“I’ll introduce you to a few people,” she said. “Everyone is very friendly.”
The first person who approached us was an elderly woman with silver hair and the kind of warm smile that immediately put you at ease. Sylvie lit up when she saw her.
“Mrs. Murphy!” Sylvie said, giving the woman a gentle hug. “I’m so glad you could make it tonight.”
“Wouldn’t miss it, dear,” the woman replied, then turned curious eyes toward me. “And who might this handsome young man be?”
I felt my shoulders tense automatically. This was usually the moment when introductions became awkward, when people started asking what I did for work or making assumptions about my background. I’d learned to dread the inevitable follow-up questions that came once people heard the Bancroft name. Just because Sylvie didn’t recognize my name didn’t mean no one else would.
“This is Kent,” Sylvie said smoothly, seeming to sense my discomfort. “He’s visiting from out of town.”
I shot her a grateful look. She’d picked up on my hesitation without me having to say a word.
“How wonderful,” Mrs. Murphy said. “What brings you to our little corner of the world?”
“Just needed a break from the city,” I said, keeping my answer deliberately vague. “Heard this was a great place to experience a real Christmas.”
“Oh, it absolutely is,” she agreed enthusiastically. “The Northwoods know how to do Christmas right. Have you tried the hot cider yet? It’s Gigi’s secret recipe.”
Before I could answer, a middle-aged couple joined our small group. The man had the weathered hands of someone who worked outdoors, and the woman wore a handmade sweater that looked like it had taken months to complete.
“Sylvie, honey,” the woman said. “Everything looks absolutely magical. You’ve outdone yourself this year.”
“Thank you, Carol. Kent, I’d like you to meet Carol and Jim Whitmore. They run the hardware store in town.”
Jim extended his hand for a firm shake. “Nice to meet you, Kent. You picked a great time to visit. December’s our favorite month around here.”
“I’m starting to understand why,” I said honestly.
“So what line of work are you in?” Jim asked.
I felt that familiar knot form in my stomach. I opened my mouth to give some noncommittal answer, but Sylvie jumped in before I could speak.
“Kent’s taking some time off,” she said easily. “We’ve been putting him to work around here instead. He’s got great tree-hauling skills.”
Jim laughed. “Well, that’s useful around these parts. Hope Sylvie’s not working you too hard.”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I said, relaxing slightly as the conversation moved away from my background.
We chatted for a few more minutes about the weather and local events before the Whitmores excused themselves to get drinks. Mrs. Murphy wandered off to find someone else to catch up with, leaving Sylvie and me alone for a moment. “Thanks,” I murmured.
“No worries. Your secret identity is safe with me.”
I chuckled. “Appreciate it.”
Stacy arrived with Alder and Aspen in tow, both kids dressed up for the occasion. Alder was wearing suspenders with green pants and a plaid shirt that made him look like a miniature lumberjack. Aspen had on a red dress with sparkly buttons and little shoes with bows that made her look like a Christmas doll.
Sylvie immediately made a huge fuss over their arrival, ushering them in front of the main Christmas tree to take what seemed like dozens of pictures while gushing about how handsome and pretty they looked.
“Alder, you look so grown up! And Aspen, that dress is absolutely perfect on you. You both look like you belong in a Christmas catalog.”
Watching her with the kids made me feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy emotions I’d never experienced before. There was something about the way she interacted with them that did strange things to my chest. She was patient and enthusiastic andgenuinely delighted by their presence. She was a great aunt, and I had a feeling she would be an amazing mother.
What the hell was wrong with me? Was it this town, with its relentless Christmas cheer and small-town charm? Was it the wine making me sentimental about things that shouldn’t matter? Was it the decorations and the music and the whole nostalgic atmosphere?
Or was it just Sylvie?
The answer to that question scared me more than I wanted to admit.
