“You too.”
When he steps back, there’s this look in his eyes—soft and proud, but curious too. “So what brings you back this time? Please tell me it’s not another one of those ‘what Christmas means to me’ fluff pieces.”
Dad’s always thought I was wasting my time and Masters in Fine Arts degree on all the nonfiction pieces…like this very documentary. But I didn’t have much of a choice right now. I had to take whatever jobs my boss gave me. Besides, it paid the bills.
“Documentary,” I correct automatically. “A Christmas documentary about small-town traditions.”
Mom claps her hands together like I just announced I’m marrying Santa Claus. “Oh, Ilovethat! You’ll have to cover Santa’s arrival! And the tree lighting! And the gingerbread contest?—”
“Already on the list,” I say, setting my camera bag on the couch. This one would be different. I could feel it in my bones.Christmas at Mistletoe Baywould be my breakout work. The one that would open doors to even bigger things. I just knew it.
“Good,” she says, satisfied. “Because the people need to see what real Christmas looks like.”
Dad raises a brow. “You mean all the chaos? Sort of like our little NASCAR driver?”
My cheeks flush, and I look down at the floor. In an instant, I feel like I’m sixteen all over again.
Word really does travel fast in a small town. Unless, of course, Chief Hale personally called my Dad and reported pulling me over on my way to their house.
Agitation rumbles under the surface of my skin.
I’m a grown adult. There are some things my parents don’t need to know. What are they going to do now? Ground me? Take away the keys to the car I pay for?
The silence stretches for a beat, broken only by the faint croon of Nat King Cole from the speakers.
And maybe it’s guilt or nostalgia—or maybe it’s the lingering image of a certain police chief’s jawline under winter sunlight—but suddenly, being home feels more complicated than I expected.
“Nah, I think Chief Hale’s radar might need to be re-calibrated,” I finally say out loud.
Mom laughs and goes back to fussing with a tray of cookies, her hands dusted with flour, humming along with the carols playing.
Dad clears his throat and shifts the conversation, eyes twinkling just a little behind his glasses.
“So,” he says, voice low and conspiratorial, “did you get a good look at all the decorations on your way down the lane? Ol’ Frank thinks he’s pulling out all the stops this year. Bet me $100 that he was going to win it all.” Dad laughs. “Little does he know, Tommy Castle has been poking holes in all of Frank’s blow-up decorations and sending him fake letters from the HOA saying that he’s violating some made-up rules.”
I shake my head and giggle. “Mr. Frank always had the best displays. Remember the year that he paid one of the Robotics Club kids from the high school to help him sync his displays to music.”
Dad nods. “I remember. But last year, Tommy created a real-life snow globe. Then Frank switched Tommy’s snow maker for a heater. It rained instead of snowing.”
I grin, leaning against the counter, letting their voices wash over me. Familiar, safe…normal. For a moment, it almost feels like I never left. Everyone in our neighborhood takes their Christmas decorationsveryseriously. Even my parents though they’ve toned it down a little as the years have passed.
“The tree lighting,” Dad continues, jumping right to the next topic, “it’s set for six sharp. You know how the kids wait for it, all bundled up, mugs of cocoa in hand, eyes wide as the first lights flicker on? That old pine in the square hasn’t looked this good in years. Mrs. Callahan even volunteered her grandkids to help hang ornaments. Make sure you’ve got your camera ready.”
And there it is, his unwavering support despite his feelings on ‘fluff pieces’.
But he’s right, there’s something so…magical about it. Almost like the town itself is holding its breath, waiting for the moment the tree bursts into light.
I can still remember Main Street glowing with garlands, twinkle lights strung along every shop, families jostling for the best view, laughter bouncing off the snow.
Mom chimes in, “Don’t forget the carolers! They’re practicing by the gazebo again this year. Dockside Cafe is setting up a hot cocoa cart, too.”
Tiny details, little traditions—I didn’t realize how much I’d missed them until now. The smell of cocoa, the crunch of snow under boots, the glow of lights reflected in icy windows.
“Mistletoe Bay has a way of making even grown-ups feel like kids again. You’ll see. Tomorrow you’ll be running around that harbor with your camera, trying to catch Santa’s first wave while snowflakes stick to your eyelashes if the weather report is right.”
But it’s not Santa I find myself hoping to catch another glimpse of.
If Chief Nathan Hale thought I was trouble when I was sixteen…he hasn’t seen anything yet.
