Chapter 6 Noelle
NOELLE
SIX YEARS LATER
The first light of dawn filters through the curtains of my bedroom window, painting the walls in soft hues of grey.
I stir beneath the warmth of my quilt—one of my mom’s last creations before she passed, stitched together with scraps of holiday velvet left over from one of the many Christmas dresses she’d made for me growing up.
Sleep clings to me like a reluctant lover, but before I can burrow down and fall back asleep for another hour, a small hand digs under my covers and grabs onto me.
“Mama! Mama, wake up. It’s snowing outside!”
My eyes peel open slowly.
Eli’s hazel eyes, so like my own, sparkle with excitement as he climbs onto the bed and nearly collapses on top of me.
His pajamas are rumpled and his chestnut curls are a wild, unkept halo on top of his head.
At five, every snowfall is a Christmas miracle to him, a fresh canvas for forts and snowmen.
I blink away the haze of sleep, a smile tugging at my lips despite the early hour. “Is it, now? Let me see.”
I scoop him into my arms, his giggles warm against my neck, and we shuffle over to the window together.
There, beyond the glass, the world has transformed overnight.
A thick blanket of snow drapes the town in pristine white, muffling the streets and turning our sleepy town into a scene from a winter fairy tale.
Pine branches bow under the weight, and the first rays from the sun catch the flakes still drifting lazily from the sky, making them shimmer like diamonds.
Eli presses his nose to the glass, his breath fogging the pane. With a chubby finger, he traces a lopsided heart, then adds stick figures—me with my long hair, him with his tousled mop.
The sight of us in stick figure form melts my heart instantly, making my heart clench.
I hate how fleeting these moments are, how precious.
He’ll only be my little boy for so long and then I’ll be standing on the same porch my own father did when I graduated and left for college.
Back then I never understood why he was so sad to see me go, but now I get it.
When that day comes, I’m going to be devastated.
“It’s perfect,” I murmur, resting my chin on his head, his curls tickling my skin. “Maybe after breakfast, we can get dressed and go outside for a bit. Make a snowman before heading to the shop.”
“Yes! And we have those buttons from last year for the eyes!” He bounces in my arms, nearly toppling us over. His enthusiasm has always been a force of nature, barely contained in his little body.
I laugh and steady us, caught up in his excitement too.
“We sure do,” I say, picturing the jar of mismatched buttons tucked in the hall closet, perfect for a snowman’s mischievous gaze. “We’ll make the best snowman this town’s ever seen.”
I wink and Eli dissolves into giggles. I set him down, his bare feet pattering as he races across the room and quickly heads downstairs.
I take the moment of silence to stretch and get dressed for the day, coming down to find Eli already at the dining room table waiting patiently.
In the kitchen, the smell of coffee pulls me in and I find Dad already in the middle of making a stack of pancakes.
When he glances up, he gives me a warm smile. “Morning, kiddo. Got a request for pancakes. You want some?”
“Absolutely,” I reply, pouring myself a mug from the fresh pot and taking a few sips. The caffeine relaxes my shoulders the moment it makes it past my lips.
Eli chatters nonstop when I join him at the dining room table, his fork waving around in the air as he describes the snowman “army” we’re apparently going to make that will guard our yard from the Grinch.
I nod, half-listening, and lean back when Dad brings out the plate of pancakes and the jar of syrup.
“Dig in,” he says, taking his seat at the head of the table. “And maybe you two should focus on building one snowman to guard the house first. We’ll save the army for another day.”
“Aw, man,” Eli mumbles, stabbing his fork clean through a pancake.
After breakfast, we bundle up and head out into the freshly powdered morning.
The snow crunches under our boots as we step into the yard. Eli dives in, scooping snow with mittened hands and tossing it into the air, his laughter ringing like little bells.
I start rolling the base, my mittens dampening as the snow packs tight together.
We shape our snowman, his body coming out a little lopsided but proudly standing anyway.
He’s perfect,” he declares.
“Perfectly crooked, maybe,” I tease, nudging him with my elbow.
He giggles then digs into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a carrot. “For the nose!”
“Where’d you…?”
“From the kitchen,” he says proudly before I can finish.
Of course.
He jams it into the snowman’s face with such force that I have to bite back a laugh when the head nearly splits in two. “Careful, gentle hands!”
Next come the buttons: two mismatched plastic discs scavenged from last year’s craft stash.
One’s red, the other blue, giving our creation a lopsided, cheerfully ridiculous expression and I love it immediately.
