CHAPTER 5—MADDIE
***
Dad: We're so proud of everything you're doing for the shelter. You know your first article was about our cat? Peter. Your heart shines through, Mads. I don't think we've said it enough.
I STARE AT MY REFLECTION in the bakery window, willing the bags under my eyes to disappear—rereading my Dad's text. My heart shines through. I didn't know I needed to read that. And I didn't know my parents saw that.
Yet, Damian's words from last night still sting like winter wind. After everything, he still sees me as a shallow writer chasing likes. Screw him. I'll show everyone what I'm really made of.
"...And that, dear listeners, is why you always, ALWAYS double-check your drafts before hitting publish. Trust me, I learned that lesson the hard way! Anyway, wishing you all the happiest of holiday seasons as I want to give you an update on the #DearSantaWithLove and #SwansCoveShelterNeedsYourHelp..."
I hit pause on the podcast playback, my finger hovering over the screen. Did I sound too cheerful? Too forced? I shake off the doubt and reach for my fork instead. Nothing like stress-eating to quiet the inner critic.
"Aisling, this cheesecake was beyond delicious," I say, savoring the last bite of Berger cookie cheesecake goodness. "Seriously, you need to trademark this recipe or something"
"Thanks. Maryland all the way. Working on something Old Bay-ish for spring." Aisling smiles, then falters. "Not that you'll be here, but I'll send baked goods so you don't forget Swans Cove." The sadness in her voice catches me off guard."
"Thanks," I manage, accepting a refill of cinnamon tea.
I glance around the packed bakery. Tourists coo over Swans Cove's holiday displays like they've discovered a new species of reindeer. If they think this is impressive, they should've seen Halloween. Now that was a night to remember. And not only because of Damian in his Dr. Mario Vampire.
Damian. Ugh.
Focus, Maddie.
I yank out my notebook - the one with "Future Not-So-Crabby-News Winner" scribbled in the corner (because visualization is key to success, right?). Time to get those creative juices flowing—my reels have been gathering positive response, but I'm still getting way too many disparaging comments under the #DearSantaWithLove hashtag. Each one feels like a personal failure, a reminder that I'm not living up to my potential.
I've been tossing and turning all night, brainstorming ideas for the shelter between answering social media posts. My fingers hover over my phone as another notification pops up:
@TrollMcTrollface: Looks like Santa didn't bring you a filter this year. #DearSantaWithLove #EpicFail
I take a deep breath and type:
@MaddieSmithWrites: Santa's busy helping the Swans Cove Animal Shelter crisis. Why don't you join him? #SwansCoveShelterNeedsYourHelp #BeAHelper
There. Turning negativity into a call to action. That's what a real journalist does, right?
Adoption day? Senior Dog Talent Show? A calendar? I've discarded a dozen ideas. None feel big enough. This needs to be my golden ticket—the story that puts me on the map and helps those senior pups. No pressure—just my entire future and the happiness of some gray-muzzled furballs hanging in the balance.
"Your podcast has really brought on more people than usual," Mr. Schneider's voice cuts in, his tone making it clear that's not a compliment. "First, that self-defense class, and now..." He gives me a thin smile. "Not that we don't know why you ladies flock to that gym. I hear Damian took his shirt off the other day. And let's not forget how he told off the mayor last week. No wonder with the parents he has. That man knows how to..."
I bite back a sigh as Mr. Schneider rambles on about Damian. Part of me wants to agree, to let my hurt feelings win. But the words tumble out before I can stop them. 'That man knows how important the shelter is. He spoke up about the budget cuts because he cares.' I swallow hard, pushing aside the memory of how dismissive he was last night. 'If that ruffled feathers, well, sometimes feathers need ruffling.'"
"Not like that helped..."
"What do you mean?" I know exactly what it means, but sometimes asking those questions can help the other person reflect on their answers.
"Oh. I forgot you're not a true journalist. You're kind of an influencer, right?"
I don't tell him he can see my diploma. Or that I'm fully aware of the burst pipes in the county over and that pets are being moved to our county shelter. I already wrote a Dear Santa column about it. Instead, I give him my best sugary smile. "But since you know, can you tell me what's going on?"
