Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
NICK
T he moment I step into the Founder's Grove Community Center, a wave of festive energy washes over me. The air buzzes with anticipation, filled with the mingling scents of pine, cinnamon, and the unmistakable aroma of fresh paint.
I pause just inside the doorway, taking in the transformation around me. Where there was once a plain community space now stands a winter wonderland on its way to life.
Twinkling lights cascade from the ceiling in random strands that make sense to Brad, the lighting guy. He’s hanging them like they did for his daughter’s wedding a couple of years ago. I don’t think it will look as much like a wedding reception as he thinks it will once we have all the trees decorated.
Speaking of trees, fake ones have come out of basements and attics, been saved from garages and closets to see the light of day once again. I cringe at one tree in particular that’s missing several branches and leaning to the left.
To my right, tables adorned with red and green cloths showcase an array of handmade ornaments, wreaths, and holiday crafts. The centerpiece of the room will be a majestic live tree donated by one of the town’s oldest families. Right now, we just have a tree stand in place.
As I make my way further inside, the sounds of preparations envelop me. Hammers tap rhythmically as the booths are assembled. Volunteers call out to one another. Children’s laughter rings out from a corner where tables are being stocked with glitter, glue, and colorful paper for ornament-making.
I’m barely two steps in when the first wave of questions hits me.
“Nick! Thank goodness you’re here!” A woman with graying hair pulled into a tight bun rushes towards me; a clipboard clutched to her chest. “I don’t know where to put the cookie decorating. Does it belong with the food vendors or craft tables?”
Before I can answer, a man in a reindeer-patterned sweater appears at my elbow. “Nick, the carolers are asking about their performance schedule. Do you have that finalized?”
I open my mouth to respond, but I’m cut off by a teenage girl with tinsel woven into her braids. “Mr. Kringle! We don’t have red ribbon for the gift-wrapping station. Do you know where we can find more?”
I look over their heads and see Penelope watching me from the doorway. She has her hands tucked into her coat, and she glances away, shy-like, when our eyes meet. For a moment, I just have to stare, struck by her beauty.
Before I can think better of it, my feet are carrying me towards her. As I get closer, I catch a whiff of her perfume—something light and floral, with just a hint of vanilla. It’s intoxicating. “Hi,” I breathe and then notice that the question crew followed me over here.
“Hello,” she offers a soft smile. “I was going to ask you—.” She bites her bottom lip. “Never mind. I can see how busy you are.”
“Ask,” I practically command her. This desire bubbles up inside of me, and I want to give her everything.
She tucks a strand of her red hair behind her ear, and my fingers itch to feel it slide through them. “I wanted to see how you’re organizing the Bazaar. I-I’ve never done an event like this.”
“I—I, of course.” I scramble to put my thoughts in order. I want to tell her everything all at once. They clog in my head like too many Legos in a machine.
“Mr. Kringle, we really need that ribbon,” says the teenager—Melissa is her name.
For a moment, I’m overwhelmed by the barrage of questions and the sheer number of eyes fixed on me, waiting for answers. “Actually, this is why Penelope is here.”
“It is?” Penelope asks.
“I could use your advice.”
“You could?” She wrinkles her nose. It’s so cute .
“Do you think we should put the cookie decorating station in the food court or crafting area?” I ask her.
She thinks for a moment. “I’d put it in the food court to draw families that way.”
I nod to Mrs. Thompson. “There you have it.”
“Penelope, you’re so right,” Mrs. Thompson gushes. “I’m so glad you came in here today.” She grins at me and bustles off.
I turn to the man in the reindeer sweater. Which is a fashion choice I can get behind. “I’ll have the performance schedule finalized by the end of the week. And—” I turn to my teenaged helper,."Check the supply closet next to the janitor’s office. There should be extra ribbon in there. If not, let me know, and we’ll send someone to the craft store."
As they disperse, I feel a small thrill. I can do this.
Penelope’s gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the bustling activity and festive decorations. “It’s incredible,” she breathes. “The whole town’s been buzzing about this Bazaar. I can see why.”
A warm glow of satisfaction spreads through my chest. “Really? The whole town?” That’s the best news I’ve had all day.
She nods, a soft smile playing on her lips. “Mrs. Abernathy at the bookstore can’t stop talking about her booth of Christmas classics.”
I can’t help but chuckle at that.
“This is exactly what Founder's Grove needed, Nick. I didn’t see it, but you did.”
Her words send a warmth spreading through me that has nothing to do with my ridiculous flashing-nosed reindeer sweater. It’s Rudy’s favorite. I haven’t had him out today, so I wore the sweater to make him smile. I should take him for a flight tonight.
For a moment, we just stand there, smiling at each other like a couple of teenagers. Then, without really thinking it through, I hear myself say, “Listen, I was wondering if maybe you’d like to grab some clam chowder at the Chowder House later? You know, after things wind down here?” The words tumble out in a rush, and I immediately want to kick myself. The Chowder House? What kind of a first date is that?
Before Penelope can respond—before I can even gauge her reaction—I’m saved (or perhaps doomed) by a crash from across the room, followed by a yelp of surprise.
“I should probably...” I gesture vaguely towards the commotion.
