Chapter 12
Savannah
The truck smells like pine needles and Erik’s unfairly intoxicating cologne, while the cold air settles in with the kind of determination that ignores logic, optimism, and coats. All of which would be fine if I hadn’t once again dressed for a weather forecast that exists only in my imagination.
I climb into the passenger seat, tugging Erik’s coat tighter around me because mine never stood a chance against a Pineview Christmas morning, and he’d handed it over without comment, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
The engine turns over and he pulls out of the community center lot while I balance the clipboard on my knees.
The bed of the truck is stacked high with wrapped toys, bright paper, curling ribbon, and tags taped on with practiced precision. The Christmas Kindness Drive moving quietly through town before anyone else is awake enough to notice.
We don’t talk much this morning, not because there’s nothing to say but because tomorrow is already pressing in, and neither of us wants to give it too much thought.
So we stay here, in the hum of the truck heater, the faint sound of Christmas music on the radio and in the rhythm of stopping and starting.
In the work.
Our first house is small and sagging at one corner, lights strung unevenly across the porch.
I read the name off the clipboard and nod to Erik.
He parks. We both place our ridiculously oversized Santa hats on top of our heads as per tradition and I hop out first, boots crunching in the snow.
He swings around to the back to gather the gifts.
A woman steps out, bundled too thin for the cold, her face already pinched with apology.
“Good morning,” I gently greet her, lifting the clipboard like a peace offering. “We’re here with The Christmas Kindness Drive.”
Her breath catches. Her hand flies to her mouth. “Oh,” she whispers. “You didn’t have to…”
“We wanted to,” Erik calms her, already lifting a box from the truck. “Merry Christmas.”
The kids appear behind her, two of them, wide-eyed, barefoot on the threshold despite the cold. When Erik hands the gifts over, the younger one lets out a sound so pure it hurts, like joy surprised itself. The older one clutches the box to his chest as if it might vanish if he loosens his grip.
The woman cries quietly.
So do I.
Every house is different, yet the reaction never really changes. There’s disbelief first, then gratitude, and finally a relief that softens into something like hope.
At one stop, a father grips my hands in both of his, eyes shining. “Your mother,” he says, voice thick. “Diane. She helped us when we didn’t know how we were going to make it through that winter.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard her name out loud since I’ve been home and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Each thank you feels like a thread pulling me backward and forward at the same time.
My mother is everywhere and nowhere all at once, alive in all the ways that matter.
Thank her,” he whispers. “Please.”
I wish I could more than anything.
Back in the truck, my hands are shaking as I settle into the seat. Erik doesn’t comment on it. He simply reaches over and turns the heat up a notch, the gesture quiet and practiced, as if he understands exactly what I need without asking.
We go again, and then again. A duplex near the high school.
An apartment above the bakery. A trailer tucked behind the old mill.
Each door opens a little differently, but every reaction lands the same way.
Hands fly to mouths. Tears are wiped away quickly, almost apologetically, like they’re embarrassed to need this much.
And again and again, I hear it.
“Your mom.”
“She was so kind.”
“She never made us feel small.”
“She remembered my kids’ names.”
“I’ll never forget her.”
She’s still moving through town ahead of me, leaving warmth in her wake.
By the time I read the next address, I hesitate.
Erik notices my shift in energy immediately. “What is it?”
I tilt the clipboard toward him, and he goes quiet immediately. It’s his old house, the one near the edge of town with the crooked fence and the maple tree out front that never quite managed to lose all its leaves, no matter how hard winter tried.
“You want me to take this one?” I ask quietly.
“No,” he stares out past me through the passenger window, taking in a breath of confidence. “I’ve got it.”
“We’ve got it.” I place my hand on his arm across the centre console of the truck.
He half chuckles and exhales long before stepping out of the truck.
The front door opens before we knock.
