In the city that never sleeps, Vermont feels a million years away, but for the first time since Burlington, since that first kiss that changed everything, I feel something like hope building beneath uncertainty. Because some things are worth fighting for, worth risking everything to prove possible.
22
TAYLEN
“Everything’s going to be fine,”I tell Finn as he checks his phone for what must be the hundredth time today.
Instead of replying, Finn makes a sound that might be agreement or maybe the beginning of a panic attack. His town logo pin sits slightly crooked on his lapel. I resist the urge to fix it for him.
The Christmas market stalls stretch behind us, vendors arranging their products with excitement. The stage crew’s equipment check sends occasional bursts of static through speakers that will later carry the sounds of Christmas carols.
“Look around you. Everyone’s doing what they’re supposed to do, and even the weather is cooperating.”
“Why did you have to jinx—” Finn starts, then stops mid-sentence as Mayor Caldwell appears at the far end of the market area.
“Oh god,” Finn mutters, his clipboard creaking under a suddenly tighter grip. “I need to catch him. Do you mind—” He’s already moving before finishing the sentence, weaving between vendors with surprising agility for someone who looks ready to faint.
I take in the calm before the proverbial storm.
The transformation of mine and the Halls’ combined properties into a winter wonderland still catches me off guard. Strings of white lights are draped between lampposts, each bulb wrapped in frost that makes them sparkle even in daylight. Red and green garlands twist around every available surface, their pine scent mixing with cinnamon from nearby vendor stalls to create that quintessential Christmas smell that hits you right in the childhood memories.
The Christmas tree stands at the market’s heart, easily twenty feet tall, decorated with ornaments that are ready to shine once the lights are turned on in just a few hours. Finn has arranged music stands for carolers near its base, their sheet music already clipped and ready for the opening ceremony.
The vendor stalls look like something from a Hallmark movie. Each booth sports its own wreath, some simple pine circles with red bows, others elaborate creations featuring dried orange slices, cinnamon sticks, and silver bells.
Welcoming visitors into the festival is a giant banner that stretches between two poles, withWinterberry Christmas Festivalin letters that must be three feet tall, flanked by painted snowflakes and candy canes. It’s almost too much, except it’s not. It’s exactly right. It’s the kind of scene that makes even cynical hearts soften a little.
Joe’s pop-up bar is already drawing attention at the far end, his handwritten sign promisingHoliday Spirits for Holiday Spirits.
I check my watch, confirming there’s still time. Soon, these paths will fill with locals and tourists alike.
But for now, I’m going to thank my mother’s friend, Eleanor, for accepting the job of managing the stall for me for the duration of the festival. With the work on the farm and having to meet orders at the busiest time of the year, it would beimpossible to manage the stall myself, no matter how much fun it always is.
Eleanor arranges jars of apple butter because they have to be just so. I can already hear her say the words before I reach the stall.
“Everything’s perfect, Eleanor,” I say, watching her adjust a jar that’s barely a millimeter out of alignment. The familiar scent of Sylvie’s cinnamon bread draws me closer, and I can’t resist snagging a slice from the sample plate. Sylvie is a superstar for supplying me with the perfect foundation for my samples.
She swats my hand playfully. “You haven’t changed a bit,” she says, though we both know that’s not true. “Still sneaking tastes when you think no one’s looking.”
"Stolen bits taste better," I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
I leave her to walk the market that fills steadily as the afternoon progresses. Vendors call greetings across aisles, share thermoses of coffee and snippets of gossip, and adjust displays.
A new stall I’ve never seen at the festival before catches my eye.
Dr. Hunter Cross, also known as the hot vet—although he probably doesn’t know that—kneels beside his outreach stall, his movements careful as he lets an older woman’s terrier investigate his hand.
He has a photo display of seniors with their pets next to pamphlets that readKeeping Families Together: All Members Welcome.
“We provide basic care for pets belonging to elderly community members,” Hunter explains to the growing crowd. “Everything from routine checkups to dog walking services.”
The terrier has progressed from investigating Hunter’s hand to attempting to climb into his lap, making its owner apologize profusely. But Hunter just smiles. “This is exactly why we dothis work,” he says, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “Every pet deserves care, and every owner deserves peace of mind.”
I can see why he’s so popular.
With his vivid red hair and bright-green eyes, the man is objectively hot, and who’s not a sucker for a guy who loves animals?
Stone appears through the crowd, looking like he’s stepped directly from a fashion magazine photo shoot into our small-town festival.
