Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
PENELOPE
T he mirror reflects a woman I barely recognize. My chestnut curls, usually pulled back into a low ponytail, are neatly styled. A touch of mascara accentuates my golden eyes, and a hint of rose tints my cheeks and lips. I’ve swapped my usual comfy sweater dress for a soft, ivory blouse that feels foreign against my skin and a pair of tight jeans.
“What am I doing?” I mutter to my reflection, shaking my head.
This isn’t a date. I refuse to call it that. Dating implies interest, attraction, and the potential for something more. And I am absolutely not interested in Nick Kringle, no matter how charming his smile or how kind his green eyes might be.
He didn’t even ask me out. Not really. It was more of a “Hey friend, want to hang out later,” invitation .
Which I practically pounced on, but we’re not talking about that.
A gurgle from the next room snaps me out of my reverie. Right. I have a much more important person to get ready.
I pad across the worn hardwood floor to Noelle’s room, my bare feet relishing the warmth of the old house. The ovens below keep the floor warm even in December.
The scent of baby powder and lavender fills the air as I push open the door. There, standing in her crib and gripping the railing with chubby hands, is my little girl.
“Well, hello there,” I coo, scooping her up. Her giggles wash over me like a soothing balm, easing the knot of anxiety in my chest. “Ready for an adventure?”
Noelle babbles happily in response, her tiny fingers reaching for my earrings. I gently redirect her hands, planting a kiss on her forehead. Her skin is impossibly soft, and I breathe in her sweet baby scent.
“Let’s get you dressed up, shall we?” I say, carrying her to the changing table. “We’re going to show Mr. Nick Kringle exactly what he’s getting himself into.”
As I change Noelle into an adorable red and white polka dot onesie, complete with red pants with a ruffle at the hems, I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. Using my daughter as a shield against potential romantic entanglements isn’t exactly stellar parenting. But the alternative – opening my heart to the possibility of being hurt again – seems far more terrifying.
“There,” I say, securing a tiny red bow in Noelle’s hair. “You look absolutely perfect. ”
And she does. My heart swells with love and pride as I take in her cherubic face, rosy cheeks, and the twinkle in her eye. She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, the one truly good thing to come out of my ill-fated relationship with her father.
“Now, sweetpea,” I say, lifting her into my arms and realizing that I sound like Grandpa, “we’re going to have some chowder with a nice man named Nick. But remember, we’re perfectly happy, just the two of us, aren’t we?”
Noelle responds by grabbing a fistful of my hair and trying to stuff it in her mouth. I laugh, gently extricating my curls from her grasp. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
As I gather our things—diaper bag, favorite stuffed animal, emergency snacks—I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror again. The woman staring back at me looks put-together like she has it all under control. I quickly avert my gaze. If only!
“Come on, baby girl,” I say, hoisting Noelle onto my hip.
The walk to the Chowder House is short, but it gives me plenty of time to second-guess my decision. Maybe I should have just canceled. Made up an excuse about Noelle having a cold or something. I can’t say why I’m going—other than a free meal at the Chowder House is not a gift you return to sender.
The familiar sight of the weathered cedar shingles and dark blue-painted exterior of the Chowder House comes into view. It’s a Founder's Grove institution, as much a part of the town’s fabric as the Mayflower replica in the harbor. The warm glow from the windows spills out onto the sidewalk, promising comfort and good food within.
I take a deep breath, inhaling the crisp air tinged with the scent of the nearby ocean. “Well, Noelle,” I say, “here goes nothing.” I know how this is going to go. I’ll show up with Noelle in tow, and Nick will stumble over the fact that she’s there. Then, we’ll engage in awkward conversation for as long as it takes him to eat a bowl of chowder. Once he’s done that, he’ll check his phone and say he has an emergency and has to jet.
This isn’t my first non-date.
The thing is, a part of my heart doesn’t want it to go like that. The romantic inside of me hopes that Nick is a surprise.
The moment I push open the door, the comforting aroma of simmering seafood broth envelops us. The gentle hum of conversation and clinking cutlery fills the air, punctuated by Noelle’s excited babbling. My eyes scan the room, taking in the familiar sights—checkered tablecloths, vintage photographs of fishing boats lining the walls, and the chalkboard menu near the entrance.
