"Someday," he said quietly, "when you're ready, I'll tell you everything. But right now..." He drew me closer. "Right now I want to focus on this—building this with you."
Outside the workshop windows, snow had begun to fall again—fat flakes drifting down in patterns that seemed too perfect to be random. Somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard sleigh bells.
Wrapped in Ben's arms, I let myself believe in Christmas magic. For tonight. For now.
Chapter twelve
Ben
We left the theater through the side door. Three more nights until Christmas Eve, the day of the show—and until Alex had promised me an answer about staying.
The run-through had gone well. Alex was finding his footing as Santa, and Charlie had nailed his scene so thoroughly that Mrs. Brubaker had to dab her eyes with her sleeve. Even Jack had managed to get through his declaration of love with feeling.
"You were good today," I said as we turned onto Main Street. "The bit with the dropped teddy bear—that was perfect."
"It wasn't planned. She looked so worried about it. I just reacted."
"That's the whole point. You're not performing Santa anymore. You're inhabiting him."
Yuletide Valley's downtown festival announced itself before we saw it—carolers singing, children's laughter, and the distant jingle of sleigh bells from the carriage rides. When we rounded the corner into the town square, Alex slowed beside me.
Strings of lights crisscrossed overhead, creating a canopy of warmth against the early evening sky. The massive Norwayspruce, the official Yuletide Valley Christmas tree, wore its holiday finest—thousands of twinkling bulbs and handcrafted ornaments from decades of community celebrations. The scent of roasting chestnuts drifted toward us, mixing with pine and woodsmoke.
"I keep forgetting how much this town commits to Christmas." A hint of wonder resonated in Alex's voice. "It should feel excessive, but somehow it doesn't."
"The festival's been a holiday fixture for almost a century now. Want to walk through?"
"Sure." Alex fell into step beside me. "Though if Mrs. Cummings corners me about her granddaughter's Christmas list again, you're running interference."
"Deal. I should warn you—she's still mad at me about her porch railing. I matched the style perfectly, but apparently the paint was one shade too dark."
He let out an easy, unguarded laugh. I'd never get tired of hearing it.
We wove through the crowd, past booths selling hot cider and handmade ornaments. A group of teenagers from the high school choir practiced "O Holy Night" near the gazebo, their harmonies imperfect but earnest.
"Ben! Alex!" Charice's voice cut through the noise. She waved from the hot chocolate stand, wearing a festive coat that sparkled with tiny sewn-in lights. Her husband, Mike, operated the serving station while their son, Ryan, helped stack cups.
"Hey, guys!" She waved us over. "Ryan, look who's here."
The boy's face lit up when he spotted Alex. "You're the one who taught Marcus how to dance with his IV pole! He told me all about it."
"You know Marcus?"
"He's my best friend. We were in the same room at the hospital." Ryan bounced on his heels. "I got to go home last month, but I visit him all the time. Mom takes me."
Charice's hand rested briefly on her son's shoulder. The gesture said everything about the gratitude that her boy was healthy enough to be here, drinking hot chocolate and talking about his friend.
"Marcus is doing really well," Charice told Alex. "The nurses say he hasn't stopped talking about the show. He's convinced Santa is going to visit him on Christmas Eve."
Alex replied with a steady, confident voice. "Santa will visit him." The man who'd hidden in a prop room, having a panic attack, was nowhere in evidence. "I already confirmed with the hospital."
Ryan tugged at Alex's sleeve. "Can you help me with something? It's really important."
He produced a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket, already wrinkled from being handled too many times. "I'm writing a letter to Santa, but it's not for me. It's for Marcus."
I watched Alex kneel to Ryan's level, his expensive wool coat pressing into the slush at his feet without a second thought. "Tell me about it."
"Marcus really wants to go home for Christmas, but the doctors say he can't yet." Ryan's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "So I thought maybe Santa could bring him something to make the hospital feel more like home. He likes dragons—the nice kind, not scary ones. And he misses his dog. And he said the ceiling in his room is boring."
