Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
NICK
T he crisp air brushes my cheeks as Rudy gracefully touches down on the quiet street corner in front of the Kringle House on Waterfront Street in Founder's Grove, Massachusetts.
I inhale deeply, savoring the salty tang of the ocean and the faint aroma of wood smoke from a nearby chimney. It’s too early for the town to stir. The streets are empty, the shops dark, and the tourist attractions dormant. Christmas isn’t exactly tourist season in Founder's Grove. I half wonder if the locals are too tired out from hosting 4th of July celebrations and dressing up as pilgrims throughout the other three seasons to have enough energy left over to celebrate Christmas.
But ya gotta celebrate Christmas!
“Thanks for the smooth ride, buddy,” I say, patting Rudy’s furry neck. His glowing red nose pulses in response, casting a warm light over the patches of snow. The weatherman said it would be a mild winter for this part of the country. Doesn’t matter to me. I don’t feel the cold, but it would help my mission—er quest—if there was a light snow every day, big flakes that float to the ground at the perfect speed to catch them on your tongue.
Grady, at age 8, can make it snow like that. Because he was born a Kringle.
Rudy nudges me toward the house. Stop putting it off.
“Okay. Okay. I’m going. Give a guy a second to get his bearings, would ya?” I gripe back at him. He huffs as if he’s dealing with a petulant new flier. Rudy’s actually one of the most patient reindeer I’ve ever met. He was born with a degenerative eye disorder that prevented him from joining Santa’s reindeer. A surgery fixed his eyes, and he’s been with the elite eight ever since.
My gaze is drawn to the charming robin’s egg blue house with its welcoming wrap-around porch. Rocking chairs sway gently in the morning breeze as if beckoning me to sit and stay awhile. I can see Gail’s hand all over this house. She must really love it here. Potted evergreens placed on either side of the front door are decorated in vibrant shades of green and red, adding festive pops of color. A smile tugs at my lips when I spot the wooden sign by the front door: “Welcome to the Kringle Home.”
I glance up and down the empty street. Santa rolled out a welcome mat, but no one in this town knows. That’s the funny thing about Christmas Magic, you have to have a believing heart to see it. Once you open your heart, you can’t stop seeing it.
“Do you think you can pull the sleigh out to the barn?” I ask Rudy. “I’ll meet you out there in a few minutes to unharness you.”
He flicks his tail. Take your time. He moves onto the pebble pathway that winds around the house to the barn out back. I believe there are enough stalls for four reindeer, food, and a high enough ceiling that they can fly laps to keep from feeling cooped up.
Shouldering my duffle bag, I make my way up the porch steps. The weathered boards creak beneath my boots. Fishing the key from my pocket, I unlock the door and step inside.
Immediately, I’m enveloped by the cozy warmth of the interior. The entryway opens into a spacious living room, where plush furniture in rich hues of cranberry and evergreen invites me to sink in and relax. A stone fireplace dominates one wall, its mantel adorned with twinkling fairy lights and a row of hand-knitted stockings. I bet my candy canes Harvey’s mother knitted those.
Wandering into the kitchen, I trail my fingers along the cool marble countertops. The space is bright and airy, with a large farmhouse table that practically begs for family meals and late-night conversations over cups of coffee and plates of Robyn’s famous sugar cookies. For a moment, longing pierces my heart as I imagine belonging here, truly being part of the Kringle clan in more than just a name.
Shaking off the wistful thoughts, I head out the back door to get Rudy settled. The small barn matches the house perfectly, its robin’s egg blue exterior weather-worn but sturdy. Large, cast-iron lanterns frame the sliding barn door and remind me that there’s history in this town—enough to be proud of for generations to come. The people who live here come from hearty stock, people who wanted freedom to worship God and were stubborn enough to stand against New England winters.
Inside, the sweet scent of fresh hay mingles with the earthy musk of reindeer. I fill Rudy’s trough with clear water and toss him a few carrots, chuckling as he nuzzles my hand in thanks.
I give his velvety nose an affectionate rub. “We’ve got a big job ahead of us.”
