She appeared in a swirl of velvet skirts, carrying a small box. Her bracelets chimed like bells as she moved, and the scents of cinnamon and pine needles filled the space. "Don't let me interrupt. I'll just leave these here." She set the box on the sawhorse with exaggerated care. "Ben, dear, that wood trim you ordered finally stopped sulking and agreed to proper shaping. And Alex—" She fixed me with eyes that seemed to see straight through me. "—your grandmother would be pleased to see you here. She always said this theater needed you."
Before I could respond, she'd swept back toward the stage door. The moment before she disappeared, she called over her shoulder: "Only eight nights left. Don't waste them."
The door closed, and silence rushed back in—but it was different now. Less charged, more awkward.
My voice was ragged at the edges as I spoke. "I should go. There are projects at the house I've been putting off."
"Right." Ben's voice was carefully neutral. "Thanks for all your help today."
"Any time."
I grabbed my coat and messenger bag, suddenly desperate for cold air and distance. As I pushed through the stage door into the December evening, snow had begun to fall again.
I walked home through streets that glowed in pools of illumination cast by Christmas lights, past windows that pulsed with warmth and welcome.
Inside my grandmother's house, I leaned against the closed door, breathing hard. My cheek still tingled where Ben had touched it. The Steinway sat in its corner, patient and waiting.
I crossed to it and pressed middle C. The note rang out pure and true, resonating through the empty house. In the vibration of that single note, I could almost hear my grandmother's voice:About time you came home, sweetheart. Now stop running and let yourself feel something.
The note faded.
Eight nights until Christmas.
I was in more trouble than I'd realized.
Chapter six
Ben
Iran my fingers over the cracked veneer of Holly's ancient counter at the Apothecary, already mapping out the restoration in my head. Fairy lights twinkled in evergreen garlands along the shelves, their glow reflecting off countless glass bottles like captured stars. The scent of crushed candy canes and fresh pine mingled with her herbal remedies, creating that uniquely Yuletide Valley blend of Christmas magic and practical wisdom.
The wood told its story through each scratch and dent—generations of elbows leaning while confiding troubles. It held countless rings from hot tea cups placed without coasters and even a few scars that looked suspiciously like potion ingredients gone wrong. Near the register, someone had carved a tiny Christmas tree, its edges softened by decades of fingertips tracing it.
"Don't even think about fixing that counter," Holly called from behind a towering display of glass jars that caught the afternoon light. "That wood has earned every battle scar. I even count the questionable chemical burns from 1987."
"Admiring the craftsmanship. These joints are still perfect after all these years. The way they're cut—someone understood how wood shrinks and expands with the seasons."
"Mmhmm." Holly emerged carrying two steaming mugs that smelled of cardamom and nutmeg. The scent reminded me of how my grandfather's workshop smelled before Christmas when he was secretly working on presents.
"And what brings you here today, Ben? I hope it's nothing to do with avoiding a certain former Broadway dancer who makes your eyes light up like the town Christmas tree?" Holly's eyes twinkled. "You know, the same one who keeps finding reasons to ask about traditional woodworking techniques while pretending not to watch you work?"
"Who said I'm avoiding? I needed a breath of fresh air away from the theater, but the show needs his expertise." I focused on a particularly interesting whorl in the wood grain. "And with the hospital fundraiser being so important this year, we can't afford any weak spots in the production."
Holly's bracelets jingled as she set the mugs down. "And I suppose his expertise is the only reason you've been at every rehearsal? Even when there's no set work to do?"
Before I could respond, the shop door opened, bringing a swirl of winter air. Alex stepped inside, snowflakes dusting his shoulders. He had rosy cheeks from the cold, and his dark hair held tiny snow crystals that caught the light from Holly's fairy lights.
Despite his designer sweater showing a few markings of stage chalk, Alex somehow managed to look both rumpled and elegant. He was like a prince who'd wandered into our quirky fairytale town by accident and found himself enchanted.
"The romantic leads are actually starting to look... romantic." He crossed his arms over his chest, looking proud, and then accepted a mug Holly thrust into his hands. "Though Jackstill occasionally forgets and slips into his lawyer voice during emotional moments."
"Like when he proclaimed his undying affection while presenting evidence?" I grinned at the memory of Jack dramatically pulling out a legal pad during rehearsal. "I thought Charice was going to object on the grounds of excessive metaphors."
Alex's laugh was real this time, not his stage-perfected chuckle. It filled the shop like music, making the bottles on Holly's shelves vibrate in harmony. "She threatened to call a recess if he didn't stop treating their big scene like a closing argument. Still, there's something utterly charming about how earnest he is, even the moments when he gets it completely wrong."
"At least they're finding their way to something authentic." Holly's gaze darted between Alex and me as she arranged jars of cinnamon bark.
Alex's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his mug. "Jack's getting better at letting his guard down. Today, he managed to look at Charice instead of performing at her."
