Chapter 51 Ivy
My boots click against the wooden floors as I claim my strategic spot: third row, perfectly positioned to volunteer for everything except impromptu caroling demonstrations.
Because yes, I love this town, but there are limits to my holiday spirit, and watching Bernie from the hardware store massacre ‘Silent Night' is definitely one of them.
Life's been good lately. Busy, in that satisfying way. I hosted Friendsgiving last week, where James stayed past dessert. He's working at that garage in Brookside now, and even though healing isn't exactly straightforward, having Daphne back has given him an anchor.
"Perfect timing!" Margaret calls from where she's arranging chairs, her silver hair catching the light from strings of multicolored bulbs someone's already strung across the windows.
"I was hoping you'd be here early. We need to discuss the gingerbread house competition rules after that incident last year. "
I laugh, remembering the great structurally-unsound-candy-mansion disaster. "Don't worry, I've already drafted guidelines about proper foundation-to-frosting ratios. And load-bearing gumdrops are now mandatory."
The hall crowds with the usual suspects—business owners and volunteers. The familiar buzz of small-town politics and holiday planning fills the air. This is my element.
"Ivy!" Vinnie's delighted squeal echoes through the hall. "Tell me we haven't missed Danny's yearly holiday conspiracy theory."
"Just in time." I scoot over on the ancient wooden bench that's probably witnessed a century of town drama.
Ethan follows behind her. His sharp jawline softens when he smiles, which is constantly around Vinnie, and there's something endearing about how he straightens his already-perfect posture before sliding into the seat next to her.
"The drama club has the most amazing concept for the tree lighting ceremony—"
"You're such a nerd." Vinnie teases as she settles between us, her petite frame vibrating with anticipation. "But like, a hot nerd, so it works."
Margaret calls the meeting to order with an unnecessary but traditional gavel tap, and we make it through basic announcements before she adjusts her reading glasses, peering at her notes with practiced diplomacy.
"Now, about the creative suggestion in the box regarding a potential drag Santa performance—"
Vinnie suddenly becomes very interested in her cuticles.
"—we'll circle back to that discussion. Moving on to Christmas tree—"
"WAIT!" Danny pops up like a jack-in-the-box, his weathered cardigan flapping dramatically. "The people deserve to know the truth about Rudolph! That red nose? Classic government surveillance technology. I've been tracking unusual radio frequencies around all known reindeer sanctuaries—"
"Thank you, Danny. We'll file that under 'ongoing holiday concerns.'" Margaret doesn't miss a beat. "Now, about volunteers for the town Christmas tree. Someone with experience in—"
"I'll do it!" My hand shoots up. The resulting silence is broken only by Vinnie's poorly disguised snort.
"You?" She's practically crying with laughter. "Miss Five-Foot-Nothing, who drives a car that could fit in my pocket?"
"I can do it," I protest.
Vinnie wipes tears from her eyes. "What's your plan? Strap the tree to your roof and pray?"
"She could get ten small trees," Ethan suggests, failing to hide his smile. "Stack them like a festive Jenga tower."
"Or," Vinnie's eyes light up with unholy glee, "we could put it on wheels. Like those little carts for dogs who can't use their back legs. Roll it down Main Street—"
"Actually," Dottie's voice carries from the front row, cutting through their increasingly ridiculous brainstorming session, "Greg's got his truck. He'd be happy to help."
I'm ready to protest—because tree-hunting with my ex-best-friend's father is definitely not on my Christmas wish list—but Margaret's already making a note in her binder, and that means it's carved in stone.
"Perfect! That's settled then." She doesn't even look up. "Moving on to the bake sale . . ."
My mind drifts as Martha, owner of the Sweet Crumbs bakery, launches into her annual dissertation on optimal cookie-pricing strategies.
I've been seeing Greg and Dottie around town, and it's different.
Like watching two teenagers who snuck out past curfew.
Holding hands at the farmer's market, sharing milkshakes at The Sugar Spot like they think no one's watching.
Caleb would get such a kick out of this.
I immediately shove the thought away. I haven't let myself think about him in weeks. But I miss him. God, I miss him.
"Earth to Ivy," Vinnie whispers, poking my ribs. "You're doing that thing where you space out during Martha's cookie manifesto."
"I'm strategizing," I whisper back. "About the tree. Maybe if we tied enough balloons to it—"
"Up style?" Ethan chimes in. "Because I'm pretty sure that violates several town ordinances."
"Ivy?" Margaret calls. "The caroling routes?"
"Oh! Yes." I fumble with my planner, grateful for the distraction. "I've mapped out five that should cover the whole town without overlap. And I was thinking we could add some non-traditional songs this year? Mix it up a little?"
"Great, you'll coordinate with the high school choir? Ethan can help with that." Margaret says smoothly.
Ethan nods, already pulling out his phone to make notes. He's the only teacher I know who genuinely enjoys extra-curricular activities.
