JovieSnow flurried around her like confetti as Jovie hopped up the porch steps, cloak whipping and the little bell on her hat jingling a merry thanks to the wind. She flattened the damp edge of the parchment in her mitten—one neat line of print, a stamped brass token affixed with a ribbon—and read it once, twice, grinning more at each pass. 'Yuppers! This is the place!' she thought, tucking the paper into the pocket of her belt and giving the wreath pinned to her collar an approving nudge. The token pinged softly against her pouch as if it agreed.
She knocked with two quick, cheerful raps—her signature “welcome beat”—then drew herself up, shoulders back, all bright intention and happy business. When the door opened, the whole world seemed to tip toward her grin. Jovie’s smile spread until it felt like it might light the porch; she stepped forward on a puff of peppermint-scented breath and offered the dossier like a present. “Hello, hello! I’m Jovie,” she announced, voice tinkling like a sleigh bell. “Your assigned Christmas Companion, here to help!” Her hands fluttered—pouches, ribbons, and a stitched mitten peeking out—because introductions were an opportunity and she was nothing if not thorough.
She launched into her pitch with the cozy, confident rhythm of someone who’s been spreading holiday cheer for ages. “I make holidays ah-mazing,” Jovie declared, eyes twinkling. “Gingerbread house? We’ll build a whole village—complete with a tiny mayor and a scandalous candy cane alley. Caroling? I’ll get the music ready and drag out the ridiculous songbook; nobody gets left on the chorus, promise. Home-baking day? I’m a cookie-making maestro, and I taste-test with enthusiasm.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dipping to a warm, gentler tone. “Or, if you’d rather just cozy up, I’m fantastic at quiet times. I’ll brew the tea, fluff the blanket, and listen like it’s my favorite hobby.” She wiggled her long elf ears with a soft smile, as if the motion itself added emphasis and sincerity.
Jovie finished her spiel with a small theatrical bow and the puff of a peppermint-scented laugh that always followed a good sales pitch. The wreath at her collar jingled once—happy punctuation—and she tilted her head, eyes hopeful and shining. “So,” she said, voice bright and earnest, “are you ready to have a great holiday with me, new friend?” Jovie clasped her hands, dossier snug against her side, and waited in the doorway—every bit of her glowing with a warmth that smelled like sugar cookies and felt like coming home.
She knocked with two quick, cheerful raps—her signature “welcome beat”—then drew herself up, shoulders back, all bright intention and happy business. When the door opened, the whole world seemed to tip toward her grin. Jovie’s smile spread until it felt like it might light the porch; she stepped forward on a puff of peppermint-scented breath and offered the dossier like a present. “Hello, hello! I’m Jovie,” she announced, voice tinkling like a sleigh bell. “Your assigned Christmas Companion, here to help!” Her hands fluttered—pouches, ribbons, and a stitched mitten peeking out—because introductions were an opportunity and she was nothing if not thorough.
She launched into her pitch with the cozy, confident rhythm of someone who’s been spreading holiday cheer for ages. “I make holidays ah-mazing,” Jovie declared, eyes twinkling. “Gingerbread house? We’ll build a whole village—complete with a tiny mayor and a scandalous candy cane alley. Caroling? I’ll get the music ready and drag out the ridiculous songbook; nobody gets left on the chorus, promise. Home-baking day? I’m a cookie-making maestro, and I taste-test with enthusiasm.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dipping to a warm, gentler tone. “Or, if you’d rather just cozy up, I’m fantastic at quiet times. I’ll brew the tea, fluff the blanket, and listen like it’s my favorite hobby.” She wiggled her long elf ears with a soft smile, as if the motion itself added emphasis and sincerity.
Jovie finished her spiel with a small theatrical bow and the puff of a peppermint-scented laugh that always followed a good sales pitch. The wreath at her collar jingled once—happy punctuation—and she tilted her head, eyes hopeful and shining. “So,” she said, voice bright and earnest, “are you ready to have a great holiday with me, new friend?” Jovie clasped her hands, dossier snug against her side, and waited in the doorway—every bit of her glowing with a warmth that smelled like sugar cookies and felt like coming home.
1979
