I watch him go, camera light still glowing weakly in my hand.
And maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the cold, or the fact that the man looks annoyingly good in uniform—but my heart’s beating just a little too fast.
When Cade Murphy’s lobster boat finally appears, decked out in twinkling lights, Santa and Mrs. Claus waving from the bow, the entire crowd erupts. And I’m immediately back in action, thoughts of Nathan Hale far from my mind, for a moment.
Kids shriek and wave their mittened hands, bells jingle, and “Here Comes Santa Claus” hums through the speakers with that slightly-warped, small-town charm. The whole scene glows—color, sound, joy—and through my camera lens, it’s magic.
Only it’s notreallySanta.
It’s Mayor Emerson in a red velvet suit, with a fake beard that slips a little every time he laughs. Beside him, Jemma Price from Winterberry Farm makes the perfect Mrs. Claus—cheeks rosy, eyes bright and a wig that looks more Betty White than Santa’s wife. But it works. Perfectly actually.
The two of them look adorable together. Like they were meant to be.
I remember my mom and dad talking about them once. How Charlie and Jemma dated back in their high school days. I’m not sure what happened or why they broke up then, but judging by the look on both of their faces, I think it’s safe to say there’s some unresolved feelings in the air.
Maybe, under the right lights, and with enough tinsel, anything can feel possible again.
I can’t help smiling behind the camera.Thisis exactly what I came home for—the laughter, the nostalgia, the whole town showing up for something so wonderfully, ridiculously festive.
The cheers rise as the boat eases against the dock, lights shimmering across the water like spilled glitter. I pan slowly, catching every moment—the little boy perched on his dad’s shoulders, the high school band playing slightly off-key, Mayor Emerson booming a jolly “Ho, ho, ho!” that makes even the teenagers grin.
As the boat docks I spot Nathan again.
He stands a few yards back from the dock, radio in hand, scanning the crowd with that same focused precision that is probably how he managed to find teenage me in the middle of trouble every time. The soft glow of the Christmas tree lightscatches on the edge of his jaw, highlighting the sharp lines, the faint furrow between his brows.
I adjust the camera lens on him without meaning to.
Focused. Steady. Alone.
He looks… tired. Like a man who carries this town’s weight quietly on his shoulders and never complains about the load.
Nathan’s gaze catches mine and his expression changes to something unreadable before he raises a brow, almost daring me to get into some kind of trouble.
I look away first, just as snow begins to fall. Soft as powdered sugar, it clings to my lashes and the edge of my scarf.
I focus my lens on the crowd again—anything to busy my hands—but the viewfinder trembles just slightly. My pulse doesn’t seem to understand that I’m not seventeen anymore, but this man is still the stern officer who dragged me home after I “borrowed” a nativity sheep on a dare.
The brass band kicks in, blaring“Santa Claus is Coming to Town”with all the gusto of what sounds like a hundred trumpets and one slightly off-key trombone, and the crowd surges forward, clapping and cheering. Kids in mittens spin in circles, and parents hoist little ones onto their shoulders as Santa and Mrs. Claus step off the dock, waving to the crowd like royalty greeting their subjects. Mayor Emerson and Jemma look perfectly paired—like holiday magic made flesh—and I can’t help but smile at how effortlessly they embody the season.
I lift my camera instinctively, trying to capture everything—the laughter, the twinkle lights bouncing off the snow while my small production crew blends into the background, no doubt doing the same.
I pan back to the square just in time to see the mayor reach the tree switch. With a flourish, he presses it.
The lights explode in a riot of gold and green, bouncing off the lightly fallen snow like thousands of tiny stars. The crowderupts—cheers, clapping, whistles—and for a moment, it feels like the whole town is wrapped in a single, sparkling heartbeat.
There’s a round of Christmas carols. Santa takes his seat on the red velvet armchair, and kids climb into his lap to share their Christmas wish lists while their parents take photos. I try to snap as many as I can while my crew keeps filming. Later, I can put these together and send them to the parents, somehow. A nice little holiday surprise.
Eventually, the crowd begins to thin, kids bundled into arms or bundled in strollers, parents waving goodbye with rosy cheeks and tired smiles. The band packs up. Snow continues to drift down in lazy flakes, settling on twinkling branches.
I tuck my camera under my arm, letting the moment sink in—the smell of hot cocoa and warm apple cider. The feel of the crisp winter air, and the faint hint of peppermint from the bakery table. I spot Emmy Alder behind the very same table, handing out peppermint cinnamon buns and candy cane shaped cookies. Behind her, Hayes Thatcher keeps close watch, completely unbothered by the cheer and excitement around him.
And then Nathan is suddenly at my side, as if he’s materialized out of the falling snow. His coat smells faintly of pine and wood smoke, and I resist the urge to lean just a little closer.
“You survived,” he murmurs, voice low, almost teasing. “No sheep went missing, and you didn’t trip over the cord this time.”
I grin, brushing a stray snowflake from my scarf. “I’m full of surprises, Chief. Maybe next year I’ll make it even more interesting.”
He lets a slow, amused smile tug at the corner of his mouth but doesn’t say anything.
