Chapter 17
CHAPTER 17
PENELOPE
T he soft morning light filters through my lavender curtains, casting a gentle glow across my bedroom. I stand before my vintage wardrobe, contemplating my outfit for the day. This wardrobe belonged to my grandma, and I love it. At some point in her life, she drew a heart with her and Grandpa’s initials on the inside of the door by the bottom right corner.
I think of that moment, of the feelings that she must have had that led her to doodle that heart. I wonder if there were times when she touched it, thinking back and being filled with the feelings of young love.
It seems like an impulsive thing to do—drawing on furniture. And yet, it’s purposeful and has been poignant—at least for me. I want the kind of love that inspires doodles.
I had it once.
Before my thoughts can follow that path through an enchanted forest where it snows all year, and there are reindeer prints laid out in front of me, I grab my soft wool sweater and shut the door.
As I pull the sweater over my head, enjoying the warmth it immediately provides. I don’t often wear sweaters because they remind me of Nick.
Cranberries! There I go, actually thinking his name. It’s because it’s officially the Christmas season. Black Friday sales chime up and down Main Street and hopefully in the bakery downstairs.
I sigh. It’s getting harder for Grandpa to make it up and down the stairs. His hip has a glitch in it that I’m sure means he needs a replacement. Though he won’t complain, I can see it in his walk. He should have retired and moved to a warmer climate years ago, but feels like he needs to be here for me and Noelle.
I’m selfish enough to let him keep believing that. We’ll need to figure something out soon, though. The bakery isn’t bringing in what it used to—it hasn’t for years. It’s ripe for a makeover, and we just don’t have the funds for it.
The sound of thunder rumbles down the hallway, and before I can even turn around, a small whirlwind of energy bursts into my room, colliding with my legs.
“Mamma! Mamma!” Noelle’s excited voice fills the air, her blue eyes wide with wonder. “I heard sleigh bells last night!”
I can’t help but chuckle at her enthusiasm, running my fingers through her soft blonde curls. At nearly four years old, Noelle is a bundle of energy and imagination, always ready for the next adventure .
“Sleigh bells, huh?” I say, crouching down to her level. “And where were these sleigh bells?”
“In the sky.” She grins so big. “Santa flew over us.”
A warm sensation floods from my heart in all directions. It couldn’t be. Could it? In the three Christmases since I wished him away, Nick hasn’t once come back to Founder's Grove. I can’t say that I blame him after what I did. He wouldn’t be flying over now, would he?
Just because there was a sleigh doesn’t mean it was him; I chide myself. He has a large adopted family, of which I only met a small portion. I feel a pang as I think of Hazel and her sweet, giving heart and Christmas nuts. We’ve never had their equal at the Bazaar. And Oliver, with his enthusiasm for train conducting—it was bigger than the tots-train he’d built. I still can’t believe he built that thing in the barn. It magically works without any maintenance, and the kids look forward to when we set it up.
As quickly as she arrived, Noelle’s off again, her feet pattering against the hardwood floor as she races out of the room.
I sigh, straightening up and smoothing out my sweater. I can’t deny that there’s a Santa. I’ve seen the magic myself, and the gifts that appear under the tree every Christmas morning testify that he’s there. Not to mention how incredibly personalized they are. I know Nick is behind some of them, like the miniature baking set—hand carved, mind you—that arrived the year Noelle turned two. She spent hours with Grandpa rolling out dough with her perfectly sized rolling pin.
Even as I acknowledge that the magic is there, I have this wall that only allows enough of it in for Noelle. Adults don’t get to partake, and I’m fine with that. Nick and his family are a special case. There’s no space in the real world—in my world—for magic. As soon as I came to terms with that, I put Nick and the wishing incident behind me and moved on.
I’ve done pretty well for myself, if I do say so. I’ve moved up from Assistant Director to Director of Community Development and Outreach, a job I love, but that keeps me busier than ever. My time working with Nick on the Christmas Bazaar proved to the planning committee that I was ready for and capable of taking on more responsibility. My boss retired, and I moved seamlessly into his spot.
