The Christmas Jubilee Parade always runs on the first Tuesday after the schools let out for break. I think Wilmington has been doing it this way for a hundred years. Doesn’t matter if it’s raining, sleeting, or seventy degrees, Market Street shuts down and the whole town shows up.
My phone buzzes with a text from Lane.
The parade is about to start. Where are you?
I dodge a delivery truck and jog across the street, spotting Sanders first. He's wearing those goofy antlers again.
Beside him, Luke Turner sits bundled in a puffy jacket, his face pale but eyes bright under a knitted hat.
They’re on a makeshift float hitched to a pickup, garland wrapped sloppily around the trailer rails. Each boy clutches a poster—Sanders’s saysSEND LUKE 2 DUKE, and Luke’s saysIT’S LUKE TURNER’S TURN.
I spot Lane at the curb, her blue sweater bright against the crowd. She lifts a hand when she sees me, relief softening her face. This isn’t her “parent-teacher conference” smile. It’s the real one, the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes and makes something shift low in my chest.
“You made it,” she says as I step up beside her.
“Wouldn’t miss this,” I answer, both of us aware that it isn't always true. She looks at her watch as a silent nod to the fact that I always cut it close.
The high school band clatters past, blaring “Dancing Around the Christmas Tree.” Then, the Kidney Foundation's float rolls into view. Sanders waves like a politician working a crowd, and Luke grins gamely beside him.
There's a third child, a girl about their age, braids bouncing as she throws candy into the street.
“Do you know who that is?” I lean closer to Lane. Her lavender scent brushes past me, hitting a place deeper than I expected.
“That's Leigh Turner,” Lane says, eyes still on the float. “Luke’s little sister. She’s just ten months younger. Carly couldn’t get out of work, so I brought them both.”
I blink. “You brought them?”
“Of course,” she says simply, not looking at me. "We couldn't have showcased the highlight without Luke."
My throat tightens. Lane, always stepping in without hesitation, always filling gaps no one else even sees, makes my heart swell. Gratitude presses hot against my ribs, but pride keeps me quiet.
The parade is long for our small-ish town. I'd estimate no less than forty floats and hundreds, if not over a thousand people, line the streets. Once the last one goes by, the one with Santa, we start to make our way to the pick-up area to get the kids.
A woman with a press badge and a guy with a camera turn at my approach. The reporter's face lights up like I've just delivered the final puzzle piece.
"Dr. and Mrs. Beamer! Perfect timing. I'm Jen from the Wilmington Star-News." She extends her hand. "We're doing a feature on the Turner fundraiser—'Local Family Launches Christmas Miracle.' The story's already getting national attention."
Local Family.The words hang in the air between Lane and me. Neither of us corrects her.
"We already got some great shots of the boys on the float during the parade," the photographer calls, crouching to frame the shot. "Mom and Dad, can you stand together so I can get you two for the story?"
Lane’s shoulders stiffen imperceptibly. I step closer, careful to leave space. A lavender notehangs between us, not strong, just enough to remind me of how this used to be.
"Big smiles!" the photographer calls.
Lane shifts reluctantly and then wraps her arm around my back, pulling me in at the waist. Our sides fit together perfectly, the contact sending electricity through my body.
"Tell us about the community response," Jen prompts, voice recorder extended. "What does this outpouring of Christmas spirit mean to you as a family?"
As afamily. The fiction of it sears through me, head to toe
I clear my throat. "The generosity has been overwhelming. We're really proud of Sanders for recognizing a need and creating this buzz, bringing everyone together. Luke's condition requires specialized care, and this community, and now the nation, has stepped up in ways we never could have imagined."
Lane nods along, every muscle in her face controlled. I know she hates the attention, the performance, the pretense.
When the reporter finally thanks us and tucks away her recorder, Lane exhales hard beside me.
"I hate small-town spectacle," she mutters, watching them walk away.