Leaving Rudy contentedly munching, I wander back outside. The distant crash of waves beckons, so I set off down the street towards the heart of town. As I walk, I can’t help but marvel at the picturesque charm of Founder's Grove. Cobblestone paths wind between historic buildings, their facades a pleasing mix of weathered brick and clapboard. Quaint shops line the streets, their old-fashioned signs creaking in the breeze.
But something feels...off. An eerie stillness hangs in the air, the usual bustle of a tourist town conspicuously absent. Many of the storefronts are shuttered, and I realize with a start that I haven’t seen a single string of lights or holiday wreath adorning any of the doors.
Brow furrowing, I pause in front of a small bakery. The scent of freshly baked bread wafts out, drawing me in like a siren song. I’m a sucker for good breads. My mom used to make bread and I always feel like there’s love inside of a loaf. I’ve never tasted any that is just like hers. I don’t think I ever will. I push my way inside .
“Good morning,” calls a voice from behind the counter. An elderly gentleman with a shock of white hair and a flour-dusted apron smiles at me, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “What can I get for you?” His hands are thick, and his arms are strong. He’s built like a barrel, and I’d expect to see him behind a bar instead of behind cinnamon rolls. His kindness is evident in his smile, even as a faded blue Navy anchor tattoo on his forearm tells me he’s no pushover. This was a man who got a tattoo before they came in the shape of puppies and pretty words.
“Good morning,” I reply, returning his smile. “A loaf of your seven-grain, please. And maybe you could answer a question for me?”
“Sure thing.” He wraps the bread deftly and hands it over. “What’s on your mind?”
“Is it always this...quiet around here? I noticed a lot of the shops are closed, and I haven’t seen any Christmas decorations up yet, even though it’s the day after Thanksgiving.” Some people don’t even wait that long to put up a tree.
Understanding dawns on the baker’s weathered face. “Ah, you must be new in town. Once tourist season ends, we go into hibernation. Folks keep to themselves, you know? As for Christmas, well, it’s been a long time since we made much of a fuss.”
My heart sinks at his words. “Really? No celebrations at all?”
He shrugs, his expression a mix of resignation and wistfulness. “It’s just the way things are. People stay in to keep the cold at bay. Lights and garlands are more effort than most want to make.”
“That’s a shame,” I murmur, an idea beginning to take shape. “Christmas is such a special time. It seems wrong not to share that joy with each other.”
The baker eyes my ugly Christmas sweater curiously. “You believe in all that? Santa Claus and magic and goodwill to all?”
I meet his gaze steadily. “I do. And I think this town could use a little extra cheer this year. What if...” I take a breath, hardly believing what I’m about to say. “What if we planned a Christmas gathering for everyone? Bring back some of that old-fashioned holiday spirit?”
He stares at me for a long moment, then barks out a laugh. “Son, you’d have better luck getting snowmen to sunbathe. People around here are set in their ways. Stubborn all the way down to their roots.”
“There must be a way,” I persist. I put my hand in my pocket and feel the coin. Is this the man who should have it? Is the coin the key to bringing Christmas Spirit into his heart? “Who would I need to talk to for approval? The mayor? City council?”
“The city planning committee handles stuff like that.” The baker scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Their office is up on the hill. One-hundred-and-sixteen-steps. But I’m warning you, they’re not exactly known for their festive spirit.”
“I have to try,” I say, resolve hardening in my chest. “Thank you for your help, Mr...? ”
“Caldwell. Henry Caldwell.” He sticks out a gnarled hand, and I shake it firmly. “And you are?”
“Nick. Nick Kringle.” It still feels strange claiming the name out loud, like an ill-fitting sweater I’m trying to break in, and trust me, I’ve had my fair share of Christmas sweaters.
“Well, Nick Kringle, I wish you luck.”
With a final nod of thanks, I leave the bakery and set off up the steep hill. The winter air fills my lungs as I climb. I’m a little out of breath at the top, but not at all warm. Another Kringle ability.