Speaking of jobs, I need to get moving. I make my way to the kitchen, the scent of cinnamon and freshly brewed coffee growing stronger with each step.
Grandpa Henry is already at the small round dining table, a mug of steaming coffee in his gnarled hands. His shock of white hair is as unruly as ever, and his bright blue eyes twinkle as he sees me.
“Morning, sweetpea,” he says, his voice warm and gravelly. “Sleep well?”
I nod, pouring myself a cup of coffee before joining him at the table. The aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls wafts through the air, making my stomach growl appreciatively.
“Those smell divine,” I say, reaching for one of the sticky pastries.
Grandpa chuckles. “Well, I may not be able to keep up with the bakery like I used to, but I can still whip up a mean batch of cinnamon rolls.”
As if on cue, Noelle comes barreling into the kitchen, her energy seemingly limitless. She climbs into her chair, her eyes lighting up at the sight of the cinnamon rolls.
“Can I have one, Mamma? Please?” she asks, her voice sweet as honey.
I nod and put one on a plate. As I watch her devour the pastry, sticky icing smearing across her cheeks, I feel a rush of love so strong it almost takes my breath away.
“You look tired, Penelope,” Grandpa says, his voice tinged with concern. “Were you up late again?”
I sigh, taking a sip of my coffee. “Just catching up on some work. I want to be free to help at Noelle’s school today. They’re making Christmas decorations.” Noelle no longer goes to work with me every day—which allows me to be more productive, but I miss her. We were two stockings that hung together for so long that it’s strange to have her in an all-day preschool.
Grandpa frowns, the lines around his eyes deepening. “You need to rest more, sweetpea. Not go on so many dates.”
I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head. He’s not worried that I’ll work myself to death, but that going out on the weekends will do me in. “I’m happy dating, Grandpa. Really.”
And I am.
Nick showed me that there was more to life than just getting through. He made me feel like I was important enough to spend time with and on, and I realized that I didn’t need someone else to make those efforts for me—especially if I wasn’t willing to make them for myself. I mean, it was great that he would bring me a cocoa at work just because he thought I might be cold or that he rubbed my shoulders when we worked on the Bazaar together, and one day, I’ll find a guy who does those things and I’ll let him into my heart—maybe. But for now, I want to get out and do things, and dating allows me to meet new people and have someone to go to dinner with who doesn’t want to sing the ABCs a hundred times before dessert.
“If you say so,” Grandpa says, though he doesn’t look entirely convinced. “Say, have you thought anymore about getting a Christmas tree? The lot down on Main Street has some beautiful ones this year.”
I feel a twinge of guilt at the hopeful look in his eyes. He can’t bring the tree up the stairs by himself. “I don’t know, Grandpa. I’m not sure I’ll have time to go to the tree lot. Is it really that important?”
His bushy eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Is it important? Penelope, it’s Christmas! Of course, a tree is important.”
I shrug, not wanting to get into this discussion again. Christmas hasn’t held the same magic for me since... well, for a while now. I go through the motions because I don’t want to disappoint Grandpa or Noelle.
“Tell you what,” I say, an idea forming. “Why don’t you take Noelle to the Bazaar? You two can pick out some decorations for the apartment. ”
Grandpa’s face lights up at the suggestion. “Now that’s an idea.”
I lean over, planting a kiss on his bald head. “She’s lucky to have you, Grandpa.”
Glancing at the clock, I realize I’m running late. I quickly finish my coffee and grab my bag, giving Noelle a quick hug and kiss before rushing out the door. The preschool bus will stop right out front to pick her up in a half hour.
The crisp December air nips at my cheeks as I make my way down the street. Founder's Grove is beautiful this time of year; the storefronts are decorated with twinkling lights and festive displays. It wasn’t always like this. We used to batten down the hatches until spring. Nick changed that.
No more Nick thoughts! They’re out-of-control today.
As I round the corner, my eyes are drawn—as they always are—to the Kringle house. It’s usually dark-windowed but kept up. Holiday decorations appear throughout the year. At Easter, there’s a wreath made from eggs on the door, and for the 4th of July, there’s patriotic bunting. I don’t know who’s doing it. My guess is Gail. She seemed like the type to care about the details.
