Chapter 45
JOY
The final night of Yuletide Fest was supposed to be my triumphant victory lap.
All the weeks of planning, coordinating, and problem-solving were culminating in one magical evening that would send families home with memories to last a lifetime.
I stood in the town square surrounded by twinkling lights and the cheerful chaos of a successful community event, trying to summon the professional satisfaction I should have been feeling.
The truth was, I didn’t want the city job anymore.
The events coordinator position that had seemed like my ticket to staying in Calton Hill permanently now felt like a consolation prize.
But my aunt had vouched for me, and regardless of my personal feelings about my future here, the festival was important.
It was part of the town’s DNA, woven into the fabric of what made this place special.
As annoying as small-town life could be—the gossip, the way everyone knew everyone’s business, the complete inability to have a private romantic crisis—there was a magic to Calton Hill that you couldn’t find anywhere else.
I’d be damned if I let my inability to navigate my love life steal that magic from the community.
I wanted to make sure these people got the festival they deserved. And even though I had no intention of sticking around to plan the next one, I hoped they would remember this night. When my name was mentioned in gossip circles, I wanted it to be this they talked about.
Not me and Cooper. Or the insinuation I was a homewrecker. Which apparently was the consensus. It was so hard not to jump and scream and defend myself. But it wouldn’t make a difference. It would only add fuel to the fire.
I had to keep my mouth shut and keep a smile on my face.
Anything else would just create more drama.
So, when I heard his name or Lynn’s, I just kept smiling.
I would not let them get me fired up. I had barely seen Cooper at all.
He was suddenly MIA. Oddly enough, so was his ex-fiancée.
My old friend. I didn’t even want to think what that meant.
The choir had assembled near the gazebo, their red scarves bright against the winter evening, voices warming up in preparation for their final performance.
The vendor booths glowed with soft light and families browsed the remaining Christmas crafts and treats that were discounted for the last day.
Children’s laughter echoed across the square.
Everything was perfect except for one crucial element that I was hoping to resolve quickly. Pat Samson, our Santa extraordinaire, was supposed to have arrived fifteen minutes ago.
The line for Santa’s workshop was already looping around Main Street, stretching past the post office and curving back toward the diner.
I frowned, immediately seeing the problem through Cooper’s safety-conscious eyes.
The line was blocking pedestrian walkways, creating potential bottlenecks that could become dangerous if people needed to move quickly.
I wished he was here. I didn’t know where he was, and I was definitely not going to text and ask him. And I hated it.
Cooper had become my anchor. His calm competence and methodical problem-solving had gotten me through countless festival challenges over the past few weeks.
But Cooper wasn’t here. He was respecting the space I had asked for, staying away while I finished out the festival. Which meant I had to handle this latest crisis on my own. Whatever job I landed in, I would be doing it without him. Might as well start now.
I approached the front of the line, where a family with three young children was growing visibly impatient.
“Excuse me, folks,” I called out, raising my voice to address the entire group. “I need everyone to move to the left side of the street, please. We want to keep the walkway clear for safety.”
There was some grumbling, but people generally complied, reorganizing themselves along the sidewalk and spilling onto the snow-covered grass of the town green. To smooth any ruffled feathers, I gestured toward the hot chocolate station.
“While we’re getting everything set up, please help yourselves to complimentary cocoa,” I announced. “And I heard a rumor that Santa’s workshop has some extra special surprises tonight for good little boys and girls.”
That got the children’s attention immediately. A little girl with pigtails tugged on my coat.
“Is Santa really coming?” she asked, her eyes wide with anticipation.
“Of course he is,” I said with more confidence than I felt. “Are you excited to see him? What are you going to ask for this year?”
“I want a rocket pony,” she declared seriously.
“A rocket pony?” I repeated, delighted despite my stress. “That sounds amazing. Fast and sparkly?”
“Super fast. And it can fly to the moon.”
Wish lists looked a lot different these days. I remember I wanted a stick with a horse head on it. That thing wasn’t going to the front door let alone the moon.
A boy behind her piped up. “I want a baby walrus. My mom said they’re cute and squishy.”
“They are very cute,” I agreed. “Though they might need a pretty big tank.”
