“You too, son. Glad you could join the mad house.”
I chuckle. “For Sylvie's cooking and your turkey? You can be as mad as a bag of hammers and I’d still join you.”
The only chair I can take without disrupting everyone’s places is right beside Bastian. Of course it is. I slide into the seat, hyperaware of how close our shoulders are, how the wooden chair creaks slightly as I settle my weight.
The kitchen table groans under its burden of a multitude of dishes. A massive golden turkey at the center, surrounded by dishes filled with stuffing, potatoes, and various vegetable offerings. Everything smells exactly like childhood memories, like holidays and happy times before I ended up rattling alone in my family home.
The empty chair beside Sylvie draws my eye. “Where’s Finn?” I whisper to Bastian.
“You’re his best friend,” he says, passing me the mashed potatoes. “Shouldn’t you know?”
I take the dish and spoon a generous portion onto my plate. “I’m his drinking buddy and crisis counselor. You’re hisbrother.” I grab the green beans and add some to my plate. “The one who actually grew up with him.”
“I’m the brother who was on tour for most of his adult life,” Bastian counters, reaching for the cranberry sauce. “You’re the one who’s been here through everything.”
“Fair point.” I pass him the stuffing. “But you’re still family.”
“And you’re the person he trusts with his secrets.” Bastian’s eyes meet mine briefly before he looks away. “You’re telling me you don’t know whose mysterious texts he’s been sneaking off to answer.”
I pause mid-reach for the rolls. “You noticed that too?”
“Kind of hard to miss when my own brother starts acting like he’s running a covert operation.”
“Well,” I say, settling back in my chair with a sigh, “I think we’ve established that neither of us has any idea where Finn is right now.”
I’m reaching for the slices of carved turkey when the kitchen door crashes open with enough force to rattle the windows in their frames.
Winter air invades the kitchen’s warmth as Finn bursts in, his hair a wild tangle, cheeks flushed red from more than just cold. His eyes are wide with the kind of panic I haven’t seen since the Apple Festival was canceled because of a freak storm a few years ago.
He doesn’t even pause to remove his coat, the words tumbling out of him. “Christmas is ruined!”
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth, matched by similar poses around the table. Sylvie rises partway from her chair, pulling Finn to take the empty seat next to hers. “Griffin, honey, what’s wrong?”
Finn gasps for breath, his usual composure scattered like leaves in a storm. “There’s a major gas leak under the town square. They found it this morning after someone reported asmell when they were walking their dog.” He runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. “The whole area’s cordoned off and they’re starting emergency repairs tomorrow.”
“How long?” Stone asks.
“Four weeks, minimum.” Finn finally sheds his coat, dropping into the chair. “The entire square will be unusable through the holiday season.”
The implications settle over the table like fog on a winter morning. Four weeks. The heart of our town, sealed off during the busiest season of the year. The Winterberry Christmas Festival runs for two solid weeks before Christmas. I think of all the small vendors who depend on holiday sales, of the traditions that make our community what it is. That includes Bastian and me.
“Tell me you’re joking,” I say, though I already know he isn’t. Finn takes his responsibilities as the town’s events coordinator too seriously for this to be a prank.
His response is to let his head fall forward into his hands. “I wish I were.”
Henry puts a hand on Finn's shoulder. “Have some food, son. I’m sure it’ll all sort itself out.”
Everyone slowly resumes their dinner, but it’s clear the festive mood is gone. Even the guys who didn’t grow up here have spent enough time on the farm to know the impact of something like this on the town.
I watch Finn push his food around his plate. He ticks off each compromised event on his fingers like he’s counting casualties.
“The Christmas market’s completely shot. All the vendor layouts were designed specifically for the square.” His fork makes another circuit around his untouched turkey. “The tree lighting ceremony can’t happen in its traditional spot. The outdoor concert series?” He lets out a hollow laugh. “Impossible.”
Sylvie passes him a warm roll that he accepts automatically but doesn’t eat. “The parade route’s compromised too. We’d have to redirect through residential streets, and the floats can’t make those tight turns.” His voice grows more strained with each item. “The only things we can still do are the indoor events because they were always going to be in the community center. But everything else…”
I think of Mrs. Peterson’s handmade wreaths, of the Morgan twins’ baked goods stall, of all the small businesses that depend on holiday tourism. My own cider sales will take a hit, though I’m better positioned than most with my regular distribution channels.
“The whole town is counting on these events,” Finn continues, his words heavy with responsibility. “It’s not just about tradition. People plan their whole year around this income. The tourism boost carries some businesses through the lean winter months.”