I knew the Christmas swags would be on the banister and the wreath on the door, but I didn’t expect to see lights on. My steps falter. Lights. As in, someone is home.
My heart races.
“It doesn’t mean he’s back,” I whisper to myself, trying to calm my suddenly erratic pulse. “It could be any one of them. Gail’s probably digging the Christmas tree out of the attic and will be gone before nightfall.”
But even as I say the words, I know I’m trying to convince myself.
Three holiday seasons without him have given me a false sense of security. His family owns a home here. They will come through. Just because I didn’t notice them before Nick stayed doesn’t mean they weren’t here.
Still, it’s been three years.
The possibility that Nick might be back in Founder's Grove sends a jolt of... something through me. Fear? Excitement? I’m not sure, and I’m not sure I want to examine it too closely.
I pick up my pace, determined to push all thoughts of Nick Kringle out of my mind. He’s in my past, and that’s where he needs to stay. I have a job to do, a daughter to raise, a life to live. I don’t have time for magical coins or mysterious magical things or men with kind green eyes and ridiculous Christmas sweaters.
Ridiculously handsome Christmas sweaters.
Ugh! I hate it when my subconscious corrects me.
As I arrive at my office, I take a deep breath, centering myself. I have meetings to attend, projects to oversee, and a community to serve. Whatever—or whoever—is at the Kringle house doesn’t matter.
As I settle into my desk, I can’t quite shake the feeling that something has shifted. The air feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm, and the hair on my arms stands up. I try to focus on my computer screen, on the emails waiting for my attention, but my mind keeps drifting back to that lit-up house, to memories of a Christmas past that I’ve tried so hard to forget.
Eating dinner together when his family came down the chimney is a special memory. The way they held Noelle and just loved her—and she loved them. It was a lifetime of hope in one night.
With a frustrated sigh, I force myself to concentrate. I have work to do, and I can’t let ghosts of Christmas past distract me. I’ve built a good life for Noelle and me. Nothing—not even the return of Nick Kringle—can change that.
...Right?
“Penelope?” A voice breaks through my reverie. I look up to see Sarah, my assistant, standing in the doorway of my office. “The meeting with the Christmas Bazaar committee is in five minutes. Did you want to review the agenda before we head over?”
I blink, disoriented for a moment. The Bazaar. Right. No wonder I can’t forget the man I’m snow-drift deep in the very thing he created.
“Thanks, Sarah. I’ve got it covered. I’ll meet you there.”
As Sarah leaves, I gather my notes and take a deep breath. I can do this. It’s just another meeting, just another event to plan. The fact that it’s tied to so many memories... well, that’s irrelevant.
The meeting room is already full when I arrive. Familiar faces greet me with warm smiles and excited chatter.
“Alright, everyone,” I say, calling the meeting to order. “ Let’s get started. We’ve got a lot to cover if we want this year’s Bazaar to be the best yet.”
As we dive into the details, I feel myself relaxing. This is what I’m good at. For a while, I’m able to forget about the Kringle house and all the questions it raises.
But then, just as we’re wrapping up, Mrs. Baker—a sweet elderly lady who’s been part of the committee since the Bazaar’s inception—pipes up. “Oh, did you all see the Kringle house lit up? I wonder if Nick’s back. Have you heard from him, Penelope?”
I freeze, caught off guard by the question. The room suddenly feels too warm, too small. “I... well, no.” I stammer.
Mrs. Baker’s face falls slightly, but she nods in understanding. “You and that handsome Nick Kringle made such a lovely couple that first year.”
The room goes silent, and I feel all eyes on me. My cheeks burn, and I struggle to keep my composure. “Thank you, Mrs. Baker,” I manage to say, my voice tight.
As the meeting breaks up, I gather my things quickly, desperate to escape the sympathetic looks and whispered conversations. I know they mean well, but the last thing I need is to be reminded of how wonderful everything was before it—well, wasn’t.