Penelope nods, understanding in her eyes. “Of course. Go ahead.”
I turn to leave, then pause, glancing back over my shoulder. “About that chowder...” I’m already walking away, my heart pounding so loudly in my ears that I wouldn’t hear her answer if she shouted it. “I’ll be here until eight!” I call back, not daring to look at her again. “Just in case you’re interested!”
Smooth, Nick. Real smooth.
As I hurry towards the source of the crash, I silently berate myself. What was I thinking? Running off before she could answer? That doesn’t speak of a confident man— it barely speaks of an interested man. She has to know I’m interested, right?
Candlesticks! I could have tossed that out to one of my cousins and made them feel just as un-special. I should have done that better.
“Nick!”
I can’t fix this with Penelope right now. I have to handle things here. Like figuring out why it sounds like an entire gingerbread village just collapsed in the baking section.
I approach the display section, where I find Mrs. Thompson surveying a heap of broken cookies with dismay.
“Oh, Nick,” she sighs, shaking her head. “The table collapsed. All our gingerbread houses are ruined.” I don’t want to talk about how many hours I put into several of those houses. Let’s just say the amount of sleep I’ve been getting is about as much as a child waiting up to catch Santa.
I squat down, carefully picking up a fragment of what was once a perfectly crafted gingerbread roof. The spicy-sweet aroma tickles my nose, reminding me of Christmases spent in the kitchen with Gabe and Robyn. I suddenly miss them both very much. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Thompson. We’ll figure something out.”
I help her salvage what we can. My eyes catch on a booth across the way, and suddenly, I’m struck by inspiration. “Wait here,” I tell Mrs. Thompson, then make my way to where Jenny is arranging gift-wrapping supplies .
“Jenny,” I call out, “how would you feel about a slight change of plans for your station?”
Ten minutes later, we’ve transformed the gift-wrapping booth into a ‘Build Your Own Gingerbread House’ station. The broken pieces become the perfect building blocks for children to create their own unique designs.
As I step back to admire our handiwork, I tuck my hands in my pockets and feel the wish coin. Its weight is a constant reminder of my goal: to earn my tinsel tattoo and truly become a part of the Kringle family. Each problem solved, each smile brought to a face—they’re all steps towards that goal.
My reverie is broken by Tom, the man in the reindeer sweater, approaching with a concerned look. “Nick, we seem to be missing something from the list. The Christmas nuts—we don’t have a booth for them. It’s not Christmas without those nuts.”
“I hear you, Tom. And I couldn’t agree more.” Quickly, I pull out my phone. “Let me make a call.”
I dial a familiar number, and after a few rings, a soft voice answers. “Hello?”
“Hazel!” I’m unable to keep the excitement from my voice. I miss my nieces and nephews and my crazy family. The big house on Waterfront Street is empty and lonely.
“Oh, hi, Nick,” Hazel replies. “Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s great,” I assure her. “Listen, I have a huge favor to ask. How would you like to set up a Christmas nut booth at our Bazaar?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and I can almost see Hazel fidgeting nervously. “I... I don’t know, Nick. There will be so many people.”
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” I say gently. Hazel is the shiest of the Kringle grandchildren. Robyn and Gabe made conscious efforts to help her overcome her shyness when she was small. They even enrolled her in preschool in Switzerland and flew her down there twice a week so she could be with other children. She managed, but she’s not much of a people person. I know this will be a stretch for her, but it will also be a good thing. She needs this even if she doesn’t know it yet. “Your Christmas nuts are the best in the North Pole. Founder's Grove deserves to taste them. And who knows? You might even enjoy yourself.”
Another pause, then a soft sigh. “I’ll do it.”
Relief washes over me. “You’re going to do great, Hazel. I promise.” I’m already excited to have her in the Kringle House.
After we hash out the details, I hang up, feeling a renewed sense of optimism. Not only will Hazel’s booth be a hit, but it’ll be good for her, too. Sometimes, all it takes is a little push to help someone shine like Penelope. She glowed under Mrs. Thompson’s praise. I’ve seen her desk—it’s immaculate. And the fact that she does a full-time job with Noelle in the office is incredible. I don’t know how she worked that out with the city, but it’s brilliant that they recognized Penelope’s talents.
As the afternoon wears on, I find myself caught up in a whirlwind of activity. I oversee the setup of booths, consult on decoration placement, and mediate minor disputes between vendors vying for prime locations. The community center is transforming before my eyes, and with each passing hour, it looks more and more like the magical Christmas Bazaar I’d envisioned.
“Nick!” a voice calls out, and I turn to see Sarah, one of our most enthusiastic volunteers, hurrying towards me. “The carol singers are here for their sound check. Where should I send them?”
I glance at my watch, surprised to see how quickly time has flown. “Let’s have them set up near the Christmas tree,” I decide. “The acoustics should be good there, and it’ll create a nice atmosphere.”
As Sarah rushes off to relay the message, I take a moment to observe the bustling activity around me. Volunteers scurry back and forth, arms laden with tinsel and ornaments. The air is filled with the sound of hammering, laughter, and snatches of Christmas carols as people hum while they work. It almost feels like Santa’s workshop, which feels like home. I smile.
“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.”