Chapter 4 Jack
JACK
The voice on the other end of the line was polite. Professional. And absolutely unmovable.
Jack Christmas stood by the window of his office, phone pressed to his ear, watching the Atlantic stretch out in shades of gray and silver beneath a late November sky.
The waves rolled in with their usual restless rhythm, crashing against the shore in a sound that had been the backdrop of his entire life.
Construction noise drifted from somewhere on the north side of the inn.
The steady thump of hammers and the whine of a saw cutting through wood.
Logan's crew, working on the guest room renovations that were supposed to save them.
If they could just hold on long enough.
"Mr. Christmas, I understand your position.
" The bank manager's tone carried that careful balance of sympathy and firmness that came from years of delivering bad news.
"But the extension we granted you in August is coming to an end.
We need to see significant progress on the outstanding balance by the end of December, or we'll have no choice but to move forward with foreclosure proceedings. "
Jack's jaw tightened. He turned away from the window and paced across the worn floorboards of his office, past the filing cabinets stuffed with decades of invoices and booking records, past the bookshelf lined with architectural journals and old family photo albums. "The holiday season is our busiest time of year.
The Nights of Lights festival brings in tourists from all over the country.
We're already seeing an uptick in reservations.
If you could just give us until February—"
"I'm afraid that's not possible." The manager paused, and Jack heard the rustle of papers on the other end. "Mr. Christmas, I should also inform you that we've had interest from a development company. They're prepared to purchase the inn's debt and handle the property directly."
The words hit Jack like a punch to the gut. His hand tightened around the phone, knuckles going white. "A developer."
"Yes. I can't share specifics at this time, but they've made a very competitive offer. If the situation doesn't improve by year's end, the bank will likely accept their proposal."
Jack closed his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. The inn. His grandfather's legacy. The place where three generations of the Christmas family had poured their hearts, their sweat, their entire lives. Reduced to a line item on some developer's spreadsheet.
"I understand," Jack said quietly. "Thank you for the call."
He ended it before the manager could offer any more hollow sympathies and set the phone down on his desk with more force than he intended. The sound echoed through the small office, sharp and final.
For a moment, he just stood there, staring at nothing.
The inn had been in his family since 1899.
His great-great-grandfather had built it with his own hands, using timber from the mainland and coquina stone quarried from the island itself.
Every beam, every floorboard, every window had a story.
His grandfather had expanded it in the twenties, adding the east wing and the wraparound porch that overlooked the ocean.
His father had modernized the plumbing and electrical systems in the sixties, fought to get the inn listed on the National Register of Historic Places in the eighties.
And now Jack was going to be the one who lost it.
He moved back to the window, bracing his hands against the sill, and stared out at the water.
The sky was heavy with clouds, the kind that promised rain before nightfall.
Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and mournful.
Down on the beach, a couple walked hand in hand, their figures small against the vastness of the shore.
A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Dad?"
Jack turned to see Jane standing in the doorway, a tray of decorations balanced on one hip.
Garland, ornaments, a tangle of fairy lights that hadn't been sorted yet.
Her auburn hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and there were smudges of gold paint on her hands.
She looked tired. Thinner than she'd been a year ago.
But her eyes, those deep blue eyes she'd inherited from him, held a flicker of something that might have been hope.
"Hey, sweetheart." He managed a smile. "What've you got there?"
"Decorations for the dining room." She shifted the tray, studying his face with the same careful attention she'd had since she was a little girl. "You okay?"
"Fine." The lie came too easily. "Just a long morning."
Jane didn't look convinced, but she nodded and offered him a small, worried smile. "Gran's asking if you want tea. She's in the kitchen with Isabella."
"Tell her I'll be there in a minute."
Jane hesitated, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer, then disappeared down the hallway. Jack heard her footsteps fade, followed by the distant murmur of voices and the clatter of pots from the kitchen.
He should go. Should reassure his mother, help Jane with the decorations, and check on the construction progress. But he couldn't make himself move. The weight of it all pressed down on him like a physical thing, heavy and suffocating.
The phone rang again.
Jack stared at it for a moment, debating whether to let it go to voicemail. Then he sighed and picked it up. "Christmas Inn, this is Jack."
"Jack Christmas, the man who never sleeps." Logan Miller's voice came through the line, warm and teasing. "You sound like someone just told you Christmas was cancelled."
Despite everything, Jack felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Logan. What's up?"
"Can't a guy call his best friend without needing a reason?" Logan paused. "Okay, fine. I need a reason. I'm bored out of my mind in Tampa, and I figured I'd come down for the holidays. Help you out with the renovations. Drink some beer. Annoy you relentlessly."
Jack leaned back against the desk, crossing one ankle over the other. "You're already annoying me, and you're not even here yet."
"That's the spirit." Logan's tone shifted, growing more serious. "How are things, really? Jane mentioned you've been stressed."
Jack hesitated. Logan had been his best friend since high school, the kind of friend who showed up when you needed him without being asked. But pride was a stubborn thing, and admitting how bad things had gotten felt like failure.