A man stands there, tall and tentative, his dark hair cropped short, his eyes cautious but hopeful. Behind him, a woman peers out with one hand resting protectively on the smaller boy’s shoulder, while the older one cranes his neck around her, curiosity slowly winning out over shyness.
“Hi,” I point to my Santa hat and clipboard like it explains everything. “We’re with The Christmas Kindness Drive.”
The man blinks, looks to his wife for any further clues and says something softly in a language I don’t know, but I understand the question anyway.
I smile, slow and careful. “We’re here with gifts. For the boys.”
The woman’s hand flies to her mouth.
“No,” she says, accented, breathless. “No, we can’t afford…”
“It’s okay,” I rush to interrupt her thought. “It’s not charity. It’s… tradition.” I falter, suddenly unsure how to explain something I’ve never had to explain before. “It’s for families who are new. Or who might need a little help. Especially at Christmas.”
“Christmas,” the older boy repeats, testing the word like it’s fragile.
“Yes,” I confirm, kneeling slightly so I’m closer to him. “Your first one here, right?”
The man nods. “We came three weeks ago,” he says carefully, like he has ben rehearsing the words. “Everything is… new.”
“Then welcome,” I respond with emotion rising unexpectedly. “To your new home. To Pineview.”
The woman’s eyes shine, tears falling from them. She presses her palm to her chest. “Thank you,” her voice thick with gratitude. “This.. this is kindness.”
Erik steps forward with two wrapped gifts. He doesn’t say anything, he rarely does in moments like this, but his presence is grounding, steady as he steps forward and crouches to the boys’ level.
“These are for you,” he says softly, holding the gifts out.
The boys hesitate. The younger one looks up at his mother, then at Erik. Instead of reaching for the boxes, he steps forward and wraps his arms around Erik’s neck. The older one follows, clutching Erik’s coat like it’s an anchor.
Erik stills.
I see it, the way his breath catches, the way his hands hover for half a second before settling gently at their backs.
He closes his eyes and holds them close.
Something in him breaks, something in him gives way.
I see it in the way his shoulders dip, the way he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for decades.
The parents exchange a look, awe passing between them.
“They don’t have the words,” the man says quietly. “But they know this. They know kindness.”
“I know,” I say, my voice barely holding. “And that’s always more than enough.”
The woman reaches for my hands, squeezing them between hers. “Who started this?” she asks. “This…Kindness Drive?”
I swallow. “I don’t actually know,” I admit. “It’s been here as long as I can remember.”
She smiles, tears slipping free. “Whoever they are… they gave us our first Christmas.”
This must have been how my mom felt all those years.
“You made us feel at home,” the man adds. “We will remember this.”
Erik finally pulls back, clearing emotion from his throat. He hands the boxes to the boys, who clutch them like treasure but stay close, still touching him like they’re afraid the moment might disappear.
“Merry Christmas,” his voice barely holding together.
Back in the truck, neither of us speaks for a long moment. I stare through the windshield as snow begins to fall again, soft and quiet, as if the world is trying not to intrude.
“They chose you first,” I say eventually, my voice shaky. “Before the gifts. Those boys chose you first, and it was really beautiful to watch.”
Erik swallows before answering. “It meant more to me than I could ever say.”
As he pulls away from the curb, I glance back at the house. The light inside glows warmer now, the family framed in the doorway as they wave at us, already settling into something new, something theirs.
The last box leaves the truck just as the sky begins to lighten, dawn pressing pale blue into the edges of the world. When we pull back into the community center lot, the truck bed is empty, but my chest feels full in a way I don’t yet know how to hold.
Erik turns off the engine, and the quiet settles around us.
“Thank you,” I say, the words slipping out before I can second-guess them.
He looks at me then, something unreadable passing through his eyes. “For what?”
“For bringing her back to me,” I whisper. “For making sure she never left me.”
His expression shifts, the steadiness falling away as nerves surface in its place. I know that look well. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something I’ve been holding inside for a long time.”
“So, tell me. You can tell me anything, Erik.”