From here, I can see all of Founder's Grove stretched out below—the harbor dotted with boats wrapped up against the weather, the village green with its proud soldier’s monument, and the rolling hills and fields beyond. It’s a town frozen in time, just waiting for someone to breathe new life into it.
Squaring my shoulders, I march up to the nondescript brick building housing the city planning office. The receptionist barely glances up from her computer screen as I enter, motioning me vaguely towards a row of plastic chairs. Dread curdles in my stomach as I survey the dismal waiting area, all dingy linoleum, and flickering fluorescent bulbs. If this is any indication of the committee’s enthusiasm, Henry was right to warn me.
The office door creaks open. “Can I help you?”
My head snaps up. Standing in the doorway is quite possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Rich chestnut curls tumble past her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face with creamy skin and wide, inquisitive eyes. Her burgundy sweater dress hugs curves that send my mind skittering in decidedly un-Nice List directions.
“I...um...”
Great start, Nick. Very articulate. I scramble to collect my scattered thoughts, but then I notice the baby bouncer perched behind her. Nestled inside is a cherubic infant, all rosy cheeks and downy hair that perfectly matches her mother’s. My heart does a funny little flip in my chest.
As if sensing my gaze, the baby turns her head and stares at me with solemn blue eyes. Before I can stop myself, I’m moving towards her. Every Kringle loves kids, but there’s something about this one that calls to my heart. I crouch down to her level and hold out my finger for her to take. Her tiny hand reaches out, latching onto my extended finger with surprising strength.
A rush of joy overcomes me, and I grin at her. “Well, hello there,” I coo. “Aren’t you a little elf?”
The baby rewards me with a gummy smile.
“Looks like you’ve made a friend.”
I glance up to find the woman watching us. She’s interested, not threatened. Maybe she can feel this magic that’s happening too?
I would blush if I could. But I can’t. I can stutter and completely forget how to speak when a beautiful woman is looking at me so intently.
I carefully extract my finger and stand, holding out my hand for her to shake. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to just barge in. I’m Nick, Nick Kringle. I’m here to see about--“
“I know why you’re here,” she interrupts as she shakes my hand. A charge rushes through my veins, starting at the point of contact and surging up my arm and right to my heart. My whole chest tingles like I’m covered in static electricity. She lets go and takes a step away, as if she needs some space from me. “You want to plan some kind of Christmas event?”
“How did you...?”
She arches one fine brow. “Word travels fast in Founder's Grove.”
I smile. “You talked to Henry? Already? I just climbed the one-hundred-and-sixteen steps to get here.” It didn’t take me that long.
She chuckles. “Henry has me on speed dial.”
I blink, nonplussed. “Any friend of Henry’s is a friend of mine. And you are?”
“Penelope Winthrop. Assistant Director of Community Development and Outreach. I run the off-season in this town and half of the tourist season for the rest of the year, and I’m over the planning committee’s meeting agenda.”
Message received—if I want to get to the committee, I have to go through her. She’s stern but not unkind, gorgeous but putting off major I-don’t-date vibes.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Penelope. Both of you.” I can’t help but smile at the baby, who gurgles back at me. It’s clear that she’s her mother’s daughter. They have the same eyes and heart-shaped faces. “She’s absolutely beautiful. What’s her name?”
For a split second, Penelope’s mask slips. A tender look softens her eyes as she glances at her daughter. “Noelle. She’s seven months old. ”
“Noelle.” I let the name roll off my tongue, savoring the Christmas feel of it. “How perfect. I guess you’re a fan of the holiday, then?”
Her walls slam back into place. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Let’s get down to business.”
I’m thrown by how quickly she shuts down. She must have a lot of practice at it. I wonder where the baby’s father is. Is he still in the picture? Maybe that’s why she doesn’t want me taking an interest. I glance around the office looking for a family picture, but all I see are pictures of Noelle as a newborn.
