Chapter 15
SYLVIE
When Kent stepped away to take his phone call, I found Stacy hanging back and watching the kids.
She’d been keeping an eye on them from a distance, even though everyone in town was keeping an eye on them too.
But now that they were safely occupied with their friends at the puppet show, she turned her full attention to me.
The second she looked at me, I saw I was about to get a lecture. Or be interrogated.
I quickly tried to think of what I did to earn such a thing. Nothing was coming to mind.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“What’s up?”
“Follow me.”
I followed her to a less crowded area by the salad booth, where we could speak without being overheard by everyone in town. Stacy glanced around and spotted Kent still on the other side of the street.
“You need to be careful with that one,” she said, nodding toward where Kent stood with his phone pressed to his ear.
“Careful how?” I asked, though I had a feeling I knew where this conversation was headed.
“Sylvie, the Bancrofts aren’t just wealthy. They’re powerful. We’re talking about a massive empire, massive wealth, massive reputations. They don’t do anything small, and they don’t do anything without expecting something significant in return.”
My defensive instincts kicked in. “He’s here on business, Stacy. He mentioned that his family is looking for investment opportunities, and—”
“Investment opportunities?” Stacy’s tone was skeptical. “And what exactly do you think they want to invest in around here? Magdalena’s shortbread?”
I shrugged. “That would be an amazing investment, actually. But I don’t know.
Also the lodge, maybe. The farm. The town in general.
He’s been asking a lot of questions. He seems genuinely interested.
” Even as I said it, I could hear how hopeful I sounded, how desperate.
“Stacy, what if this is exactly what we need? What if Kent Bancroft is the answer we’ve been praying for? ”
Stacy’s expression shifted as she processed what I was suggesting. The skepticism didn’t disappear entirely, but it was tempered by something that looked like cautious interest.
“A Bancroft business deal,” she said slowly. “That would be crazy.”
“That would mean the world to Brom if we could save the farm,” I finished.
“Who am I kidding? It would mean the world to all of us. We need help to get out of this hole. Once we get back on our feet, we can start making real money again instead of leaving our ledgers in the red. We need help. We all know we’re teetering on the edge of losing everything. Dad won’t stop talking about it.”
Stacy was quiet for a moment, and I could practically see her weighing the possibilities against the risks.
She’d been part of our family long enough to understand exactly how desperate our situation had become, how close we were to losing everything.
Her future was on the line as well. We were all in desperate need of someone to come in with bags of money.
“You really think he’s here to help us?” she asked.
“No, I think he’s here to evaluate opportunities,” I said carefully. “And I think we need to make sure he sees Northwood as the best opportunity he’s ever encountered.”
I grabbed her hands, suddenly feeling energized by the possibility that had been taking shape in my mind all day.
“Think about it, Stacy. We scratch his back, he scratches ours. We show him what makes this place special, what makes it worth investing in. We make sure he falls in love with Northwood the way we have. This might be our only shot.”
Stacy studied my face for a long moment, then slowly nodded. “You might be onto something. If the Bancrofts really are interested in investing here, that could change everything.”
“Exactly. Will you tell Brom? Get him on board with the idea?”
“Of course. He’ll want to know that there might be hope on the horizon.”
“But not my parents yet,” I said quickly. “Not until we explore this idea a little further. I don’t want to get their hopes up if this turns out to be nothing. My dad is already stressed about this.”
“Deal,” Stacy agreed. “We’ll keep this between us until we have something concrete to share. Right now, it’s just a wish and a whisper.”
I felt a rush of relief at having Stacy’s support. Having someone else who understood the stakes and could help me navigate this potential opportunity. It made everything feel more manageable. And exciting.
“Oh no,” Stacy groaned.
I followed her gaze and started laughing when I saw Aspen holding one of the puppets.
“Every. Damn. Time.” Stacy shook her head.
Aspen had a thing for puppets. She knew they were puppets and therefore wanted to know how they worked. The same thing happened last year.
While Stacy hurried over to extract the puppet from Aspen’s determined grip, I quickly scanned the area for Alder and found him lurking behind a nearby craft booth, sporting the kind of mischievous grin that immediately told me everything I needed to know.
“Alder Northwood,” I called out, using the stern voice I learned from watching Stacy parent. “Get over here this instant.”
He sauntered over with the casual confidence of someone who knew exactly what kind of chaos he’d just orchestrated and was thoroughly pleased with himself.
“Did you tell your sister to grab that puppet?” I asked, crossing my arms and giving him my best disappointed-adult look.
His grin widened. “No.”
“Alder.”
“She wanted to see how it worked! I just told her the puppet guy wouldn’t mind if she looked at it real quick.”
I could hear Stacy’s voice carrying over the crowd as she apologized profusely to the puppeteer, who was being remarkably patient considering a six-year-old had just disrupted his entire performance.