“It’s not my place to tell it alone.”
Mrs. Kincaid stands near the folding table next to Mrs. Levin, checking names off her list with a satisfied sort of precision, her shoulders relaxed for the first time since I can remember. When she looks up and sees us, her mouth curves into something that almost resembles a smile.
“Well done,” she congratulates us. “All routes completed.”
Erik nods once. “Everyone accounted for.”
“That’s how she liked it,” Mrs. Kincaid replies automatically.
Then she stops, and the words linger in the air, suddenly heavier than she intended them to be.
I feel the change before I see it, the subtle shift in the room, and the way Mrs. Kincaid’s gaze moves to me.
“Savannah,” she says, my name softened in her mouth now.
“There’s someone here who’s been waiting for you. ”
My heart stutters.
I turn slowly, already bracing myself, though I don’t know for what. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since coming back to Pineview, it’s that this town has a way of surprising you when you least expect it.
She’s standing near the windows, just inside a pool of pale winter light. Her coat is buttoned neatly, her scarf tucked just so, and her hands are clasped together in front of her, as if she’s giving them something to do so they don’t tremble.
Erik’s mother.
Time has touched her, but it’s been kind in the way it’s kind to women who have survived more than they ever should have.
Her hair is more silver than brown now, though she still wears it long, and I find myself glad for that.
Fine lines trace the corners of her eyes and her mouth, marks left by laughter and worry and endurance in equal measure.
She is, and always has been, one of the strongest women I’ve ever known.
When her gaze meets mine, something in her expression opens immediately, a love that never needed tending to survive, as familiar as it has always been.
“Oh,” I whisper, the sound breaking loose before I can stop it.
She smiles, the same small, knowing smile she used to give me when I stayed too late at their house, when Erik and I sprawled across the living room floor, convinced the world would bend if we just wanted it badly enough.
“Hi, Savannah.”
Hearing my name from her brings an unexpected comfort, as if my mother’s spirit is still close by.
Mrs. Kincaid clears her throat, already backing away. “I’ll give you all a moment.”
Erik’s mother steps closer, her eyes flicking briefly to her son as if checking, measuring, taking stock before returning to me. Then she reaches out and takes my hands, her grip warm and sure in the way it has always been.
“I wanted to see you today,” she says, her voice wobbles. “Today felt important.”
I stiffen. “You.. you came for the deliveries?”
She nods once, chuckling. “I always do, dear. Every year.”
Erik swallows hard. I can feel the tension radiating off him now, something restrained and waiting just beneath the surface.
She studies my face as if she’s searching for traces of the girl she once knew, and finding something familiar anyway. “Grief is awful,” she says softly. “The way it steals so much from us. And yet, look at you. Beautiful, just like your mother.”
I blink fast, emotion pressing in from all sides. “I miss her. So much.”
Her grip tightens. “I know, dear. We all do.”
For a moment, none of us speaks. The air seems to hold us there, heavy with grief, even as our hands remain linked. Then she releases one of mine and reaches into the pocket of her coat.
What she pulls out isn’t wrapped. It’s small and worn, the paper softened with age, its corners bent from years of being carried. She presses it into my palm with a certainty that feels practiced, as if this part has always been inevitable.
I look down. It’s a stack of two photographs.
The room feels thinner all at once, as though the air itself has been borrowed by whatever truth is waiting to surface. I hear her turn to Erik before I fully understand what’s happening.
“Erik,” she says gently, firmly. “I think it’s time.”
His jaw tightens, his throat working as he exhales slowly through his nose, the sound uneven despite his effort to steady it.
“Time for what?” I ask, though my heart is already racing ahead of the answer.
No one speaks.
The photograph trembles in my hand as I stare down at it, my pulse roaring louder than the hum of the room, louder than the scrape of chairs, louder than the quiet murmur of volunteers pretending not to watch.
Whatever this is, it has been waiting a long time.
And it has been waiting for me.