Chapter 6
PHOENIX
A smile spreads across my face before my brain catches up. Elle’s reluctant “fine” rings like a perfect chord progression—unexpected yet inevitable. She still agrees to my ideas while pretending to do me a favor.
“You won’t regret it,” I promise.
“I already do.” She tucks her phone away, but not before I glimpse a photo—a paper snowflake. Her fingers shield the screen with the same protectiveness musicians show for unreleased tracks, secretive and deliberate.
Casey pumps his fist. “Operation Avoid Food Poisoning is officially upgraded to Operation Christmas Magic!”
“Don’t oversell it,” Theo mutters, zipping his jacket. “This isn’t Disney World.”
Martha appears from the kitchen, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. “Heading to the festival? The ice sculpture contest alone makes the trip worthwhile.”
“Ice sculptures?” My interest rises. Creative expression pulls me in regardless of medium.
“Local artists compete every year,” Martha explains, pride warming her voice. “Plus music in the town square, craft booths from local artisans, the best hot chocolate this side of the Mississippi.”
“Hot chocolate?” Elle perks up slightly, the first genuine interest she’s shown for anything beyond reaching Nashville.
“With homemade marshmallows,” Martha confirms with a knowing smile. “And Douglas at the candy shop makes taffy while you watch—quite the performance.”
Casey claps his hands. “Theo, buddy, we’re hitting the local scene instead. Spotted a dive bar two blocks down.”
“Skipping homemade taffy for watered-down beer?” Theo’s eyebrow rises like a question mark.
Casey glances between Elle and me with the subtlety of a cymbal crash. “These two need to conduct their interview, right? Journalist stuff. Professional space and all.”
The emphasis he places on interview conveys his meaning. Elle stiffens beside me, her gaze sharpening toward Casey.
“Real subtle, Case,” I mutter, shooting him a warning look.
He grins, unrepentant. “When have I ever been subtle? Come on, Theo, first round’s on me.”
Theo hesitates, then shrugs his massive shoulders. “Fine, but if the beer sucks, we’re coming for taffy.”
As they gather their coats, Casey leans close, voice dropping. “Don’t waste this, man. Second chances appear about as often as decent drummers.”
The door closes behind them, leaving Elle and me in a silence stretched taut as a new guitar string. Through the window, the snow has stopped falling, leaving the town blanketed in pristine white.
“We don’t have to go,” I offer, suddenly uncertain. “If staying here appeals more.”
Elle’s expression softens. “And stare at B&B wallpaper? The festival might provide material for the article.”
The article. Right. The professional pretext binding us together.
“For journalistic integrity,” I agree, playing along.
She rolls her eyes, a flash of the Elle I remember. “Journalistic integrity vanished when I boarded your tour bus.”
“My company so horrible?” The question emerges lighter than the weight behind it.
Something flickers across her face—regret, maybe, or a memory she’d prefer forgotten. “Not what I meant.”
“I know.” I reach for my coat, covering the moment. “Let’s discover what constitutes festival magic in Millfield, Indiana.”
We step outside into crisp winter air. Christmas lights twinkle along the main street, strung between lampposts and wrapped around trees.
People mill about in colorful winter gear, their laughter creating puffs of white vapor against the night sky.
The scent of cinnamon and pine hangs in the air, mingling with woodsmoke from nearby chimneys.
Elle walks beside me, her steps measured and deliberate. A complex mix hovers between us—unspoken words, diverging paths, unresolved questions. Yet something magnetic pulses in the space separating us, drawing me closer with each shared breath.
“You’re quiet,” she observes as we approach the town square.
“Processing.”
“Processing what?”
The honest answer—you, us, everything—lodges in my throat. Instead, I motion toward the festival spreading before us. “All this. Small-town Christmas. A world away from my usual scene.”
“Right. You prefer hotel bars and VIP sections now.” Her voice carries no judgment, only fact.
“It grows hollow.” The admission slips out unbidden.
“What does? The glamour? The fame?”
“The transience.” A family passes by, parents swinging a small girl between them. “Everything temporary. Hotel rooms, cities, people.”
Elle studies me with those journalist eyes that pierce my defenses. “Isn’t transience what you wanted? Freedom to move, nothing holding you down?”
The question cuts straight to what tore us apart. My answer matters more than she realizes.
“I thought so.”
Before she can respond, we reach the town square. A massive Christmas tree stands at the center, adorned with thousands of twinkling lights and handmade ornaments. Around it, booths form concentric circles offering crafts, food, and holiday trinkets.
