Mom follows my gaze and sighs. “Heaven help us all.”
Within twenty minutes, half the town has gathered around Penelope’s display. I lock up Hensley’s Beach Shack and join the crowd, spotting Michelle, Amber, and at least six members of our book club all wearing identical expressions of polite dread.
“Twin Waves has tremendous potential,” Penelope announces in her crisp accent, “to become a premier holiday destination. We simply need to think bigger.”
She flips her first chart, revealing what looks like a Christmas explosion in a luxury hotel lobby. Crystal trees. Professional light installations. A budget that could probably fund the Christmas party for that billionaire family Brett knows.
“This transformation would put us on the map with Savannah and Charleston,” she continues. “Sophisticated. Elegant. The kind of Christmas that attracts the right sort of visitor.”
My chest tightens. That’s not Twin Waves. That’s putting a tuxedo on a golden retriever—technically possible, but missing the entire point of golden retrievers.
“What about our existing traditions?” I ask, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “The community parade? Local businesses? The things that make Twin Waves special?”
Penelope’s smile could freeze margaritas. “Those local touches are... quaint. But we need professional polish if we want to compete.”
Professional. Spencer’s favorite word. Nothing I did was ever “professional enough” for his vision of our future. I touch Mrs. Claus’s letter and feel that familiar surge of quiet strength.
“Our traditions aren’t quaint,” I say, louder this time. “They’re authentic. People come to Twin Waves because we’re us, not because we’re trying to be somewhere else.”
“The budget alone would be astronomical.”
The dry voice comes from behind Penelope, and I turn to see Asher leaning against the fire station wall, arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the whole production.
“Electrical permits, safety inspections, months of prep time we don’t have,” he continues, his tone suggesting he’s calculating disaster scenarios in real time. “Plus insurance liability for installations that size.”
Penelope’s presentation deflates under his practical assault. Around me, the community shifts. Michelle nods. Amber looks relieved. Mom beams at me with pride.
“So what exactly are you suggesting?” Penelope asks, clearly frustrated.
“That we work with what we’ve got,” I say, feeling Mrs. Claus’s encouragement warm my pocket. “Three generations of my family have built their lives around serving this community. Jo transforms broken furniture into beautiful pieces. Michelle’s coffee shop is where we solve half our problems and create the other half. We don’t need to be different. We need to be the best version of ourselves.”
The crowd murmurs agreement. When I glance back at Asher, he’s not just nodding anymore. There’s something like admiration in his blue eyes, and the corner of his mouth has almost twitched upward.
Maybe grumpy isn’t mean. Maybe grumpy is just someone who’s learned to protect the things that matter.
An hour later, I’m standing in Driftwood & Dreams, Jo’s restoration workshop, questioning every life choice that led me to volunteer for manual labor.
“I’m building Santa’s sleigh,” I announce to Jo, “with the same construction skills that brought you yesterday’s decoration disaster.”
Jo laughs, handing me a paintbrush. “Honey, your disaster had personality. Personality’s harder to teach than technique.”
The workshop door bangs open, and Asher walks in looking like he’d rather be fighting actual structure fires than building pretend Christmas vehicles.
“Mom recruited me for construction duty,” he says. “Fair warning: I don’t do arts and crafts.”
“Perfect, because this isn’t arts and crafts,” I reply cheerfully. “This is engineering. With Christmas colors and a complete disregard for structural integrity.”
He surveys the pile of wood, paint, and what appears to be every Christmas decoration within fifty miles. His expression suggests he’s reconsidering his relationship with his mother.
“Right.” He picks up a piece of lumber and examines it with the same intensity he’d probably use to assess a burning building. “Where do we start?”
Three hours later, we look like we lost a fight with Santa’s workshop. I’ve got red paint in my hair, green paint on my cheek, and gold sparkles in places glitter should never be. Asher’s navy work shirt is now a Jackson Pollock masterpiece of Christmas colors, but he’s still here. Still patiently explaining why my engineering approach might result in Santa becoming roadkill.
“This frame won’t support actual weight during the parade,” he says, steadying the sleigh while I attempt to attach runners that resemble something functional.
“That’s what Christmas magic is for,” I reply, wrestling with a screw that refuses to cooperate.
“Magic doesn’t override physics.”
