Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
“Her name is Mrs. White. She's the one in charge of the Holiday Trail.”
Wick & Flame was warm, dimly lit, and sparsely populated. The candle shop was a sharp contrast to the carnival of Christmas happening just down the street. The only jingle here came from the bell above the door, and even that sounded tired.
Lettie sat across from the owners, a brother-sister duo who introduced themselves simply as The Wicks. Like hers, theirs was a name so on-the-nose Lettie half-suspected it was a branding decision, not a birthright.
Eli Wick had a man-bun, three flannel layers, and the cautious demeanor of someone who’d rather be restocking shelves than giving quotes.
His sister Maren looked like she’d walked out of a forest commune and into a low-grade panic attack.
They weren’t exactly eager to talk to Lettie, but they were honest.
“I’m not saying it was a threat,” Eli hedged, glancing at his sister.
“I am.” Maren huffed. “It was a threat. She said if we didn’t convert all our candles to holiday-themed from November first through Christmas, we’d be excluded from the Trail Map and pulled from the advertising rotation.”
“‘Pulled’ was the word she used,” Eli murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like we’re files in a cabinet.”
Lettie scribbled a note in the margin of her notebook: Mrs. White = Don of Mistletoe Mafia. Then underlined it. Twice.
“Did she put it in writing?” Lettie asked, already guessing the answer.
“No,” Maren said. “Of course not. She’s not stupid. She was wearing one of those god-awful peppermint suits, though. It screamed ‘benevolent dictator.’”
Lettie almost smiled. “And you refused?” she prompted.
“We said we already had orders for non-holiday events: birthdays, New Year’s weddings, even a memorial. We can’t dedicate our entire production to red-and-green reindeer vomit. We’d lose money.”
“And have you?”
They exchanged a look.
“Yes,” Eli admitted. “Foot traffic’s down. Online engagement dropped off a cliff. We’ve been... erased. Quietly.”
“Like we don’t exist,” Maren added, voice softening. “Maybe we should just cave and do what she wants?”
“It's too late,” said Eli.
Another look. Another heavy silence.
“We can’t afford to keep bleeding like this. Maybe we just... play along for December. Ride it out.”
“That’s not what Christmas is about.” Lettie's words came out sharp, angry, and louder than she meant them. The Wicks blinked at her.
“It’s not,” she said again, quieter now. “It’s not about coercion. It’s not about sales metrics. It’s about family. About honoring the birth of the Savior. It’s about... light. In the dark.”
Where the sleigh bells had that come from?
Lettie cleared her throat and stood, shoving her pen into her coat pocket. “I’ll write the article, and I’ll name Mrs. White as the one behind all of this.”
Eli and Maren exchanged yet another glance, this one tight with unease.
“Could you... maybe not use our names?” Maren asked carefully. “We’re not trying to make enemies. We just want to stay in business.”
Lettie nodded slowly, the fire inside her cooling back into something like ash. She understood. This town operated on smiles and silence. No one wanted to be the first to speak too loudly.
“I protect my sources.” But her jaw tightened as she walked to the door. Because while she didn’t blame the Wicks for their fear, she was tired of people letting this kind of cheer-powered bullying go unchecked.
The drive back to the cabin was slower now, the snow thickening by the minute, softening the world into silence. Lettie gripped the wheel with one gloved hand and flexed the other in her lap, her fingers twitching like they still held a pen.
She had what she needed. Enough for a story. Maybe even a front-page one if her editor didn’t gut it for sounding more flashy. The truth wasn’t always popular.
Her family hadn’t been flashy about Christmas when she was young. No extravagant gift piles. No choreographed light shows. Just quiet traditions that didn’t need witnesses to feel real.
Trimming the tree on the first snow. Her dad’s off-key caroling while hanging ornaments.
Sugar cookies shaped like books and not bells because “readers deserve a holiday too,” her mom would say.
On Christmas Eve, they’d tell stories by the fire.
Family stories. Faith stories. Sometimes just stories with a good punchline.
By the time morning rolled around, Lettie had always felt like her chest would burst with warmth. The presents were lovely, always—handmade, thoughtful, perfectly chosen. But they were never the point.
The year after they sold the magazine, her parents had invited her down to Florida for a “relaxing Christmas in the sun.” Sand instead of snow. Palms instead of pines. Santa in board shorts and sunglasses. The gifts had been gift cards.
They’d given up the magic. Traded meaning for convenience. Snow for surf.
Back in her neighborhood, Lettie had watched Christmas turn into a competition.
Trees decorated in commercially approved palettes.
Children throwing tantrums over the size or amount of the gifts under the tree.
Parents trying to buy each other’s approval through volume, not value.
Piles of boxes on the curb by noon, like evidence of who’d loved best.
It wasn’t Christmas. It was performance art for the spiritually bankrupt. And Lettie was done pretending.
She was going to write her story. She was going to call it like she saw it. And she was going to name names—starting with Mrs. White, the benevolent dictator of Honor Valley's snow-dusted stage play.
Outside, the snow thickened. Lettie adjusted her wipers and leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning the white-washed road.
Up ahead, red blinkers pierced the veil of white—cars pulled over to the shoulder, hazards blinking, passengers inside holding phones in the air like offerings to the signal gods.
She passed them carefully, letting her all-wheel drive do its job. Her chain-covered tires gripped the road like a stubborn truth refusing to slide. And then she saw him.
Carlos' car was half in a ditch, angled awkwardly with one front wheel sunk and spinning uselessly.
He was outside, coatless, shoving snow away from the tire with a windshield scraper.
His hair was dusted with snow, his cheeks red, his expression one of calm determination with just a flicker of panic beneath it.
She didn’t slow at first. She didn’t have to. It wasn’t her problem. He’d laughed at her, belittled her investigation, and probably charmed his way through every interview since.
She could keep driving. She should keep driving. But she didn’t.
Her foot tapped the brake. Just enough to test the traction.
Idiot, she thought, unclear if she meant him or herself.
She pulled off onto the shoulder a few yards ahead, flipped on her hazards, and threw the car into park. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel for a beat. Then she shoved open the door and stepped out into the snow.