“Wow.” The word escapes her in a breath of wonder.
“Not bad for population 2,483,” I agree, captivated by the genuine charm surrounding us.
The festival pulses with an authenticity stadium shows rarely achieve—families gathered, children laughing, neighbors embracing. Community in its purest form, no backstage passes required.
A man in a worn peacoat plays acoustic guitar near the tree, weathered fingers coaxing a familiar carol from steel strings.
The melody drifts through the air, mingling with conversations and laughter.
My fingers move unconsciously, matching his chord progressions through muscle memory born of endless practice hours.
“You miss it.” Elle’s words startle me, an observation rather than a question.
“Miss what?”
“Playing like that. You and a guitar. No production, no light show, no screaming fans.”
Her observation strikes a chord I’ve tried to ignore. “How’d you know?”
“Your hands.” She nods toward my fingers, still mimicking the chords. “You always do that when you hear something you want to play.”
Her memory of such a small detail sends warmth spreading through my chest despite the December chill.
“Come on.” I move forward, needing distance from her perception. “Let’s explore.”
We weave through the crowd, stopping at booths displaying handcrafted jewelry, hand-knit scarves, wooden toys carved with impressive detail. Elle lingers at a display of leather-bound journals, her fingertips tracing the embossed covers with reverence.
“For your journalist notes?” I tease.
“For thoughts too personal for public consumption.” She doesn’t look up, but a small smile plays at the corner of her mouth.
A natural opening appears. “How is life in Nashville treating you these days? Your job going well?”
She hesitates, weighing her response. “I love the work. Writing about music keeps me connected to what matters.” Her smile turns wry. “My editor’s a nightmare though—demanding, perfectionist, impossible deadlines.”
“Sounds familiar. Rachel micromanages every note.”
Elle laughs, the sound warming the space between us.
“The Nashville scene changed much since...?” I leave the question hanging, curious how she’ll fill the gap.
“Since you left?” She finishes without flinching. “Some. New venues, new faces. But I’m not in the thick of it anymore.”
“No?”
She shakes her head. “I moved out to the suburbs. Small community, quiet streets. Nothing like Millfield, but...” Her eyes drift over the festival. “There’s something about small-town life that centers you. Slows everything down to what matters.”
“Never pictured you embracing the quiet life.”
“Me neither.” Her expression turns thoughtful. “Priorities change.”
As promised, Douglas the candymaker demonstrates his taffy-pulling technique at a booth adorned with striped awnings. The rhythmic stretching and folding resembles choreography, practiced and precise, each movement flowing into the next.
“What flavor would you recommend?” I ask him.
“Peppermint’s our Christmas special. Cranberry’s unique to us—my grandmother’s recipe.”
“One of each,” I decide, pulling out my wallet.
Elle starts to protest, but I shake my head. “Research for your article.”
The excuse barely holds water, but she accepts the wrapped candy with a small nod of thanks. We continue our circuit around the square, stopping next at a hot chocolate stand.
“Two, please.” I order before she can object. “With the homemade marshmallows.”
The vendor hands over two steaming cups topped with pillowy marshmallows bearing no resemblance to their store-bought cousins. Elle accepts hers, inhaling the rich chocolate aroma rising between us in fragrant clouds.
“Incredible,” she murmurs after the first sip, a small dab of chocolate lingering on her upper lip.
Without thinking, I brush the corner of her mouth with my thumb. Electricity cascades through my fingertips at the contact. Elle freezes, eyes widening at the casual intimacy.
“Sorry.” My hand retreats. “You had—”
“It’s fine.” Her voice emerges unsteady. She swipes at her mouth with a napkin.
A commotion near the center of the square provides welcome distraction. We drift toward the gathered crowd where the ice sculpture contest reaches its climax.
Artists stand beside blocks of ice transformed into improbable shapes—a leaping reindeer, an angel with outstretched wings, an intricate snowflake taller than most observers. Judges move between them with clipboards, conferring in hushed voices.
“Amazing what they create from frozen water,” Elle marvels, admiration warming her tone.
“Temporary art,” I observe. “Beautiful, but fleeting. In a few days, it melts away like it never existed.”
Elle gives me a sidelong glance. “That bothers you.”
“The temporary nature of things? Sometimes.”
“Surprising. Your lifestyle seems built around appreciating moments as they come.”
“Maybe that explains it.” The admission is unexpectedly honest. “Too much of my life exists in the moment, then vanishes.”