Wax by Gina Damico Page A

room into a hallway. “Say hello to Anita and Preston Chandler, the CEO and president of the Grosholtz Candle Factory!”
    She pulled open a curtain on the wall, revealing a large window. On the other side of the glass was a luxurious office featuring deep brown mahogany walls, a majestic fireplace complete with roaring fire, and red velvet armchairs with tall seat backs. A living Christmas card, Anita and Preston Chandler stood in front of the fireplace, waving, Smitty’s Donut Shop vanilla lattes still in hand.
    The senior citizens crowded around the window as if it were the monkey enclosure at a zoo, scrambling to take photos of the fancy people in their natural habitat. Poppy and Jill stayed put in the back.
    After a full minute of flash photography, the tour guide put an end to the gawking. “Thanks, Anita and Preston! Time for them to get back to work,” she said, pulling the curtain closed. “Now, I know what you’re all thinking. When is this dang tour guide going to talk about hollows? Hollow candles, for those of you not in the know, are wax shells shaped like candles, but they
do not melt!
Instead, they feature a cavity into which you can insert a smaller candle​—​a tea light or votive​—​thereby producing a muted, flickering light that’s ideal for​—”
    â€œOh my God, a candle
within
a candle?” Jill said to Poppy, hysteria rising in her voice. “This tour is becoming a Russian nesting doll of insanity!”
    Impatient, Poppy pushed to the front of the group, interrupting the guide. “Those sculptures back in the waiting room diorama, where we started the tour. Is there any way to hire someone from the factory to make something like that?”
    The tour guide gave her a curious look. “What is that, the question of the week?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œSomeone else asked that the other day. But I’m sorry to say it’s not a service the Grosholtz Candle Factory provides.”
    Poppy turned to Jill. “That had to have been Blake!”
    â€œSure,” said Jill. “Fine. I don’t care anymore.”
    â€œNow,” the tour guide went on, “if you’ll look to your left, you’ll see a picture of a bee. Bees make wax too! And so do our ears.”
    Jill buried her face in Poppy’s shoulder.
“Kill me.”
    Â 
    âˆ— ∗ ∗
    Â 
    Poppy did not grant Jill’s request. When an hour later the tour guide led them into a room with a small stage, they were both alive and well and totally miserable.
    â€œBet there’s no furnace under
that
stage,” Poppy said grumpily. “Bet
their
actors don’t get into orphan fights.”
    The tour guide hopped up onto the stage and wheeled out a table set with two glass bowls of clear liquid. “What does the future hold for the Grosholtz Candle Factory? Let’s just say we’ve got a few more tricks up our sleeve.” She beckoned for an older couple to come forward and held the bowls out toward them. “Go ahead, take a sniff.”
    They did so, then frowned. “I don’t smell anything,” said the woman.
    â€œRight. Now do me a favor and dip your fingers in. It won’t hurt, I promise!” The couple did as she asked. “Now sniff again!”
    The woman sniffed at the bowl into which she’d dipped her finger, then gasped. “It’s strawberry shortcake!”
    â€œNo, it’s not,” her surly husband countered, sniffing his own bowl. “It’s motor oil.”
    â€œIt’s both!” the tour guide crowed. “It’s your favorite scent, whatever that may be!”
    â€œOh, my,” said the woman, bringing a hand to her chest. “It’s true! I love to bake, and he’s a retired mechanic!”
    â€œThis miraculous substance is something our Waxperts have been developing for years,” the tour guide continued.