“Miri, Noelle said some untrue, unkind things about you, and she had no right to. I won’t make excuses for her, but we were having the worst week of all our lives. You may not be able to forgive her, but maybe you can understand we’re all low on grace at this point?” Hannah asked Miriam gently.

Miriam just looked defiant.

“We can’t build a new vision for Carrigan’s together if she bites my head off every time we’re in the same room,” Miriam said, an edge to her voice.

“Noelle, do you have anything to say for yourself?” Hannah asked.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t trust her, and I’m not thrilled about being on the Save Christmasland group project with her.”

Hannah groaned. “You’re not helping, Noelle.”

Noelle shrugged. Damn. She’d meant to be conciliatory when she came in the room, and then she’d gotten her hackles up, again, like she always did when she had to look at Miriam’s face. Noelle should just let her pretend she was helping. There was no way in hell this woman was going to make it all the way through the opening of the Christmas season. She would quit within the week.

They did need a plan for the bank, though, and they were wasting time catering to Miriam’s whim to play homecoming.

“Tell me one thing that would make me think you’re ready to come up with the kind of plan we need, and then execute it,” Noelle said to Miriam. “No, not even that. Tell me one time you’ve shown up when someone needed you. Give me one good example.” She sat back, feeling sure Miriam couldn’t.

“The Old Ladies,” Miriam said smugly, and Hannah laughed in delight. Noelle scowled. She was missing something.

“Miriam has this national network of little old ladies—and men, I assume—who own antique shops,” Hannah explained. “She buys from them, but she’s also sort of their surrogate daughter, checking in on them, making sure they’re doing okay and not isolating, that sort of thing. She’s like the social coordinator for a vast underground web of junk collectors.”

“Not just their social coordinator,” Miriam said. “I’m the person who schedules their doctors, sets up their meal trains when they get hurt, sometimes I’m their power of attorney.” She fluttered her eyelashes, her voice syrupy. “I’m happy to give you all their numbers, if you want to call for references.”

Noelle stared. That was the first weighty thing anyone had told her about Miriam Blum. “Why would you do that?” she asked.

Miriam waved dismissively. “You know how it is; your dad is an abusive monster and your mom is an emotionally unavailable ice cube, you find parents wherever you can!” she said, her voice a little too bright.