"It's fine," Jack said. "Just the usual end-of-year chaos. Bookings, renovations, keeping the place running."
Silence on the other end of the line. Then, quietly, "Jack. Come on. It's me."
Jack exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "The bank called. The loan extension ends in December. If we don't make significant progress on the balance, they will move forward with foreclosure. And there's a developer circling, ready to buy up the debt."
More silence. Then Logan swore, low and fierce. "Those vultures. How much do you need?"
"Logan—"
"How much?"
Jack stared at the ceiling, his throat tight. "More than I can ask you for."
"Good thing you're not asking, then. I'm offering." Logan's voice was firm, brooking no argument. "I've got savings sitting in the bank doing nothing. Let me loan it to you. Get you through December, give you breathing room to figure out the next step."
"I can't take your money." Jack’s voice brooked no argument.
"Why not?" Logan’s tone of voice also said he was not taking no for an answer.
"Because it's charity, and I'm not—" Jacks started, but was cut off.
"Then call it an investment." Logan cut him off, his tone matter-of-fact. "Shares in the new and improved Christmas Inn. I help you keep the place afloat, and when it's back on its feet, I get a cut of the profits. Fair deal."
Jack opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. He turned back to the window, watching the waves roll in. The construction noise had stopped. Someone laughed outside, the sound carrying on the wind. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
"I need to talk to my mother," Jack said finally. "And Jane. This isn't just my decision."
"Of course." Logan's voice softened. "Take your time. But Jack? Don't let pride get in the way of saving something that matters. Your dad wouldn't have."
The words landed like a stone in Jack's chest. He swallowed hard. "I'll call you back."
"You better," Logan warned.
Jack hung up and stood there for a moment, staring at the phone. Then he straightened, squared his shoulders, and headed for the door.
He found his mother in the kitchen, sitting at the long wooden table with a cup of tea in her hands.
Julie Christmas was seventy-six, with silver-white hair that caught the light like spun glass and eyes the same deep blue as Jack's and Jane's.
She wore a soft shawl wrapped around her shoulders, and though age had slowed her steps, there was still a sharpness in her gaze that missed nothing.
Jane was at the sink, washing paint off her hands, humming softly under her breath.
"Mom. Jane." Jack's voice was steady, but his chest felt tight. "Can we talk? In my office."
Julie set down her teacup, her expression shifting to one of quiet concern. "Of course, dear."
Jane dried her hands on a towel and followed them down the hallway. They settled into Jack's office, Julie in the cushioned armchair by the window, Jane perched on the edge of the desk, and Jack standing by the bookshelf, arms crossed.
He told them everything. The bank's ultimatum. The developer's interest. Logan's offer.
When he finished, the room was silent except for the faint crash of waves and the distant cry of gulls.
Julie was the first to speak. "I have savings," she said quietly. "Not much, but enough to help. We can use it."
"Mom, no." Jack shook his head. "That's your retirement. Your security. I'm not touching it."
"It's my inn too," Julie said, her voice firm despite its softness. "Your father’s legacy. If it can help, then it should."
Jane bit her lip, her fingers twisting together in her lap. "Logan's offer makes sense," she said. "He's not a stranger. He's family. You know what granddad always said."
Julie reached over and squeezed her granddaughter's hand. "Jack, Jane’s right. Your father always said family isn't just blood. It's the ones who show up when you need them. And Logan has been showing up since the two of you were at school."
Jack felt something loosen in his chest. He looked at his mother, at his daughter, and saw the same determination in their faces that he felt in his own bones.
"Alright," he said quietly. "I'll call Logan back."
Julie smiled, a small, tired smile that still held a spark of hope. "Good. Now, let's get back to work. We have an inn to save."
Jane stood, brushing a hand over her eyes, and followed her grandmother out of the office. Jack watched them go, then turned back to his desk.
A framed photo sat on the corner, slightly faded with age.
His father was standing in front of the inn on its opening day after the last renovation in the eighties.
He was grinning, one arm slung around Jack's shoulders, the other around Julie.
The inn glowed behind them, wrapped in lights, a beacon against the twilight sky.
Jack picked up the photo, running his thumb over the glass. "We won't lose your legacy, Dad," he whispered. "I promise."
Outside, a dog barked. Sharp, insistent. Jack glanced at the clock on the wall. The mail. Two-thirty. Right on time.
He set the photo down with a sigh and headed for the front door.
The mail carrier's truck was pulling away as he stepped onto the porch, and a small stack of envelopes sat in the mailbox.
Jack grabbed them and flipped through absently.
Bills. A catalog. A postcard from a guest thanking them for a wonderful stay.
And then, at the bottom, a thick envelope.
Jack froze.
The return address was from a law firm in Miami. Bennett, Crawford & Associates. And stamped across the front in bold red letters: Notice of Intent to Collect.
His hands tightened on the envelope, crumpling the edges. He stared at it for a long moment, his pulse pounding in his ears.
Then he turned and walked back into the inn, the envelope clutched in his fist.
It was time to put pride aside.
It was time to call Logan.