A realization dawns -- the toys. Someone must have talked or seen the delivery. Maybe the shop owner told one person, who told another person. Small towns harbor no true secrets. Yet strangely, I don't mind, especially not if Willow knows.
I try to keep my voice level as I ask if Willow is in, and Avery responds that no, but she’ll be at the parade tomorrow, along with everyone else.
I leave City Hall with papers signed and the sky darkening early as it does before a snowfall. The air is electric with the town's palpable excitement for Christmas.
I won’t miss the parade. The chance to experience the town’s excitement at this annual event has me anxious. I’m sure there will be kids running around, hot cocoa stands wafting their sweet steam, and the sleigh at the very end, laden with all those toys waiting to be given away.
I imagine Willow seeing it, realizing the truth, and smiling in that soft, breathless way she does when something cracks her heart open wide. The thought ignites a desire more intense than anything I've craved in a long time -- not to sit on the sidelines, but to stand beside her. I want to let the town witness us together, to make her feel chosen out loud and in the open.
She’ll know exactly what she means to me -- no investors, no projects, no doubts -- just Willow. If I’m lucky, a step toward the future we’ve stumbled into together.
Chapter 17
Willow
The whole town envelops me in the mingled scents of hot chocolate and crisp cold air, a comforting embrace that heightens the festive hum buzzing through the streets. Hope Peak transforms into a shimmering snow globe shaken just enough to scatter magic everywhere with wreaths adorning every door with piney freshness.
I should be pacing with a clipboard in hand, micromanaging the parade lineup as I always do, but instead, for once, I allow others to take the reins. Spencer and the public works crew handle the barricades and power checks with efficient precision. Volunteers wrangle the kids into position for the youth choir amid giggles and last-minute adjustments. Avery is stationed near the review stand with the emergency binder clutched tightly, her bright red scarf fluttering like a silent beacon that invites anyone in need to approach.
I get to simply stand there, breathing in the chilled air that nips at my cheeks, feeling the subtle shift as anticipation builds. It’s a rare freedom that lets me absorb the moment fully. I drift toward the edge of Main Street, positioning myself just in front of Peak Sweets where Rosie has hung a garland of candy canes from the awning. Their striped patterns catch the light as snow falls in slow, gentle flakes that dust hats and shoulders, turning the crowd into a living Christmas card alive with muffled laughter and excited whispers.
Suddenly, Rosie appears at my elbow, slipping a paper cup into my hands with a knowing smile, the steam rising from the hot chocolate carrying the rich aroma of cocoa mingled with extra marshmallows that melt into gooey sweetness against my tongue.
"Here," she says softly, her voice warm against the chill, "because your face says you’re about to feel something big."
The high school band strikes up at the far end of the street, their brass instruments blaring a cheerfully off-key rendition of “Jingle Bells” that sends cheers rippling through the crowd. Kids shriek in delight while someone lets out a piercing whistle that echoes off the buildings.
"And we’re off," Rosie declares with a grin, as the floats begin to roll past in a colorful procession. The elementary school’s cardboard gingerbread houses wobble slightly on their bases. The church’s nativity scene features a very shy teenage Joseph slouched against a makeshift manger. And the local snowmobile club tows a trailer adorned with fake reindeer that bob their heads in time with the uneven pavement.
The youth choir shuffles by next, their voices lifting in a slightly rushed “Silent Night,” hats slipping down over their ears as they clutch song sheets against the wind. I find myself smiling at all of it, a fond pride swelling inside me mingled with a touchof awe. This is what I fight to preserve. This parade is part of the heart of Hope Peak, even with every vivid imperfect detail.
Yet, the parade isn’t the sole source of the rapid beat in my heart. I keep scanning the crowd with subtle glances, searching for a tall figure in a dark coat framed by winter-rough hair. I tell myself it’s to ensure our newest developer witnesses the town at its most enchanting.
Finally, I spot him standing back from the throng, near the alley between Peak Sweets and the hardware store. He’s not seeking attention but rather choosing a quieter vantage point that allows him to observe without intrusion. His posture is relaxed yet alert.
I see him clearly, and more importantly, he sees me, our eyes catching and holding across the distance.
The band marches past with triumphant notes, more floats rolling by amid applause and greetings called out from the sidelines. A little boy darts through the legs of adults as he chases a rogue bubble escaped from the daycare float. His mother hurries after him with laughter as she tugs his hat back into place.
Graham smiles faintly at the endearing chaos, the curve of his lips softening his features before his gaze returns to me. His smile deepens into something intimate that has me feeling a sweet ache. The parade continues its merry advance, the excitement building palpably as we near the end of the lineup. The crowd's energy shifts into high gear with more bouncing children and sleeve-tugging urgency, for everyone knows what crowns the procession.
The float emerges at the far end of the street, a grand sleigh mounted on a flatbed with faux snow heaped high around its edges like drifts from a winter storm. As Santa waves from his perch with a slightly crooked beard and askew hat, his eyestwinkle with genuine kindness. The crowd's murmurs swell into eager anticipation.
But what truly steals the breath from my lungs, sending a shiver of wonder through me, isn't the jolly figure. It's the toys overflowing in lavish abundance. There are stuffed animals tumbling precariously at the sides with fluffy ears flopping, dolls nestled among intricate train sets and vibrant craft boxes, books and puzzles stacked so high that the sleigh seems on the verge of spilling its bounty into the eager hands below. There’s a collective gasp from the adults around us coupled with high pitched squeals from the children. It ripples outward like a wave of pure joy.
"Whoa," someone murmurs behind me, their voice thick with awe, while another wonders aloud where all that came from. The float rolls to a graceful stop near the town square, and Santa stands with a grand flourish. His voice booms through the microphone as he addresses Hope Peak with exuberance, declaring that we've had a special delivery this year. He gestures to the overflowing gifts that are for every child in town. Santa declares there’s no list required and no cost attached. This is just the pure spirit of Christmas, prompting the crowd to roar in approval, parents clapping enthusiastically while some wipe tears from their cheeks.
The antique shop owner catches my gaze across the throng with flushed cheeks and shining eyes before her glance shifts past me, landing directly on Graham with a subtle nod of acknowledgment that floods my face with a rush of warmth.
She doesn't utter his name, and no one else does either, but the current rippling through the crowd carries an unmistakable undercurrent of knowing, the whispers intensifying into a soft chorus. "Someone paid for all of that? Anonymous, they said. Must be that developer, right? Who else would…? The Sinclair guy? Maybe. I heard he…"
The words fade from my awareness. I already know the truth, having sensed it deep down since Avery first mentioned the “Christmas miracle” toys. Yet seeing them here amid the unbridled joy on every child's face makes it crash over me in vivid, full color.
He did this quietly, without fanfare or expectation of return. Graham Sinclair—the man who arrived with investors and blueprints, burdened by a reputation for transforming properties into mere profit provided free toys for children he doesn't even know. He simply gifted them the wonder he perhaps never experienced himself. The thought tightens my throat with an ache that borders on tears.
Santa steps down to begin distributing the gifts, kids swarming forward in a delighted chaos of squeals and reaching hands. Parents attempt to form some semblance of a line amid the swirl of color, laughter, and overflowing gratitude that fills the square.
I turn then, compelled by an irresistible pull, and start pushing through the crowd with determined steps, weaving between families as I duck under an outstretched arm and murmur apologies for bumped shoulders. Rosie's voice calls after me with curiosity about where I'm headed. I toss back that I'm off to do something I should’ve done sooner.
