Chapter 16 Staged
STAGED
Audrey
The bells in the church tower chime seven when I step out into the December night, tugging my scarf tighter around my neck.
The streets glimmer under strands of twinkling lights draped over awnings, wreaths wired onto shop doors.
My fellow Hidies have formed groups along Main Street—laughing, knitted hats bobbing, mittens curled around steaming cups—looking woven right into the festive spirit that floats on the chilly air.
And me? I feel like a Christmas cookie someone forgot in the oven—overbaked, brittle, barely held together by sugar.
It’s the last Saturday before Christmas Eve, which in bakery terms is total war.
The ovens never stopped, timers shrieked every three minutes, and I shuffled between trays until my calves burned like I’d run a marathon in my Crocs.
By close, condensation ghosted the front case, my apron wore a map of cocoa smudges, and my hair smelled permanently of gingerbread.
Jack had been gone all day—off with Amanda at the Santa Fun Run, handing out prizes, doing whatever else celebrity-adjacent people do when they’re charming a crowd.
When he’d asked if I’d be fine without him, I laughed, confident in my ability to handle the bakery solo.
But somewhere between the first latte order and the mid-morning rush, I realized just how much I’d started to rely on him.
He was supposed to be temporary, a guest star in my bakery life, his main job to handle the legal stuff interrupting my holiday rush.
But between the sacks of flour he hauled, the floors he swept, and the way he charmed the line with that easy grin, he’d slipped into the role of partner-in-crime so smoothly that his absence today left me floundering.
And that scares me more than the cease and desist.
My mother relied on a man, and when he left, it was up to her to pick up the pieces.
I’ve heard that story enough times to taste the bitterness.
Forget my mother lamenting me leaving the Ritz for small-town Hideaway Harbor—the true metaphorical stab to her heart would be if I ended up heartbroken and with my business in trouble because of it.
I cut across Main Street toward the square where the caroling will start, my boots crunching on salted sidewalks.
Every lamppost is wrapped in red ribbon and fir boughs, glittered ribbons glowing against the night.
Windows fog with bodies and laughter; a lot of Main Street’s shop doors still chime with customers; the scent of chowder, cocoa, and fried dough threads the air.
Normally, this walk fills me with something close to joy—my reminder that I traded Manhattan chaos for small-town magic. Tonight, the lights feel brighter than necessary, the local chatter a shade too loud. Tonight it feels like a gauntlet.
Is this what Jack meant when he described Hideaway’s decorations as aggressively festive?
I pause, the thought making me wonder if, instead of small-town charm rubbing off on Jack, I’ve let his city edge rub off on me.
More likely, though, I’m just plain grumpy—my mood a mirror of my body.
My shoulders ache from hauling the ingredient bags Jack used to grab without asking; my fingers sting from washing between piping cream and stabbing cash-register buttons—buttons he spent the past weeks tapping while I worked in rare, blissful peace.
Rolling my shoulders, I shake off the aches, along with the thoughts, and keep moving.
“Did you see them this morning? Arm in arm at the finish line.” A voice floats over the wind, sharp as peppermint.
I glance left. Two women stand outside Hideaway Treasures, their shopping bags dangling like ornaments, heads bent close under knitted hats. Their voices cut through the night like gossip always does—too loud, too knowing.
“With her hair, she looked like a walking candy cane, grinning up at Amanda Willis like the celebrity had hung the moon,” the taller one says. “Ridiculous, really. I always thought she was smart enough to know better.”
“Mm.” The other tugs her mitten. “She’s just fooling herself. That actress will be gone after New Year’s. They always are. And all she’ll be left with is her broken heart. She should hold back—enjoy her Hollywood crush for what it is. A fling.”
Their laughter bubbles into the air, light and careless. They shift shopping bags and keep talking, already hungry for their next bite of someone else’s life, but I’m frozen mid-step.
Because every word, every smug little chuckle, lands squarely in my chest.
I know they’re talking about Portia—the one person I’m brave enough to call a friend here in Hideaway.
And if I scroll back over the times I’ve seen her these hectic weeks, I realize she’s never looked happier than when Amanda is near—her expressions lighting up, more chromatic than the streaks in her hair.
And Amanda, whom I’ve also come to know thanks to Jack, is always leaning close to her, a conspirator at the candy counter, as if the two of them share some secret. It was sweet. Lovely. The kind of happiness that makes strangers smile. And yet now, apparently, laughable to the town gossips.