"Next, the Christmas light display—"
"Actually!" Danny shoots up again. "Did you know LED stands for Luminous Enchantment Devices? They're using the color patterns to manipulate our shopping habits!"
"Thank you, Danny." Margaret doesn't even blink.
"You laugh now," he mutters, settling back into his seat, "but when you find yourself inexplicably buying candy canes at three a.m. . . ."
Vinnie leans over, her voice a whisper. "Think he knows I'm the one who's been leaving conspiracy theory books in his mailbox?"
"You didn't," I whisper back, but her grin tells me everything.
"The Ancient Aliens Christmas Special DVD was a particularly inspired touch," Ethan adds.
The meeting wraps up, and I'm gathering my things when Vinnie loops her arm through mine.
"Walk with us?" she asks, already steering me toward the door. "Ethan's making his famous hot chocolate, and I need someone to help me convince him that adding peppermint syrup isn't 'compromising the integrity of the recipe.'"
"It absolutely is," he protests, while holding the door for us both.
We step out into the December evening, our boots crunching on fresh snow.
Main Street has been decked for holiday season—twinkle lights reflecting off shop windows, wreaths on every door, and the faintest scent of pine and woodsmoke in the air.
The old clock tower wears a crown of evergreen garland, its face glowing warm against the dark winter sky.
Our path takes us past storefronts transformed for the season.
Nutcrackers standing guard at the bookstore, vintage glass ornaments catching lamplight in the antique shop window, and the bakery's display of gingerbread houses dusted with powdered sugar snow.
Even the old post office has embraced the spirit, its brass letterboxes wrapped in candy-cane striped ribbon.
"So," Vinnie bumps my shoulder, "excited for your parents to come home for Christmas?"
"Yeah." I smile, thinking of their latest video call. "Was good seeing them in Bali."
"That trip looked incredible," Vinnie sighs dreamily. "All those temples, the beaches . . ."
"We should do a girls' trip next year," I suggest. "Maybe not Bali, but somewhere. Adventure awaits, and all that."
"Oh no," Ethan groans. "Please don't encourage her. She'll have a PowerPoint presentation ready by morning."
"Bold of you to assume I haven't already started one," Vinnie teases, reaching up to adjust his scarf.
"You're impossible," he says fondly, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm.
"You love it."
"God help me, I do."
I watch them, these two people who found each other in the most ordinary way and have built something extraordinary. It makes me hopeful. And maybe a little lonely.
"Well, this is me," I say as we reach my turn-off. "Try not to stay up all night planning international adventures."
"No promises!" Vinnie calls back, already tucked into Ethan's side as they continue down the street.
The walk home feels longer in winter. Everything's muffled by snow, the world wrapped in quiet. My cottage looks welcoming ahead; warm lights in the windows, and smoke curling from the chimney where I forgot to close the flue again.
But something's missing.
By now, Caleb would usually be sprawled on my couch, critiquing my Netflix queue, or trying to convince Salem that they're best friends.
He'd be planning our annual Christmas movie marathon, complete with his terrible hot chocolate (how does someone mess up powder and water?) and running commentary about how every Hallmark film is basically the same plot.
Last year, he carved the "turkey" at Christmas dinner. Mom was deep in her vegan phase, and the so-called bird was some unholy creation of tofu and wheat gluten, molded into what vaguely resembled poultry, if you squinted and had several glasses of wine.
The look on his face when he took that first bite—pure horror contained behind a polite smile—still makes me laugh. But he'd eaten two helpings, praised Mom's creativity, and later ordered a pizza that we shared on my back porch.
I wonder if he'll stay in Boston for Christmas.
The thought cuts through before I can shove it down.
I could ask James or Brodie. They'd know his plans.
But I've worked so hard to avoid all Caleb-adjacent conversations.
To rebuild my life without that constant almost-something taking up space in my heart.
I didn't even wish him happy birthday last month.
My key sticks in the lock, because apparently WD-40 is a foreign concept in my world, when I hear the telltale waddle-thump.
The ducks are huddled on the back porch again, their snow-white feathers glowing in the darkness.
Despite everything I've read about their cold-weather resilience, guilt still prickles every time I see them out there.
"You're supposed to be in your coop," I inform them, as they peer hopefully through the glass, those orange bills pressed against the door. "You know, where there's actual shelter?"
They don't move. Just stand there, unblinking. Louie pecks at the window.
"Fine." I crack open the door, and they parade inside. "But this is a one-time thing. Just like yesterday. And the day before."
They settle into their usual spot by the radiator. Salem watches from his perch on the bookshelf, judging my complete lack of backbone when it comes to his feathered siblings with abandonment issues.
The Christmas lights I hung last weekend twinkle through my window.
They're slightly crooked, because I didn't have Caleb to help this year.
I'm still angry. Still hurt. Still think blocking his number was the right call, even if it was like cutting out part of myself.
But I really wish he was here, and we could fix things.
And sometimes, I can't stop wondering if, somewhere in Boston, he's missing me too.