“Something’s missing,” Eli says, squinting up at the snowman.
Then he gasps, darting up the porch stairs and into the house. Flecks of snow swirl inside the entryway from how hard he pushes the door open.
A minute later, he comes back with an old plaid cap and a red scarf I’d forgotten we even owned.
He perches the hat at a jaunty angle and wraps the scarf snugly around the snowman’s neck.
“There! Now he’s fancy,” he says proudly.
I pull out my phone, my fingers stiff from the cold, and snap a photo of Eli standing beside his masterpiece, beaming with his cheeks rosy and his eyes crinkled in delight. It’s the kind of picture I know I’ll look at on hard days.
Proof that happiness can exist even when life feels uncertain.
“You’re a master builder,” I tell him, ruffling his hat.
He ducks away with a laugh. “I’m a snowman expert!”
“Clearly,” I say, chuckling as I pocket my phone. “Now, come on, Picasso. We’ve got to get to the shop before Mrs. Harper has a heart attack about us opening late and thinks we shut down again.”
He groans dramatically. “She says that every weekend.”
I roll my eyes with a snort. “Don’t I know it.”
We brush off the snow as we head back into the house. Inside, the warmth from the freshly stocked fire wraps around us like a hug.
Dad’s already in his chair next to it, a cup of coffee in his hand raised to his lips.
He raises an eyebrow when he sees Eli tracking snow into the living room.
“Nice work out there, snow architect,” he says, smiling when Eli launches into an enthusiastic retelling of the build.
Half an hour later and after a cup of cocoa, we say our goodbyes. Eli gives Dad one last hug, tight and sincere, and then we’re out the door again, climbing into my car.
The drive isn’t long, just ten minutes up the road. The heater hums, the windows fogging slightly as snow-covered trees blur past.
When we finally pull onto the main strip and park out front, I exhale in relief. Thankfully, no one’s lingering outside the storefront having a meltdown, trying to peer in through the glass while wiggling on the handle a hundred times.
Eli unbuckles himself and slides out of his car seat. “Race you inside.”
I laugh, pulling the keys from the ignition. “You’d win anyway, honey.”
The familiar chime of bells greets us as I unlock the front door and step inside Noel’s Winter Wonders, my little sanctuary of perpetual Christmas.
The sound echoes softly through the quiet shop like the first few notes of a carol. Even before the lights come on, the faint smell of pine and cinnamon lingers in the air.
I flick the switch by the counter and, one by one, the fairy lights strung across the rafters blink awake. Their glow spreads slowly, spilling over shelves of garland and glass ornaments until the whole shop feels alive again.
Next, I flick on the wax melts scattered around the space—evergreen, balsam, and a touch of cranberry spice. The aroma fills the air almost immediately, wrapping around me like a familiar hug. I inhale deeply, letting it settle the last of my morning nerves.
Out there, the world is loud and cold and unpredictable. But in here? It’s magic. It’s mine.
Handcrafted ornaments sway gently when I pass by, dangling from their wrought-iron stands like delicate jewels.
Tiny nutcrackers, glass icicles, painted wooden angels, all carefully made by practiced fingers.
Every piece tells a story.
Some are local creations, others hand-made by artisans from all over the world, but they all carry the same warmth, the same spark of wonder that drew me to start this place in the first place.
Wreaths line the walls.
Lush circles of evergreen and holly, dotted with crimson berries and finished with thick velvet ribbons.
Some are minimalist, others are grand and ornate.
Together they make the shop feel like it’s always December the second you walk through the door.
Eli trails close behind me, his boots squeaking faintly against the wood floors.
Five years have woven themselves into the fabric of this place, into who I am now.
I never thought I’d find myself running a holiday shop in town, but I suppose crazier things have happened.
The world beyond the frosted windows might still be complicated, filled with questions and fears and things I can’t quite name, but here, surrounded by twinkling lights and the scent of winter, it all feels bearable.
It’s been six years since that snowbound weekend with my dad’s best friends.
Since the world had narrowed to the flicker of firelight and the intoxicating pull of forbidden desires.
At twenty-two, I had been a whirlwind of youthful recklessness, fueled by the excuse of wine and the thrill of the unknown.
Eli came nine months later, his features a perfect mirror of mine.
His paternity is still a shadow I refuse to chase.
To uncover it would mean confessing any form of the truth to my father and unraveling every lie I built just to cover it up.