But the thing is… it might as well be me they’re skewering. Swap Portia’s name for mine and “actress” for “lawyer,” and the warning still stings. More so than my aching shoulders.
Did I get seduced by convenience? Mistake teamwork for permanence? Or did I like how smooth the day ran when Jack was around and I let that feel like a promise?
It would explain why I’ve been so out of sorts since that newspaper article. I believed it was because my faith in Jack’s legal skills was put into question—but maybe deep down I was questioning my faith in Jack…in general.
Today made it obvious: without him, every task was doubled; every smile for customers felt stapled on; even the oven timers sounded lonely.
Hold back, the women said. Just a fling.
Maybe that’s the smart play.
A gust ratchets down the street, turning the wreaths into spinning halos.
I pull my scarf higher and keep walking, past the bookstore with a cardboard cutout of Santa reading romances, past the Chowder House with clam-steam fogging the glass, past the bench where town teenagers practice looking bored in four layers of wool.
The square opens ahead—strings of bulbs zigzagging over the gazebo, volunteers fussing with a microphone that squeals like a distressed elf.
I slow when I spot him. Jack, head tipped toward Amanda, smiling at something Portia says while she tucks a candy cane into Amanda’s pocket—easy, unashamed, as if everyone in town has already agreed to their happiness.
His hands are shoved into his coat pockets, shoulders loose, the light catching on the sharp line of his jaw.
People keep drifting over like he’s always been part of this place.
My stomach flips. Because if the gossips are right about Portia—a fling, a crush, a meteor—what does that make me? The intermission. The filler act. The one the crowd forgets once the headliner comes on.
Jack
The square glitters like a holiday movie set nobody ever struck.
Bulbs strung from eave to eave cast warm halos onto brick and cobblestone.
Fir garlands loop over the gazebo railing where a crooked sign reads CAROLS AT SEVEN in glitter-glue handwriting.
Skippy has installed himself by the hot cocoa stall like security, chin on paws, tail thumping whenever a marshmallow hits the ground.
I’m early. Amanda is not because she got waylaid in The Sweetest Thing “sampling” peppermint bark with Portia—and by sampling, I mean flirting shamelessly while Portia pretended to explain crystalized sugar like it was a love language.
A dad in a down jacket hoists a kid onto his shoulders. A grandmother tugs wool hats onto reluctant teenagers who pretend they’re above joy. Everywhere I look is some version of this—units, pieces that click. Family.
There’s a tug in my chest I don’t have a precedent or clause for.
The mayor’s words from earlier in the week refuse to unhook from my ribs: me not just staying for my legalese but for the traditional small-town life—aka a family.
It had landed like a compliment and a dare.
The subtext was clear: not just contracts.
Community. People who show up for bake sales and carols, not billable hours.
Shifting in my loafers, I wedge my hands in the pockets of my Burberry coat. I left the warmer, locally purchased one at the hotel in case any rogue reindeer decided to join tonight’s fun. I look polished as Amanda’s agent should but decidedly colder than I want to be.
I catch Eileen’s eye from across the square, and we wave.
She helped me out big time today at the Santa Fun Run, introducing me to the people I needed to talk to to get the epiphany I had during Peppermint Mocha Day up and running.
It made me understand more thoroughly why Audrey was drawn to small-town life, the way neighbors rally around each other in times of celebration and in times of need.
I just hope all their work pays off in the way I’m hoping and Audrey doesn’t mistake it for a gesture of gratitude instead of the truth.
As if conjured by my thoughts, my practical baker appears at the edge of the crowd, walking fast like the night air is a rope pulling her forward. Hair tucked into her scarf. Cheeks wind-bitten and gorgeous. Cocoa powder dusts the sleeve of her coat like glitter that refuses to leave after a party.
She sends me a small smile when our eyes catch, but it doesn’t land. Something shuttered. Tired, yes, but more than that.
My head tilts in question, but she averts her eyes, suddenly distracted by the milling crowd.
I take a step forward, but Amanda and Portia materialize beside me in a flurry of cinnamon air and laughter. A strand of Amanda’s hair snags in her lip gloss, and Portia gently frees it and tucks it behind her ear. Amanda beams like she just unwrapped Christmas.