Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The room went silent. Then the whispers started in earnest.
“That’s—”
“It’s him.”
“Tanner Blake.”
“Bad Santa.”
Hailey called out with delight, “You’re the story man! The one who was supposed to read to us before! My mom showed me your picture.”
Tanner sat frozen, the copy of Dickens still in his hands, his cover blown. He looked at Carrie—panic flashed in his eyes. The same panic from when she’d first recognized him in the shop.
Then something changed. Maybe it was Hailey’s recognition. Maybe it was the fact that he’d already read the letters, already given the children what they needed. Maybe it was exhaustion from hiding.
He stood, set down the book, and looked directly at the podcaster’s phone lens.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m Tanner Blake. And I’m sorry.
I’m sorry the hospital lost their funding because of me.
I’m sorry children nearly missed out on their Christmas story because I lost my temper on national television.
I’m sorry I’ve let you down.” He paused.
“But I’m here now. And if you’ll have me, I’d like to finish the story. ”
The room stayed silent. The reporter’s camera, the podcaster’s phone, and a growing number of other phones were trained on him. This was it—the moment that would define whether his career recovered or died completely.
Hailey asked, “Will you do the voices? The scary ghost voices?”
Tanner’s laugh was surprised and genuine. “Yeah. I’ll do the voices.”
He picked up the book and kept reading. He did every voice—Scrooge, the ghosts, Tiny Tim. The children laughed, gasped, and smiled until Scrooge’s Christmas morning redemption.
When he finished, the crowd applauded. The hospital children cheered. And the reporter dabbed her eye.
Mrs. Snyder stood up. “Young man, how much was that lost fundraiser? A hundred thousand?”
Tanner nodded warily.
“Well.” She pulled out her checkbook. “I’m putting in a thousand. Who else?”
Oliver’s grandmother rose from her seat in the back, while Oliver clutched his new copy of Great Expectations. “Three years ago, Oliver had leukemia. The pediatric wing saved his life. We can never repay what they did, but we can help other families. Here’s ten thousand.”
The crowd went silent. Ten thousand dollars. From one family.
Richard Walsh, whose law office had anchored Main Street for twenty years, stood. “Walsh & Partners will donate five thousand. Consider it an investment in our community.”
And just like that, the crowd came alive. People pulled out wallets, wrote checks, and promised donations. Parents donated what they could. Mrs. Snyder’s bridge club friends each wrote checks for five hundred. Teenagers Venmoed from their phones.
As the video spread online—Tanner Blake unmasked, apologizing, reading to sick children—donations started flooding into their GoFundMe website.
They came from all over—people watching the livestream, former Hollydale residents who’d moved away, and people from neighboring towns who’d heard the story.
And then there were the comments on the livestream, which were overwhelmingly supportive.
This is redemption done right.
He’s actually doing something.
Within two hours, they’d raised eighteen thousand dollars in immediate donations, with another ten thousand in pledges over the next six months. As the last of the event guests filtered through the exits, Shannon ran the numbers three times on her phone. “We’re two thousand short of our goal.”
“I’ve got it.” Tanner pulled out his phone and made a transfer right there. “That’s the hospital fundraiser covered.”
The reporter caught it all: the unmasking, the reading, the spontaneous fundraising, and Tanner’s donation. She did a quick interview with him. “How does it feel to turn your Christmas around?”
He smiled, tired but sincere. “Charity is the best Christmas gift anyone could ask for.”
The reporter left with her footage and a promise to run the story on the morning news.
By nine-thirty, Carrie, Shannon, and Tanner returned to the shop.
“Tanner, you did it,” Carrie said. “You saved their fundraiser.”
“You did it,” he said, “This was all your event.”
“You’re the one who put your career on the line.”
“My career was already on the line.” He ran a hand through his hair. “At least now the children won’t pay the price.”
Shannon’s phone buzzed. She looked at it, eyes widening. “Oh my gosh! Carrie. Look.”
She held out her phone. A new video was already trending with the full story. Tanner unmasked, apologizing, finishing the reading, and donating his own money. The headline: “Bad Santa Becomes Real Santa: Tanner Blake Redeems Himself at Small Town Charity Event.”
Comments were pouring in:
This is what real apologies look like.
He didn’t have to do this, but he did anyway.
The way he talked to those children . . . that’s the real him.
The original, uncut video was surfacing. The truth was getting out.
Tanner’s phone started ringing. He looked at the screen and went pale. “It’s my agent.”
He stepped outside to take it. Carrie and Shannon watched through the window as he paced, talked, and listened.
When he came back in, his expression was unreadable.
“I’ve got a potential film offer,” he said. “They want me in LA in four days for a meeting.”
“That’s amazing!” Shannon said. “Right? That’s amazing?”
“Yeah. It’s amazing.” But he was looking at Carrie. “It’s everything I’ve been working toward. The kind of role that could change everything.”
Shannon looked from Tanner to Carrie, then said softly, “Uh, I’ve got . . . stuff to do in the back room,” and she disappeared.
“That’s amazing.” Carrie tried to sound excited, but her heart wasn’t in it. She managed to keep her voice steady. “Tanner, this is your shot. You have to take it.”
