Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Carlos had always loved the library in December.
There was something sacred about the way the twinkle lights danced across the rows of books, the way the pine garland wound around the banister like a secret waiting to be unraveled.
Even the quiet here felt different. Less like silence, more like a carol holding its breath.
He found Mrs. White in the reading nook by the frosted window, knitting something red and impossibly small. A stocking, maybe. Or a mitten for an elf. She looked up as he approached, eyes sharp behind her glasses, but her smile softened the edges.
“Carlos Nowell,” she said, like he was a story she’d already read but wouldn’t mind revisiting. “What brings you here this fine frosty morning?”
Carlos took off his hat, smoothing his hair more out of habit than vanity. “I wanted to talk to you. About… the Mistletoe Mafia.”
Mrs. White’s knitting needles paused mid-click. Then she laughed—a short, surprised chuckle that morphed into something sly and pleased. “Mistletoe Mafia?” she repeated. “Well now, that’s got a ring to it.”
“Yeah, I appreciated the branding, too. What I don't appreciate is the underhandedness it entails.”
“Oh?” She resumed knitting, the rhythm returning like a heartbeat. “And what do you think I have to do with this mafia?”
He sat on the edge of the armchair across from her, fingers laced. “I hear you're the one in charge.”
“Who said that?” The needles never stopped clacking.
“You know I'm not going to reveal my sources. I'm here to ask is it true?”
Clack-clack went the needles. “Mm. You came here to ask if I'm strong-arming the town in the name of Christmas.”
“I came here because I want to understand.”
At that, she looked at him fully. Like she was measuring something behind his smile. Not his charm. His character.
“I started the Holiday Trail with four shops in an economic downturn where not many businesses thought they were going to make it into the new year. The idea was simple: get people to walk the length of the town instead of stopping at the corner café and turning back. We wanted to share the cheer. And we did.”
Carlos listened, hands still. Heart open.
“It worked,” she continued, “better than I ever dreamed. Business picked up. Spirits lifted. But it was more than sales. We saw something happen. People came out of their homes. They made cocoa for the neighbors. Knitted scarves for kids they didn’t know. Strangers became community.”
Carlos nodded, his chest tightening with something like recognition. That sounded like his kind of Christmas. The one he believed in.
“And then, the Trail started to turn a profit. A good one. Enough to put lights on every lamppost, sure, but also enough to buy coats for every child in the elementary school who needed one. Enough to stock the food pantry through March. Enough to make sure the senior center had heating through the worst of January.”
Carlos swallowed. “I didn’t know that.”
“Most people don’t,” Mrs. White said. “They just see the snow globe sparkle. They don’t see the hand turning the crank.”
She paused then, fingers resting on the half-finished red yarn.
“I’m old, Carlos. I won’t be around forever.
And I’ve made some mistakes. I know that.
I’ve pushed too hard, snapped at volunteers, made demands.
But it’s not because I want power. It’s because I want this to last. I want someone to care as much as I do.
To carry it forward. Not for the glory but for the good. ”
Carlos felt the weight of her words settle in his chest like snow on cedar.
Heavy and beautiful. He thought of Lettie.
Of the way she’d stared at the mug of hot chocolate he'd made her, like it might betray her. Of the way she’d melted, just a little, at the sound of jingle bells.
Of the way she was searching for something real beneath all the glitter.
She wasn’t wrong to ask questions. But maybe… maybe the answers weren’t so simple.
“I think people would understand,” he said quietly, “if they knew the whole story.”
Mrs. White smiled again—smaller this time but softer. “Maybe. Or maybe they’d just find something else to be suspicious about. That’s the thing about joy, Carlos. People don’t trust it unless they can see the strings. And even then, they tug until something unravels.”
Lettie was always tugging. Always testing. As if joy was a trap, not a gift. As if happiness couldn’t be trusted unless it came apart in her hands.
What had she seen in him that made her pull back?
What string had she found and decided was too frayed to hold?
He’d thought last night meant something. The way she leaned into him. The way their breaths had synced, soft and slow like carols humming under the firelight. For a second—for a breath—it had felt like more.
But this morning, she’d left like it meant nothing. She was always looking for the fault line. The first crack. The moment it would all fall apart.
What had she seen in him that told her they would?
And how could he show her that they wouldn’t?