“Right.” Mads sits back. I can practically see the wheels turning.
“Well,” Mom says, looking between us like she’s planning something that has nothing to do with Christmas, “I think this calls for a planning session. Asher, can you meet us at the workshop in an hour? We’ll need your expertise on the logistics.”
Mom’s matchmaking radar is pinging so hard I’m surprised the fire alarm hasn’t gone off. Mads is already pulling out her phone to make notes, organizing Mom’s chaos into something manageable. Maybe this won’t be the disaster I thought.
Maybe Mom’s right about some things.
Not that I’d ever admit that to her.
An hour later, I arrive at Mom’s workshop covered in soot.
I had an emergency call right after coffee, a kitchen fire at the Sandpiper Inn. Nothing serious, but enough to remind me why I don’t believe in easy days.
Driftwood & Dreams is full of broken things waiting to be beautiful again. Mom’s life philosophy.
“Asher!” She waves me over to her workbench. “We’ve made progress.”
Mads is perched on a stool, laptop balanced on her knees. She looks perfectly at home among Mom’s organized chaos. She glances up when I walk in. Her nose wrinkles.
“Rough morning?”
“Another kitchen fire. Nothing major.” I grab water from Mom’s mini-fridge. Try to wash the taste of smoke out of my mouth. “What’s the update on planning Christmas?”
“We’ve got volunteers,” Mom announces proudly. “Michelle’s organizing the hot chocolate station, Amber’s handling the community dinner, and Jessica’s coordinating vendor booths along the boardwalk.”
“That was fast.”
“We’re an efficient small town, thank you very much,” Mads says. “Also, everyone’s terrified of disappointing the kids. Amazing how quickly people volunteer when Christmas is on the line.”
She’s got spreadsheets open and what appears to be a detailed timeline.
“You’ve been busy,” I observe.
“I may have gotten a little carried away.” She turns the laptop so I can see the screen. “But look, we’ve got vendor space mapped out, volunteer schedules organized by skill set, and a back-up plan in case of bad weather.”
“This is great,” I admit.
Her smile is bright enough to power the Christmas lights. “High praise from the emergency management expert.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. I’m definitely letting it go to my head.” She’s laughing, and the sound warms my chest in a way that has nothing to do with the workshop’s space heater.
“All right,” Mom says, looking between us with satisfaction. “I think it’s time for the Santa suit fitting.”
I groan.
“Did I forget to mention that?” Mads asks innocently. “Dean brought over the Santa suit last night. Complete with accessories.”
“Is that so?”
“You’ll see,” she says, and there’s mischief in her eyes that makes my stomach do something complicated.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing behind a folding screen in Mom’s workshop.
“This thing has more components than my firefighting gear,” I call out.
“Quality costuming is an art,” Mads calls back. “Don’t rush it.”
