Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Thanksgiving morning smelled like wood glue and denial.
Noah Carter figured both were better scents than turkey and pity.
He was supposed to be at his parents’ house by noon, but he’d come into the workshop early with the excuse that he wanted to get a head start on the dining table commission before the Christmas madness hit.
The truth was, if he started sanding, the day wouldn’t sneak up on him.
Holidays had a way of doing that. They snuck in through the cracks.
Noah had exactly one week before the Christmas Festival swallowed him whole, and he was pretending not to care.
The town’s event committee would start calling any day now, the same cheerful chaos of questions and crises: which vendor had bailed, whether the tree lights from last year still worked, how many volunteers they had for set-up day.
He’d say yes to all of it, because he always did.
Mapleford’s holiday season was his favorite kind of madness.
But for now, he had a dining table to finish.
His workshop smelled like cedar, coffee, and the faint trace of the cinnamon candle his sister had given him last December. Sawdust coated everything in a soft film.
He turned up the radio to drown out his thoughts. The local station had already gone full holiday. Burl Ives was crooning about holly and jolliness, as if the man had never spent a Thanksgiving alone.
Noah huffed and shook his head. “Ease up, Burl,” he muttered, running the sander over the tabletop. “We haven’t even had pie yet.”
The machine hummed beneath his hands, a steady, familiar vibration.
He loved this part, coaxing something beautiful out of rough wood, as though it had been waiting all along for someone to notice.
He ran a palm over the sanded surface, loving how the grain came up smooth, golden and honeyed under the morning light.
Almost there. Another rubdown with a superfine 2000 grit sandpaper, a final coat of varnish, and it would be ready for the Petersons, who’d ordered it as a “forever table” to celebrate thirty years of marriage.
He liked that phrase. Forever table. The kind you built to last through arguments, kids, birthdays, and the quiet clink of two coffee mugs after everyone else had gone home.
His phone buzzed on the workbench, skittering across a pile of screws. He checked the caller ID and sighed.
Mom.
He took a deep breath and answered. “Hey, Ma.”
“You’re not here.” She didn’t sound mad but amused. “Don’t tell me you’re still in that workshop.”
“Guilty.” He glanced at the clock. 10:47 a.m. “Just wanted to finish the Petersons’ table before the varnish gods abandon me.”
“You and that table.” Her voice softened. “Sweetheart, it’ll keep. Come eat something before your father starts carving the turkey just to ‘test it.’”
He smiled at the image. “I’ll be there soon. Promise.”
There was a pause, the kind that usually meant she was choosing her words carefully. “You could always move back in, you know. For a bit, at least. The house is big and quiet now that your brother’s gone and—”
“Mom.” His voice came out gentle but firm. “I’m okay here.”
“I know,” she said quickly. “But you shouldn’t be alone so much.”
He looked around the workshop, wood dust hanging in golden light, his half-finished table gleaming like amber.
“I’m not,” he said, though it wasn’t quite true.
“Besides, I’ve got the Festival coming up.
The town’ll keep me busy.” He knew she wanted him home, wanted the old rhythm back of noisy dinners, teasing siblings, and the safety of numbers.
But since the breakup two years ago, he’d preferred his quiet little house at the edge of town.
No one asked how he was holding up because no one was there to ask.
“You always let it keep you busy,” she murmured. “Don’t forget to let yourself rest, too.”
He promised he’d be there in an hour, hung up, and stood still for a moment, listening to the radio shift into a new song, ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.’
Perfect. Salt in the wound, courtesy of the universe.
For a moment, he was back in his living room two Decembers ago, the tree lights blinking blue against the walls, Tyler standing by the window with that look that meant we’re already over.
The same song had been playing then too.
You think too small, Noah.
You’re meant for this town. I’m not.
Noah had laughed, thinking it was simply another argument.
He hadn’t laughed when Tyler left the next morning for Boston, chasing city lights and a banking job and a version of himself that didn’t include Noah. The whole town had watched it happen.
In Mapleford, heartbreak wasn’t private.
He grabbed a rag and wiped down the table, forcing the memory away. The surface was smooth and warm under his palms, no splinters, no imperfections. A forever table for a couple still holding on after thirty years. He liked that. He liked building things meant to last.