"Of course. There's a crisis. That's what there is. The shelter has no more room. They're panicking. Completely panicking. And I wonder what superman is going to do about that."
"Be a helper." I smile again but wince internally because the last I heard was that the shelter was making good progress. "I'm sure he can count on you for help, too," I continue. "Didn't you adopt Machiavelli from the shelter two years ago?"
Aisling whistles softly. "Here's your coffee, Mr. Schneider. Extra hot, like that take."
Mr. Schneider mumbles, "I was making conversation."
"Hmm-hmm," Aisling replies, giving me a subtle thumbs-up.
I text Ed: Just heard the shelter situation might be even worse. Heading there to get the full story.
My heart skips a beat as I get a notification that @NotSoCrabbyNews is following me again. I'd almost forgotten about the contest in the midst of everything. And also how quick perception can change.
This crisis could be my chance to finally prove myself on a national stage—to do good and advance my career. But as soon as the thought hits, my stomach churns. Damian's words echo in my head, and I push them aside. I'm not doing this just for the contest. I'm doing this because it matters, because these animals need help. I know that.
"Mr. Schneider can be such a pain," Aisling whispers over the counter as she hands me a refill. "But way to go on standing up for your... um, vampirely neighbor."
"Hmm. Maybe."
"Oh, before you go," Aisling says, "you're still coming tonight, right?"
I nod, already mentally drafting interview questions to send the shelter staff. "Definitely. But I might be a bit late. No idea how long I'll be at the shelter."
On my way out, I spot Aunt Locelli and Lady Grey huddled in a corner booth, looking like they're plotting world domination over lattes. Or maybe just the next town gossip. Lady Grey catches my eye and waves me over with a smile that could melt icebergs.
"Maddie, dear! How are you holding up?" Lady Grey asks, her eyes doing that whole I-know-more-than-I'm-saying dance.
"Oh, you know, just peachy," I say, immediately regretting my word choice. "Nothing says 'holiday cheer' like a shelter crisis and... well, you know."
Aunt Locelli's eyebrows shoot up faster than my pageviews after the proposal fiasco. "Trouble at the shelter already? I thought they had it under control."
"Me too."
Lady Grey nods sympathetically. "Have you seen Damian today? He seemed... not quite himself this morning."
"When is he ever?" Aunt Locelli chimes in, stirring her coffee like she's trying to create a whirlpool. "I've been digging into some old newspaper archives, and let me tell you, that boy's got more layers than my prize-winning lasagna."
"Locelli," Lady Grey warns, shooting her a look that could freeze fire.
"What? I'm just saying, Christmas hasn't always been Hallmark movie material for him, if you catch my drift."
I feel my journalistic instincts kicking in, but I squash them down. Instead, I look at Lady Grey and say, "He'll tell me if he wants." I pause, remembering how he once told me about the media nicknaming him 'The Lost Boy'. "He's... shared a little before."
Lady Grey's eyes light up with something I can't quite decipher. "When he's ready," she adds gently, giving me a look that feels like she's seeing right through me.
I nod, thinking, Okay, sure. You can tell she's a romance author. Because I'm not sure her son will ever fully open up to me. Not after last night. But why does Lady Grey look at me like I've solved the mystery of the universe?
"I should go," I say, hitching my bag higher on my shoulder. "Got a shelter to save and all that."
As I turn to leave, I catch Lady Grey and Aunt Locelli exchanging one of those knowing looks, like they're in on a secret I'm not. Great. Another layer to the Damian Mack mystery that I don't have time to unravel right now. My mind's already buzzing with ideas—foster networks, local vets, maybe even that empty apartment in our building. I've got to keep my focus.
This whole thing started because I needed a win—something to prove I'm more than the girl who went viral for all the wrong reasons. And, yeah, that's still driving me. I want to win, to show everyone I can pull this off. But now, it's more than just about getting that headline or clinching the contest. It's about actually making a difference. Proving, to myself and maybe even to Damian, that I'm someone who can step up when it counts.
So, Swans Cove Shelter, get ready. I'm coming with everything I've got—solutions, determination, and, okay, maybe a little holiday magic. It's time to prove that I can do this, not just for the sake of winning, but because it's important. And really, can't a girl have it all?