A man entered the store, a sheepish expression on his handsome face. Like Wink and the angry woman, he had thick blond hair and blue eyes, thickly fringed with brown lashes. “Delia,” he said quietly. “Please.”

His wife—Christina assumed she was his wife—ignored him. Looking down her nose at Christina, she smiled condescendingly. “You see, my daughter, Winifred Bittlesman Lombard, is the granddaughter of Oscar Bittlesman!”

Even Christina, who paid little attention to such things, knew that Oscar Bittlesman was wealthy. Years ago, he’d been the talk of the town when he had bought a house on the cliff worth ten million dollars, and three years ago, unlike all the other millionaires, he starting living there year-round.

He had also bought the wharf property and all the buildings on it. Christina and the other Shedders were on tenterhooks, waiting to see if the new owner would raise the rent.

“So,” Delia continued, “we are more than capable of providing Winifred with plenty of gifts.”

“I’m sure you are,” Christina began. “I apologize if I somehow insulted you. I didn’t know Wink’s last name, and she indicated that her family couldn’t—” She stopped. She didn’t want to get the girl in trouble with this proud woman. “She was sad that her parents are getting divorced,” she concluded truthfully.

Wink’s mother rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh, dear. All you people love to gossip about us!”

“What?” Delia Bittlesman Lombard’s attitude was getting up Christina’s nose. “I really don’t think—”

“You don’t need to think. Just don’t give anything to my daughter again.” Tossing her head, elbowing the man in her hurry, she strode from the store, her fur coat sailing out behind her like the wings of a flying squirrel.

“I apologize for my sister,” the man said.

Christina blinked as her mind processed this information. So this tall, handsome, and seemingly rational man was not the crazy woman’s husband.

“She’s not usually like that,” the man continued. “The divorce is upsetting for her and she’s unsettled, spending Christmas on an island where she knows no one. Stress brings out the worst in her.”

Christina kept silent. She didn’t want to say, Oh, that’s all right. She was trembling from the encounter. She neatly folded up the tousled sweatshirt and smoothed the cover of the sticker book.

“Please forgive us,” the man said. Coming toward her, he held out his hand. “I’m Andy Bittlesman, by the way.” With a charming smile, he added wryly, “Oscar Bittlesman’s son, and I can’t do a thing about that.”

He’d made her smile. She took his hand. “Christina Antonioni.”

“Nice name.” He continued to hold her hand in his larger, warmer one.

Was he flirting with her? For all she knew, he was married. Or more likely enjoying a moment of noblesse oblige. Throw the peasant a bone and keep her happy.