Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The ballroom glittered like a life-sized snow globe come to life.
Twinkle lights framed the windows, casting soft halos on glass ornaments that dangled from evergreen garlands.
A live quartet played instrumental carols near the fireplace.
Laughter floated through the air like sugar spun into candy floss.
It was everything Carlos had hoped it would be—elegant, cheerful, wrapped in tradition. And yet… he kept looking at the door.
“Stop fidgeting.” Manuela Nowell smoothed the lapel of his velvet blazer for the third time in ten minutes. “You’re going to wear a groove into that floor.”
Carlos gave her a sheepish grin and adjusted his posture. Five seconds later, his gaze drifted again.
His mother followed it, then tilted her head and looked at him instead. Really looked at him. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
Her hand settled gently on his cheek, thumb brushing a spot just beside his eye. “The one you used to get the night before Christmas. Right after we set out the cookies and right before you went to bed. Like you were holding your breath in anticipation.”
Carlos chuckled softly. “That was probably the year I thought I was getting a sleigh.”
“You were expecting something then. You are expecting someone now. I can see it all over your face.”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really. Not without saying too much. Or admitting just how much he’d already given away. Because yes, he was expecting someone. Or maybe hoping was the better word. And not just for a Christmas miracle or a good headline. He was hoping for her.
Before his mother could press further, his father’s voice rose from the front of the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Howard Nowell said, smiling as he stood beneath the grand wreath adorning the mantle. “If I could have your attention for just a moment.”
The crowd quieted. Carlos turned with the others, his heart still pounding a strange, hopeful rhythm beneath his tailored jacket.
“Tonight is a milestone,” Howard continued. “Twenty-five years of Noel Magazine. Twenty-five years of stories, recipes, photos, gift guides, and awkward editorial meetings where we debated the hue of a red ribbon on a cover shoot.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
“But more than that,” he went on, his voice deepening with emotion, “it’s been twenty-five years of honoring something greater.
The season. The spirit. The reason. This magazine wasn’t built on ad revenue and mailing lists.
It was built on family. On spreading cheer.
On believing in something bigger than ourselves. ”
Carlos swallowed hard. The words settled inside him like a star atop a tree.
“And while I’ve been lucky to guide it these last five years,” his father said, “I didn’t start it.
I inherited it—from people who believed in those same values.
People who, when it came time to reap the rewards of all their work, didn’t sell out.
They handed it to me with trust. Because they believed my family would carry on their legacy.
But likely because we shared the same last name, even though I spell mine differently. ”
There was another chuckle as Howard Nowell paused.
“Tonight, those people are here. I’d like to call them up to thank them properly. Please help me welcome the founders of Noel Magazine—Bethany and Abraham Noel.”
Applause broke out. Heads turned toward the entrance. But Carlos didn’t move. Because he’d already turned. And there—just inside the door, framed by golden light and flurries of snow caught in her scarf—she stood.
Carletta Noel. Lettie.
She was flanked by her parents, both older now than they’d been in the framed photos Carlos had studied in the archives, but still unmistakably the heart of Christmas publishing.
Carlos barely registered them. He only saw Lettie. Her eyes swept the room, uncertain and searching, until they found his.
For one suspended second, the noise fell away. The lights blurred. The space between them shimmered like candlelight reflected in frost.
Carlos smiled. Not the polished, press-ready smile he gave at events like this. A real one. Lit from the inside out. Because in that moment, the hope on his face finally had a name. And she was walking not toward him but toward the stage.