I call big, big bullshit.”

She laughs. “Okay. You’re the glaring exception.”

“Let me show you something,” I say, leading her to the roof’s ledge. Her big gay truck stands out, but not by much. The whole town has at minimum one rainbow bumper sticker per car. “To all my designers’ chagrin, I broke out my old sketch skills and made a mockup of what the trucks could look like. Can I show you?”

“Trucks, plural?”

She has no idea what’s in store. I take out my phone, pulling up digital mockups of a sleek, high-tech truck. Tooting my own horn here: they’re good .

“Whoa,” is all she can muster.

“I’m a little rusty,” I say sheepishly. But I’m not. I’m actually insanely talented, but I’ve learned over the years that a little pretend-humility can often work in my favor.

Jo studies the designs. “There’s no Christmas anywhere.”

“Yup!” I say. “If you’re going to be a year-round business, we’ve got to treat you like one.”

She crosses her arms. Tough crowd. “You might think Christmas is ‘garbage’ but the people here don’t. Most of the permanent businesses in Harmony Springs have a holiday theme.”

“You say that, but your business is stuck in a rut. You need to accept that your vision might need to change in order to adapt. You’re holding yourself back.”

She groans. “You sound like my family. ”

I let her scroll through more mockups, hoping she’ll find something that pleases her in the deck.

“What is that? ” She pauses on one of my personal favorites: a truck with her face printed on the side.

“One of the glaring issues of your company is that you don’t have a face for the brand. No one for potential customers to connect with. Plus,” I offer, “you’re nice-looking. So people will connect with that.”

She narrows her eyes at me. Was that a weird thing to say?

“No more Christmas theme is one thing. That is not happening.” She turns to the truck in the parking lot, like she’s checking to make sure I haven’t already desecrated it.

“You don’t need to be that overt, but if you want to grow you need to step up the personality marketing.”

“I’m not going to be the face of this company,” she hands back the phone. Touchy. “It’s not my place.”

“Not your place? Jo, it is quite literally your place. Don’t you want your business to thrive? If you cleaned up your branding and stuck to a growth model, you could franchise your photo truck nationally.” I’m struggling to grasp how she can be so resistant to a trajectory of wild success.

“The truck isn’t about any of that,” she says. “It’s a family business, not meant to be corporatized. People come to feel comfortable and open and themselves, not... that.” She nods to the phone again.

Okay, flower child, point taken. I put it away.

“This is hard for me,” I say. “But, I’m going to put my ego aside–”

“The whole thing?”

“Ha ha ,” I deadpan. “It’s clear I have a lot more to learn about Chrissy.” She smiles at my use of the truck’s Christian name. “Book me for an all-day shoot tomorrow. Being a client will show me a lot about your… user experience.”

“All day?” I thought she’d be grateful for a lengthy booking in these trying times, but my Jo-dar is off. “I can’t just clear my schedule for you. I have clients.”

“They can reschedule,” I insist.

“They can’t.”

“They can.”

“ They can’t .”

“Oh, but I think they can.” I hand her a check. A big check. She scowls.

“Do you get how fucked up that is?”

“Yes,” I say. I want to think she enjoys my frankness.

“Ego aside?”

“Ego aside,” I assure her.

“And no helping me.” She does air quotes around ‘helping.’ “You’re there for photos.”

I nod.

“Eleven a.m. Sharp.”

She turns and walks back down the stairs.

It's not much, but headway is headway.