“I know.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrapped box. “But first—I found this. From Santa. It has your name on it.”
Carrie took the box, recognizing the Secret Santa wrapping paper they’d used for the children’s gifts. Inside was a folded check and a note: “For Carrie Watson, who gave children Christmas magic. From your Secret Santa.”
The amount was exactly what she needed for her lease payment.
She looked up at Tanner, her eyes stinging. “Secret Santa’s bank account had your name on it.”
“I didn’t have it in cash.” But his eyes gave him away.
“But this is for five thousand dollars. I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t mean to, but I happened to see the late due notice on your desk. You deserve a Christmas miracle as much as those children.”
“Tanner, I can’t accept this.”
“It’s not from me. It’s from Santa, and I’ve got the suit to prove it.”
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and looked. “Dennis?”
Rumor has it the bookshop is closing. I’m sorry to hear it, but I tried to warn you. Give me a call. I miss you. -D
Dennis. Somehow he’d found out. Of course he had. And now he thought she would come crawling back.
She looked at the check in her hand, then at Tanner. He was so kind to want to rescue her. And then she thought of Dennis. How like him to reach out when he knew she was down, thinking he could manipulate his way back into her life.
“Tanner, I can’t take your money. I left Dennis to prove I could do this on my own, and I meant it. Succeed or fail, I’ve got to do it myself. Otherwise, I’d be trading one man’s control for another man’s rescue.”
“Carrie, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“I know. This is a kind and generous gift, because that’s who you are.
You’ve fixed all the things that were broken, and you’ve brought me coffee.
And I love that about you. I love . . . that you want to save my shop.
But I can’t. How is succeeding with your help any different from Dennis telling me I’ll fail without him?
“Because I believe you can succeed. This is just—”
“Me needing to be saved.” She pressed the check into his hand. “And maybe you’re right. But I have to figure it out on my own or at least try.”
He looked at the check, then at her. “The payment’s due in four days.”
“I know.” Her voice cracked slightly. “But I’d rather lose the shop than lose myself again.” She smiled, and it almost felt real. “Go to LA. Take the role. Be amazing. I’ll be here cheering you on from a distance.”
He seemed ready to argue. Instead, he just nodded and pocketed the check. “Okay.”
Carrie forced a smile, but when she lifted her eyes to meet his, she couldn’t hide her conflicting emotions, her feelings about losing him to LA, and the knowledge that she had just sealed her fate.
His eyes darkened as he gazed intensely. “I’m not leaving yet. I need to know you’re okay before I go.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze and then headed for the stairs. At the doorway, he paused if he had something to say, but he gave the door frame a pat and headed upstairs.
Minutes later, Shannon left, giving Carrie a hug on the way out. “Get some rest. It’s been a long day.”
But Carrie couldn’t leave. Not yet.
The shop was quiet, just Carrie, the books, and the light from the streetlamps filtering through the window.
She walked slowly through the aisles, running her fingers along the spines.
Fiction. Mystery. Romance. Children’s books.
Local authors. Each section she’d curated, organized, loved into being.
She stopped at the shelf Tanner had fixed. She tested its stability the way he had, pressing her full weight against it. Solid. Dependable. Everything he was and what she tried to be.
The reading chair sat in the corner, no longer wobbly. She sank into it and pulled her knees to her chest. She could have saved it. The check was for exactly what she needed. Tanner had offered it freely, with no strings attached. Just take the money, pay the lease, and keep the doors open.
But that would have made Dennis right. You’re not practical enough. Not business-minded. Too emotional. And worse: You’ll always need someone to save you.
The Secret Santa letters hung in the window, wishes written by strangers—some fulfilled, some still waiting for magic. Her own wish—Let me keep this place—would go unanswered.
Carrie stood and walked to the counter, touching the vintage cash register she’d restored herself, the coffee station she’d built from a flea market cart, and the handwritten recommendation cards she’d spent hours creating. Every corner held a piece of her determination to succeed.
Three days. She had three days, and then it would be gone. Ahab Coffee would gut the space, install their corporate fixtures, and erase every trace of what she’d built. Before long, no one would remember Lamplight Books was ever here.
The tears came then, silent and steady. Not pretty tears, but the ugly kind that poured out with the death of a dream. She’d done everything right—created beauty, served her community, helped sick children—and it still wasn’t enough.
She considered calling the bank to beg for a loan. It wasn’t too late to call Tanner and tell him that she’d changed her mind. All she had to do was let go of her principles.
But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. If she was going to fail, she would fail as herself. Not as Dennis’s ex or Tanner’s charity case, but as Carrie Watson, who tried and fell short but never compromised who she was.
She turned off the lights one by one. The reading corner went dark. The children’s section. The romance novels. Finally, just the lamp by the register was still glowing.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to the books, to the walls, to the dream that was dying. “I tried. I really tried.”
She always left that one light on so the books wouldn’t be lonely, and she locked the door behind her.
The drive home took twelve minutes. Twelve minutes of streetlights blurring past, of Christmas decorations mocking her failure, of her phone sitting silent in the cup holder.
She’d lost. But at least she’d lost on her own terms.