Noah spent time applying the last layer of varnish, and the table gleamed. He stepped back, hands on hips, the way his father always did after finishing a project.
“You did good,” he muttered to himself. “Not bad for a guy who thinks too small.”
He turned off the radio and the silence landed soft and deep.
For a second, he imagined what it would be like if someone were here to share the quiet.
Not fill it with talk, but exist in it. Someone who’d find the hum of the sander comforting instead of too slow.
Someone who’d look at this town and see roots instead of limits.
He huffed out a laugh. “Hopeless,” he told the empty room.
He walked to the front of the shop and flipped the CLOSED sign. His name—Carter Custom Builds—was stenciled neatly across the glass. Below it hung a small flyer: Mapleford Christmas Festival—December 10-24. Volunteers Needed! His handwriting scrawled across the bottom: Call Noah.
When he finally stepped outside, the air was crisp and bright, the kind of late November cold that bit at your nose and smelled faintly of pine.
Mapleford was mostly quiet, families tucked inside, smoke curling from chimneys.
Soon its main street would be laced with garlands; he’d promised to help with the lighting crew this weekend.
Between that, parade planning, and the tree ceremony, he probably wouldn’t see the inside of this workshop again until January. He should feel restless.
Instead, he felt untethered.
The truth was, he liked his solitude, the way mornings started with coffee and ended with the smell of wood shavings instead of the tension of being someone’s disappointment.
Sometimes, however, when the nights stretched too quiet, he caught himself setting two mugs on the counter before realizing only one was needed.
Down the street, the community center already had a banner for the Christmas Festival flapping in the breeze: MAPLEFORD LIGHTS UP DECEMBER!
He smiled despite himself. He’d coordinated the festival for six years now, and he knew everything about it, every garland, every plug, every neighbor who’d argue about white lights versus colored ones.
He’d pretend to roll his eyes, but secretly, he loved it.
It was the one time of year the whole town came together, even if it meant he didn’t sleep for two weeks straight.
He locked up, hurried over to his truck, got in, and started the engine. The seat was cold, the air smelling faintly of coffee and cedar. He caught sight of the empty passenger seat and frowned at it as if it had betrayed him. “Don’t start,” he muttered.
At his parents’ house, the warmth hit him like a punch.
His mother’s laugh emanated from the kitchen, he caught his father arguing with the television, and under all of it was the chaos of cousins and casseroles.
It was good, familiar. He let himself be hugged, teased, fed too much.
But in between bites and laughter, he felt it, the space that used to belong to someone else.
The way his mom’s eyes flicked toward him when couples reached for each other’s hands.
After dinner, he helped his dad wash dishes. His father elbowed him gently. “Heard the Petersons’ table’s coming along nice.”
“Almost done.”
“Your mother says you’re working too much.”
“Mom says everyone’s doing everything too much,” Noah said with a small grin.
His dad chuckled. “She’s not wrong.” He rinsed a plate, then lowered his voice. “You ever think about trying again? Dating?”
Noah kept his focus on the dish towel. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
“You’re a good man, son,” his father said. “Don’t let one person make you smaller.”
That hit him hard, but Noah did his best not to react. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
When he left later that evening, the town was dusted with early snow, a glittering hint of what was coming.
He drove back to his small house at the edge of the pines, the headlights cutting through the white.
Inside, the heat kicked on with a sigh, and the silence settled around him like an old coat.
He poured a mug of cocoa, set it down on the table, and ran his hand over the rocking chair he’d made several years ago. The wood glowed with warmth.
He thought about the families gathered tonight, the noise, the warmth, the arms to fall into. He wasn’t jealous, exactly, but aware of how still the air could be when laughter wasn’t filling it.
Go to bed, Noah.
There was nothing to stay up for.
No one to stay up with.
He turned off the light and peered through the window. Outside, snow drifted through the dark. Tomorrow, he told himself, he’d go into town early and pick up supplies for the Festival before everyone else descended on Home Depot.
For now, he stood by the window, watching the flakes settle, until the chill made him move.
The house felt too quiet, a silence that had begun two years ago.
Maybe it’s time to change that.
Yeah, right.