Aspen was clutching the puppet to her chest like it was a beloved stuffed animal, clearly reluctant to give it back.
“You know better than that,” I said to Alder. “You know your sister can’t resist puppets, and you deliberately got her in trouble.”
“But it was funny,” he protested, though he had the grace to look at least slightly ashamed of himself.
“It’s only funny if everyone’s laughing, including the person whose puppet show just got hijacked by your little sister.”
Alder glanced over at the commotion his sister was causing and seemed to finally grasp that maybe his prank hadn’t been as harmless as he’d thought. Aspen was now in full meltdown mode, tears streaming down her face as Stacy gently but firmly tried to convince her to return the puppet.
“Should I go help?” he asked, his earlier smugness replaced by genuine concern.
“Yes, you should. And you should apologize to the puppet man and to your sister for getting her in trouble.”
He nodded and jogged over to where Stacy was still negotiating with Aspen.
I watched as he whispered something in his sister’s ear, then took her hand and led her over to the performer.
Whatever he said seemed to work. Aspen reluctantly handed over the puppet and mumbled what I assumed was an apology.
The whole incident was over in less than five minutes. Even at eight years old, Alder understood exactly which buttons to push to get his sister to do what he wanted, but he also clearly loved her enough to help fix the mess he’d created. It reminded me a lot of my relationship with my big brother.
I glanced over and saw Kent slide his phone back into his pocket, his expression troubled in a way that made me curious about who had called and what they’d discussed.
I didn’t think to ask if he had a girlfriend.
Maybe a fiancée. He wasn’t wearing a ring, so I assumed he wasn’t married.
I immediately felt guilty for ogling another woman’s man.
And a man like that probably did have a girlfriend. He was way too attractive to be single.
“Everything okay?” I asked as he approached.
“Just family business,” he said, but his smile seemed forced. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
Instead of just enjoying the market for its own sake, I found myself seeing it through Kent’s eyes, trying to gauge his reactions to everything we encountered.
Stacy eventually wandered off to chat with some of her mom-friends, leaving me alone with Kent to explore the remaining vendors.
I was struck by how different he seemed here compared to his first day at the farm.
Gone was the skeptical, slightly condescending attitude he had when he’d first arrived.
Instead, he looked almost childlike in his curiosity, wanting to try every food sample, asking questions about the crafts and local traditions.
“Have you ever done anything like this before?” I asked as we watched a group of children decorating gingerbread cookies at one of the activity stations.
“No,” he admitted. “Christmas in New York City is different. Christmas as a Bancroft is different.”
“What do you mean?”
He was quiet for a moment, seeming to choose his words carefully. “It was just different.”
“Because you’re rich.”
He quirked his lips. “Yes. We bought each other gifts, but it wasn’t stuff like this.
” He waved his hand around to encompass the booths.
“Homemade. Sentimental. We lost our mom pretty early on. I have a lot of brothers. I’m one of the younger ones.
My older brothers were out of the house doing their own thing.
My dad? He wasn’t really ready to be a single dad to a football team.
So, things were very different. We had a cook that usually made us dinner. ”
There was something wistful in his voice that made my chest tight with sympathy. “That sounds lonely.”
“I lost interest in it all when I was pretty young,” he continued.
“When you can have whatever you want, whenever you want it, nothing feels special anymore. Nothing feels earned. I know that makes me sound like a dick. I wanted for nothing. We had everything. Expensive cars, designer clothes, vacations, all of it. It just felt hollow.”
I found that profoundly sad. Christmas in Northwood had always been about community deeply steeped in tradition. We made it all about the magic of creating something beautiful together. The idea of reducing it to expensive objects and status symbols felt like missing the entire point.
“Christmas here is magic,” I said softly. “Always has been, always will be. It’s about connection, about being part of something bigger than yourself. It’s about creating moments that matter.”
Kent’s expression grew suddenly crestfallen. He looked away from the festive scene around us. “Nothing lasts forever, Sylvie.”
The words were completely at odds with the warm, joyful atmosphere of the market. I didn’t know what had prompted such a melancholy observation, but I knew I couldn’t let it stand.
I reached for his hand without thinking, intertwining our fingers in a gesture that felt very natural. “Maybe not,” I said, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t fight for the things that matter. That doesn’t mean we can’t create something beautiful while we have the chance.”
He looked down at our joined hands. I saw something shift in his expression.
“Come on,” I said, tugging him gently toward the center of town. “The best part of the night is yet to come.”
“I’m not singing,” he said.
I laughed. “Relax. This will all be painless.”
I allowed myself to believe that maybe I could show Kent he was the Christmas miracle that Northwood needed. Maybe showing him the magic of our community would convince him that our area was worth fighting for, too.