And there, at a table near the window, is Nick Kringle.
My breath catches in my throat. He’s traded his garish Christmas sweater for a soft-looking flannel shirt in a deep forest green that makes his eyes seem even more vibrant. His wavy brown hair is slightly tousled as if he’s run his hands through it nervously waiting for us to arrive. When he spots us, his face lights up with a smile that could rival the brightness of any Christmas tree .
Warmth floods my cheeks, and my heart does an unexpected flip. I may have made a terrible miscalculation.
I don’t just want Nick to stay; I want him to like us.
I steel myself and approach the table, Noelle perched on my hip. “Hi, Nick,” I say, aiming for casual but hearing the slight tremor in my voice. “I hope you don’t mind that I brought company.”
To my surprise, Nick’s smile grows even wider. “Not at all,” he says, standing up. “I was hoping you would.” He motions to the high chair he must have pulled over to the table before we got here.
My eyes dart from the high chair to Nick’s face.
“I asked them to set it up for us. I hope that’s okay?” He ducks his head and looks up at me like a man asking for forgiveness.
Only he hasn’t done anything wrong.
On the contrary, he’s done something very right.
I’m momentarily speechless. This is not how these things usually go. By now, most guys would be making excuses, checking their phones for imaginary emergency texts, anything to escape the reality of a single mom and her very real, very present child.
“That’s... that’s really thoughtful,” I manage to say, lowering Noelle into the high chair. She immediately starts banging her hands on the tray, delighted by the sound it makes.
Nick chuckles, the sound warm and genuine. “I’ve got something else for the little lady,” he says, reaching across the table. He produces a small bowl filled with oyster crackers, setting it on Noelle’s tray. Her eyes light up, and she wastes no time grabbing a fistful.
“Careful,” I warn, but Nick just grins.
“No worries,” he says. “I asked for the non-choking-hazard size. And...” He reaches into a lunch sack, pulling out several jars of baby food. “I wasn’t sure what she likes, so I got a variety. We’ve got peas, sweet potato, apple... even some of that weird kale and quinoa stuff they’re marketing to babies these days. I wasn’t sure if she could have chowder. I should have thought about that before I mentioned this place.”
I stare at him, completely dumbfounded. This can’t be real. Men like this don’t exist outside of Christmas movies. I must have slipped and hit my head on the icy sidewalk. That’s the only explanation for this surreal scenario.
“I... I don’t know what to say,” I stammer, sinking into my chair. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
Nick shrugs, his eyes twinkling. “I wanted to. Besides, any date with you is a package deal, right?” He leans over and grins at Noelle. “You look pretty. That’s a sweet bow in your hair.” She grins back at him.
The word ‘date’ sends a jolt through me. “This isn’t... I mean, I didn’t think...” I trail off, suddenly feeling like I’m floundering in deep water.
Nick’s expression softens. He brushes his hand over mine. “Hey, no pressure,” he says gently. “I thought I should make myself clear, considering I asked you out with the finesse of a fifteen-year-old. I’m just happy you’re here. Both of you. ”
I look at him—really look at him—and see nothing but sincerity in his eyes. No hidden agenda, no reluctance, just genuine warmth and interest. It’s disarming in a way I’m not prepared for.
“I don’t understand,” I blurt out. “Guys don’t want to date us.” I flap my hand back and forth between me and Noelle. She scowls at me as if saying: Speak for yourself.
Nick’s brow furrows, a mix of confusion and something that looks like sadness crossing his face. “Well,” he says simply, “I’m not those guys.”
The weight of those four words settles over me, heavy with possibility and terrifying in their implications.
“Evening, folks,” she says cheerily. “Are we all here? Can I get you something to drink?”
I plop into the chair Nick’s holding out for me. “I’ll have a bowl of chowder,” I reply. It’s only a moment later that I realize she didn’t ask for my food order. “And water, please.”
As Nick orders—the house specialty clam chowder, of course—I try to gather my scattered thoughts. This evening is not going at all how I’d planned. My carefully constructed walls, built to protect Noelle and me from disappointment and heartbreak, seem to be crumbling in the face of Nick Kringle’s unexpected kindness.
And the scariest part? A small, traitorous part of me is glad.