Arielle was halfway through arranging the “Winter Magic” table at the bookstore when the whispering started.
It wasn’t even subtle whispering. It was the kind you could hear from three streets away.
Two elderly women—Mrs. Greenwood and Mrs. Platt—hovered near the holiday display, pretending to admire the scented candles but very obviously talking about her.
“Poor thing,” Mrs. Greenwood murmured dramatically. “You can see it in her aura.”
Mrs. Platt nodded, eyes pitying. “That child has the holiday curse. Happens every forty years. My cousin’s neighbor’s dog-walker had it.”
Arielle froze mid-sprinkle of fake snow.
Wait. WHAT?
The holiday curse?
She leaned closer, trying to eavesdrop without looking like she was eavesdropping. Which was impossible because the plastic snow bag split o