Again, I was beginning to think I was just a little too basic in my own Christmas wishes. Barbie dolls and purses were clearly old news.
“I want my own cotton candy machine,” announced another child.
I smiled. “That would be super cool. Make sure you ask for a bulk pack of toothbrushes.”
The kid frowned at me.
I winced. “Sorry, that sounds like a lot of fun.”
“I want a dinosaur that plays the piano,” a little girl next to the cotton candy kid chimed in.
“Oh? Is that something you buy in a store?”
I was bombing this. I clearly needed to go to a toy store. Although if I saw a fucking dinosaur playing a piano, tuba, or dancing, I wasn’t sticking around to see if they were any good.
Kids were weird.
I worked my way down the line, engaging with families and keeping spirits high while secretly praying that Pat would arrive soon. The conversations were adorable and distracting, exactly what I needed to keep from panicking about our missing Santa.
“What about you?” I asked a little boy who’d been quietly listening to the other children’s wishes. “What’s on your Christmas list?”
He looked up at his mother with the look of childhood innocence. “Mommy wants a Brazilian butt lift.”
The adults within earshot burst into laughter while his mother turned approximately seventeen shades of red.
I had no words. I gaped at the kid and did my best not to look directly at the mother.
“Tommy!” she hissed, covering her face with her hands.
“You said you wanted your butt to look like the lady on the TV,” Tommy protested innocently.
“I think Santa might need to talk to your mommy about that one,” I said diplomatically, trying not to laugh. “Maybe you could ask for something for yourself instead?”
“Okay. I want a truck that turns into a robot that makes pancakes.”
“Now that sounds like something Santa’s elves would be very interested in building.”
As I continued down the line, chatting with families and keeping the mood light, I became aware of a subtle shift in the crowd’s energy. Conversations were becoming more hushed, and I could see people checking their phones and glancing toward the workshop with increasing concern.
A volunteer hurried past, and I grabbed her arm gently.
“Sarah, what’s going on?” I asked quietly.
She leaned in close, her voice barely above a whisper. “No one can find Santa. Pat was supposed to be here by now, but he’s not answering his phone. People are starting to say he isn’t coming.”
My stomach dropped like a stone. No Santa meant disappointed children, frustrated parents, and the kind of festival disaster that would be talked about for years to come.
All my careful planning, all the successful events we’d pulled off over the past week, and it could all be overshadowed by one missing Santa.
I looked around at the crowd, which was indeed getting restless. Parents were checking their watches, children were asking increasingly frequent questions about when Santa would arrive, and I could see the volunteer coordinators starting to look panicked.
There wasn’t going to be a riot in Calton Hill—we were too polite for that—but there was definitely going to be some serious hooting and hollering if I didn’t figure out a solution fast. I would flee to New York, but my poor aunt would have to go into witness protection.
“Keep trying Pat’s phone,” I told Sarah. “Call his house, his wife, anyone who might know where he is. Check the North Pole if you have to.”
Sarah nodded and hurried away, pulling out her phone as she went. I stood in the middle of the square, surrounded by the evidence of everything we’d accomplished over the past three weeks, and felt like everything was spinning out of control.
There was always a disaster looming.
The choir was ready to perform. People were soaking up the Christmas atmosphere, but without Santa, the evening would end on a massive disappointment.
I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to think. There had to be a solution. There was always a solution. I had to find a way to make this work.
I started cataloging available resources. I knew we had a Santa costume in the workshop storage area and approximately fifty adults who cared about making children happy. I was willing to bet several of these guys had donned a Santa costume before.
The question was: who could step into Pat’s considerable boots on such short notice?
Hell, I would put it on if I had to. Whatever it took. I would fluff up with pillows. And not talk. Definitely no talking.
I opened my eyes and scanned the crowd, looking for potential Santa candidates. There was the guy from the hardware store. He was scrawny but I knew he laughed a lot. But I had seen him hitting the spiked cider pretty hard earlier.
No drunk Santas.
I spotted another man, rotund and who seemed to be relatively jolly. But he might have been just a little too naturally portly. I wasn’t sure if we could stuff him into the suit. And the only thing worse would be a wardrobe malfunction involving a grown man’s pants splitting.
Shit, shit, shit.
What was I going to do? Damn you, Pat Samson.