Chapter 10 Taylen
TAYLEN
We’re silent as we make our way to the farmhouse, the only sounds coming from the snow crunching under our boots and Gouta’s happy trot beside Kay.
Each step takes me further away from Bastian’s studio and our easy conversation, probably the first we’ve ever had.
I steal a glance at him from the corner of my eye.
His profile is sharp against the winter light, all strong lines and silver-touched dark hair that makes my fingers itch with the urge to touch.
His beard isn’t as well-groomed now as when he was showing up in TV interviews all the time or being followed around by the press.
Sebastian Hall, the dairy farmer, couldn’t be further from the spotlight.
Damn him for being good at this.
I’ve spent weeks convincing myself he’s just playing at being a farmer, that his real commitment is still to his music career because I’m too scared he’ll leave again when all I want is to get close.
But those plans in his studio aren’t the work of someone killing time between tours. They’re thorough, practical, and show a deep understanding of the challenges facing small farms like ours.
The realization settles in my chest uncomfortably.
I’ve been nursing my resentment like a familiar friend, using it as armor against the feelings I’ve carried since I was too young to know better.
But standing in that studio, watching him explain his vision for collaborative farming initiatives with genuine passion lighting his eyes, that armor developed some serious cracks.
This is dangerous territory. When it comes to Bastian Hall, I’ve always had a weakness.
Even when I was thirteen and he was just Jackson’s cool friend who played guitar and sang like an angel, there was something about him.
Twenty years later, he’s become more attractive, more accomplished, and apparently more committed to staying in Vermont than I ever gave him credit for.
Holding on to how much I felt his absence after Jackson died was needed to protect my heart from falling for him. Who knew that a chat and a short nap were all it would take to make me change my tune?
The warmth of the farmhouse kitchen wraps around me with scents of sage and butter and the ghost of traditions I thought I’d lost forever.
My parents called earlier to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving.
The conversation was short because they were getting ready to join their friends for a community dinner.
A phone call is nice, but it will never be the same as having them here with me.
I don’t resent them and their choice to move to a warmer climate, but I miss them.
All conversation stops as we enter. Stone’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline while Nikko’s grin spreads slow and knowing across his face.
My neck burns under their scrutiny, and I resist the urge to check if my shirt is buttoned properly or my hair is sticking up at odd angles from falling asleep on the couch.
“Sorry we’re late. Hope you didn’t wait on us,” I say, trying my best to keep a steady voice that doesn’t give away my thoughts. “Bastian was just showing me…um—”
“I bumped into Taylen on my way to get wood for the fire, and it dawned on me that he hasn’t seen my new chickens,” he says.
I see Kay’s smile from the corner of my eye, but she doesn’t say anything. I knew I always liked that kid for a reason.
“Nonsense,” Sylvie reassures. “You’re both right on time. But Bastian is on cleanup duty.”
He laughs and walks toward the large table. I follow him, weaving between the counter and the already-seated guests.
“Hi, Henry,” I say to his dad as I pass him. “Good to see you.”
“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 his brother.” 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 a smell 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.”
I catch Bastian watching me, his expression thoughtful. Something passes between us. This is exactly the kind of challenge his plans were designed to address, though neither of us could have predicted it would come so soon or so dramatically.
“The timing couldn’t be worse,” Finn adds, finally giving up the pretense of eating. “Four weeks before Christmas, and suddenly half our holiday traditions are impossible.”
“What about the high school football field?” Henry suggests. “It’s big enough, and it’s already set up for crowds.”
Finn shakes his head. “The power grid out there can’t handle holiday lighting. We’d need generators, which means permits, which means time we don’t have.”
Tyler leans forward, looking at Mik and then turning to Finn.
“How about splitting the events between different venues? We have similar challenges in Stillwater with space allocation for large events. Last year, we ran a fundraiser at the community center, a concert in the park, and a small market in the town square. All on the same weekend.”
“That would create a traffic nightmare,” Finn points out gently. “Most people out here don’t live in town. Everyone drives in.”
Each idea dies a quick death, torn apart by logistics and practicality. I find myself watching Fox instead of contributing. He hasn’t said a word since Finn’s announcement, his focus entirely on his plate as he methodically separates his food into neat sections.
Finn keeps glancing in Fox’s direction between shooting down suggestions, like he’s hoping Fox will come up with the solution no one’s thought of yet.
The evening has transformed from celebration to crisis management, and we’re no closer to a solution than when he first burst through the door.
Fox continues his silent contemplation of his plate, though I notice his methodical eating has slowed to almost nothing. Whatever’s going on in his head, he’s not sharing it yet, which isn’t surprising. Fox has always been the quiet one in the band.
Finn’s fork hits his plate with enough force to make me jump. His eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes me want to check my shirt for stains, then shift to Bastian with growing excitement.
“Wait,” he says, his voice carrying that particular tone that usually precedes either brilliance or disaster. “Maybe you two can help.”
Everyone’s attention swings toward us like a spotlight. Bastian shifts in his chair beside me.
Understanding dawns slowly, then all at once.
The land on the south side of our properties shares a border where both of us have fallow fields lying empty for the winter.
I picture the spot where our fence line runs, that wide expanse where Bastian’s land and mine back onto each other.
The access roads from both properties could easily accommodate traffic flow.
I turn to find Bastian watching me. “We could,” I say slowly. “The infrastructure’s already there, and with both properties combined…”
His lack of an immediate answer tells me we’re not on the same page with this.
Anger suddenly builds in my chest, and it takes everything in me not to shout at him or storm out.
For all the plans Bastian has to help the community, when things get tough, he’s not actually willing to help.
It hits me. He doesn’t need to.
Unlike everyone else in Winterberry, Sebastian Hall is a multimillionaire. He needs our community a lot less than we need him.
I realize then that I was wrong about him all along. This was never about Bastian Hall staying in Winterberry. This is about whether Bastian Hall belongs in Winterberry.