After she leaves with Lila, I sit in the quiet station and think about courage. About the difference between being careful and being safe. About six-year-old wisdom and Christmas magic and whether a grumpy firefighter can learn to deserve sunshine.
Tomorrow I have to face the community knowing I’m the Grinch who stole Christmas.
But tonight, I’m going to figure out how to get it back.
The storm outside is nothing compared to the one in my chest. But if Christmas magic is real—if second chances actually exist—I need a miracle.
And maybe, just maybe, I need to stop waiting for magic to happen and start making it myself.
Chapter Five
MADS
The morning after the snowstorm, I’m back to work at Hensley’s Beach Shack, and the morning light filters through windows that have watched countless storms—literal and metaphorical. Mom’s already here and has brought me coffee from Michelle’s place. She knows I’ll need it. The smell of hazelnut cream mingles with the faint scent of sea salt and old wood, creating this perfect cocoon of comfort that makes me want to cry all over again.
“Morning, sunshine.” Mom doesn’t say “I told you so.” Instead, she brings me coffee and sits quietly while I cry into my mug. This is why Hazel Sanders is the best. Even when her daughter makes spectacularly bad romantic choices, she just shows up with caffeine and love.
Caroline, my stepsister, bounces through the door, fueled by righteous indignation and double espresso levels of energy. “I’m done with finals and ready to drive to the fire station and give Asher a piece of my mind.” She’s already grabbing keys from the counter. “Nobody talks to you the way he did.”
“He was scared,” I say, though the words taste bitter. “People say stupid things when they’re scared.”
“Spencer said stupid things because he was selfish,” Caroline counters. “There’s a difference.”
She’s right, but my heart’s still too raw to process the distinction properly. I pull out Mrs. Claus’s letter, the cream-colored paper somehow still carrying that faint gingerbread scent despite everything.Trust your heart,it says. Maybe she meant opening my heart to hurt too, not just love. Maybe courage isn’t just about letting good things in—it’s about surviving when they go wrong.
Great Grandma Hensley shuffles in around nine, takes one look at my face, and starts pulling out photo albums from the top shelf in the back office. I didn’t even know those were there. “Time for perspective, darling.”
“GG, I don’t need?—”
“1962,” she says, slapping down a picture of herself in an elaborate beehive, standing next to a man who definitely isn’t Grandpa. “Harry Marvel. Told me I was too dramatic for a simple man. Didn’t want complications.” She flips the page. “1965. Your grandfather. Said I was perfect exactly as dramatic as I was.”
Mom laughs. “Grandma, you’ve never told that story.”
“Because some stories need the right moment.” GG looks at me seriously. “Three generations of Hensley women have weathered storms in this shop, Mads. Heartbreak included. But we don’t let fear choose our futures.”
The bell chimes, and Ellen bounces in with hot chocolate, Kira and Lila at her sides. “Asher looked very sad when he was mean to you,” she announces, climbing onto my lap. “Daddy gets mean when he’s scared about work. But he always says sorry after.”
Dad is a whole other story. And his “sorry’s” are usually because Mom makes him apologize. I’m honestly sick of his fake apologies. He and I don’t talk a lot these days. I’m closer to my stepdad, Jack.
By lunch, half the island has stopped by to check on Christmas plans. Amber brings her famous clam chowder from The Salty Pearl. Her Grandma Pearl’s secret recipe. Michelle appears with emergency pastries. Even Jack’s dad from the hardware store, Grandpa Sanders, pokes his head in to ask if we’re still having the festival.
That’s when it hits me. This community is counting on Christmas magic. I might be heartbroken, but I’m not dead.
“We’re having Christmas,” I tell everyone. “With or without a grumpy Santa.”
The Bookaholics Anonymous emergency wine session happens at Mom’s house around six. Jessica arrives with merlot and strong opinions about grumpy firefighters who don’t deserve my sparkle. Jo brings backup wine and protective energy that could power the whole island. Michelle contributes caffeine and insider information from the coffee shop.
“He’s been drinking enough espresso to wake the dead,” she reports. “And looking miserable.”
“Good,” Amber says from the kitchen, where she’s assembling cheese plates aggressively. “The Salty Pearl has banned him until he apologizes properly. Small-town justice at its finest.”
Jo raises her glass. “To men who don’t know good things when they have them.”
“To women who do,” I counter, because Mrs. Claus was right about courage. Sometimes it includes forgiving people who mess up when they’re scared. But first, they have to want forgiveness.
“Also,” Jessica adds quietly, “he bought more romance novels this week. Three Christmas-themed ones.”
We analyze the fight the way book clubs do—dissecting every line for motivation and subtext. Consensus: he’s being an idiot, but it’s fixable-idiot behavior, not irredeemable-jerk behavior. There’s hope in that diagnosis.
