“Actually,” she says, pulling out an envelope with careful reverence, “speaking of magic...”
“Oh no,” Mads mutters beside me. “Mom, you brought that?”
“What?” Hazel looks innocent. “I thought everyone should hear about the letter.”
“What letter?” I ask, though I’m already getting a bad feeling.
Mads sighs and covers her face with her hands. “It’s nothing. Just... I got this weird letter yesterday. Supposedly from Mrs. Claus.”
I stare at her. “Mrs. Claus.”
“I know how it sounds. But read it.” Hazel thrusts the letter at me before I can protest. “Tell me that’s not eerily specific.”
Against my better judgment, I read the letter. It’s weird. Specifically weird. Like whoever wrote it knows way too much about Mads’ and has some very definite opinions about her love life.
“This is...” I start, then stop. I’m not sure how to finish that sentence without either lying or insulting someone.
“Creepy?” Mads suggests. “Invasive? Someone’s idea of a prank?”
“Romantic,” Lila sighs.
“Mysterious,” Jessica says.
“Proof that Christmas magic is real,” Ellen announces.
I hand the letter back to Hazel and carefully avoid eye contact with Mads. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation.”
“Sure there is,” Mom says. There’s something in her voice that makes me look at her sharply. “Sometimes logical explanations and Christmas magic are the same thing.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning sometimes what looks like coincidence is really people caring enough to pay attention.”
She’s giving me one of those looks again. The kind that makes me think she knows something I don’t.
“Anyway,” Hazel says, tucking the letter away, “the point is, we all believe this Christmas is going to be special. Right, Mads?”
Mads glances at me, then away. “Right. Special.”
For the next hour, we plan. Vendor spaces. Volunteer schedules. Backup plans. Mads knows every detail about this island—which families have kids who still believe in Santa, which businesses will donate what, which volunteers can be counted on and which ones need gentle management.
“What?” she says, shrugging when I stare at her a little too long. “I get it from my great-grandma Hensley. It runs in the family.”
I find myself watching her while she talks. The way her hands move when she’s explaining something. The little furrow that appears between her eyebrows when she’s concentrating. She’s compelling in a way that has nothing to do with Christmas magic and everything to do with the particular way she makes everyone around her feel heard.
“Earth to Asher,” Lila says.
Everyone’s looking at me.
“Sorry. What?”
“We were discussing Santa’s workshop setup,” Mom says with poorly concealed amusement. “Mads suggested using the space behind the fire station.”
“Right. Yeah, that could work. Good access, plenty of room, and if we need to shut down for an emergency...” I trail off because Mads is looking at me with this expression I can’t quite read.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just... thank you. For doing this. I know it’s not your thing.”