“Sounds good.” Taking a deep breath, I meet her gaze dead-on. “I’m here because I believe Founder's Grove is in desperate need of some Christmas spirit. I’m worried that people have forgotten what that feels like. I want to change that. I want to help plan something that will bring everyone together to celebrate the magic of the season. Something that will remind them of the good in this world and in each other.”
Penelope stares at me for a long, discomfiting moment. “You’re worried about the level of Christmas cheer in a town you don’t live in?” She speaks slowly, as if trying to figure me out.
“Yes. And technically, I live here now.”
“What are you? Some kind of elf?” She folds her arms.
I scoff. “Do my ears look pointed to you?”
She blinks but doesn’t laugh.
“That joke would have slayed back at the North Pole,” I tease.
Her gaze drops to the Christmas tree on my sweater and then back up to my face. I get the distinct impression she’s sizing me up, trying to decide if I’m on the level.
“What do you know about our town or our people?” She finally asks, her voice laden with skepticism. “We work hard to foster pride in our Pilgrim heritage. Those who can move to warmer climates for the winter. We know what we’re about and what our purpose is—and it’s not Christmas.”
I shutter. “Christmas is for everyone. It shouldn’t be about work. It’s a celebration.”
She flicks a hand. “ Pft , obviously, you haven’t tried putting up a Christmas tree by yourself.”
By herself? Why would she do that if she was with Noelle’s father? Perhaps he’s not in the picture after all. Why does the thought of Penelope as a single woman make me happy?
I stop myself from telling her I’ve put up several on my own and enjoyed the process immensely. I have my own apartment in the ice castle, and I enjoy decorating.
“I know that everywhere I’ve been today, I’ve seen shuttered windows and turned backs. I’ve felt the chill in the air that has nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with locking out Christmas. I just want to open those doors. I think there’s a lot of joy in people, and they need an outlet for it.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I want to cringe at how unbelievably hokey they sound. Penelope’s smirk tells me that she agrees that I’m a cheesy Christmas movie idealistic simpleton.
Noelle lets out a happy shriek, clapping her chubby hands together as if in applause. Startled, Penelope and I share a look of astonishment.
“She...doesn’t usually take to strangers like that,” Penelope murmurs, almost to herself. “Especially men.”
I shrug, trying not to look too pleased. “Kids are the best judges of character I’ve heard.” And they’re full of Christmas Magic. We can’t hide it from them.
There’s a speculative gleam in Penelope’s eye now, a hint of curiosity breaking through her frosty veneer. It bolsters my courage, gives me the push I need to lay my cards on the table.
“Look, I’m not asking you to do any extra work. I will plan, execute, decorate, set up, and take down everything. All you have to do is let me present my case to the committee--“
“Of what? What are you planning?”
I stop. “I’m not sure.”
“So you want to plan a big event that will bring the whole community together, but you don’t know what you want to do?”
I shake my head. “But it will come to me. In fact, several ideas will come to me. I’ll let the committee pick which one they like best.”
“Wow, you are committed to this.” She walked around her desk and woke up her sleeping computer.
I glance at Noelle, who chews on one of the toys on the bouncer as she watches me.
“I suppose I could squeeze you in on the schedule.” She fixes me with a stern look. “But you’d better come prepared. I’m talking about detailed plans, budget, logistics, and the whole nine yards.”
It takes a heroic amount of self-control not to pump my fist in victory. Instead, I muster up my most professional smile. “Understood. I won’t let you down.”
She turns back to her desk, riffling through a stack of papers. “Be here at ten o’clock tomorrow.”
“Ten o’clock,” I repeat. “I’ll be here.”
With that, I beat a hasty retreat, my mind already whirring with ideas. I’ve got my work cut out for me. As I stride back out into the crisp December day, I feel lighter than I have in ages.
The wish coin is a reassuring weight in my pocket, a tangible link to my family and my purpose here. And if a tiny part of me is preoccupied with thoughts of silky chestnut curls and fiery hazel eyes, well, who can blame me?
I just need to stay focused on the goal at hand—proving myself worthy of my Kringle name and heritage and earning that tinsel tattoo.
Everything else, no matter how intriguingly tempting, is off-limits.