“I’ve got it handled,” I insist, attempting to climb down gracefully and instead nearly taking out a rack of flip-flops with my elbow.
Lila snorts. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“Says the college student who texted me last week asking how to cook rice.”
“That’s different. Rice is complicated.”
Mom steps forward to steady the ladder with a familiar look on her face. The one that means she’s trying to decide between helping and documenting this disaster for future embarrassment.
“You know, there’s no shame in asking for help,” she says gently.
“Or in admitting defeat to a seven-dollar string of lights,” Lila adds cheerfully.
I finally make it down without breaking anything important, and survey the damage. The window display looks like Christmas threw up on a beach vacation. Again. “It’s supposed to be ‘coastal Christmas charm,’” I explain, gesturing at the chaos. “You know, combining our beach vibe with holiday spirit.”
“I love the vision,” Mom says diplomatically. “Maybe we just need a different execution strategy.”
Lila peers closer at the display. “Is that ornament supposed to be hanging from the surfboard fin?”
“It’s artistic!”
“It’s definitely something.”
The door chimes, and Mrs. Green from the post office hurries in, still wearing her mail carrier uniform and looking slightly out of breath.
“Mads, honey, I’ve got a delivery for you,” she says, pulling a cream-colored envelope from her bag. “This one’s a little unusual—came without a return address.”
She hands me the envelope, and it smells faintly of gingerbread and the stamp in the corner readsOperation Mistletoe Match, North Polein swirling script.
“That’s weird,” Lila says, peering over my shoulder. “Who still sends actual letters?”
“Someone with very good penmanship,” I observe, turning the envelope over. The address is written in elegant script that looks almost vintage.
Mrs. Green grins. “Well, I better get going. The mail doesn’t deliver itself. Though sometimes I think it would be easier if it did.”
After she leaves, I turn the envelope over in my hands. Something about it feels... important. Like it’s been waiting specifically for me.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Lila asks.
“In a minute.” I slip the envelope into my back pocket, deciding to save it for later when I can open it without an audience providing commentary.
The fire siren suddenly blares through town, making us all jump. Lila drops her coffee cup, sending liquid splashing across the floor.
“Shoot,” she mutters, grabbing paper towels. “That scared the life out of me.”
Through the window, I can see people emerging from buildings, looking toward the source of smoke rising from the direction of Grandma Sanders’ house.
“Someone should probably check on that,” Mom says, already reaching for her jacket.
“Grandma Sanders has been experimenting with deep-frying everything for the Christmas bake sale,” I explain, grabbing my own coat. “This was probably inevitable.”
“Deep-frying Christmas cookies?” Lila asks incredulously.
“Deep-frying everything. Last week it was gingerbread. The week before, candy canes.”
Mom sighs, but she’s smiling fondly. In Twin Waves, we complain about each other’s quirks while secretly loving them.
By the time we reach Grandma Sanders’, half the town has materialized in various states of dress. Mr. Kowalski is wearing pajama pants and snow boots. Amber and Brett come jogging up in matching Christmas sweaters that say “Ho Ho Ho” and “Yo Yo Yo”—apparently they coordinate even their emergency fashion. Michelle appears from the direction of Twin Waves Brewing Co., still in her apron and looking as if she abandoned a latte mid-foam. Jessica hurries over from her bookshop, clutching what appears to be a paperback romance novel she was probably reading when the sirens went off.
