Chapter 26
CHAPTER 26
PENELOPE
T he crisp December air nips at my cheeks as Noelle and I make our way up the sidewalk to the bakery. A light dusting of snow crunches beneath our feet, and the scent of the winter sea floats around us, reminding me that Christmas is coming.
I inhale deeply, savoring the familiar smells of Christmas in Founder's Grove—a mix of salt air from the harbor, evergreen wreaths, and the promise of Grandpa’s holiday baking.
I can’t help but think about Nick. He seems to be everywhere at once. The community center when I’m setting up, the hardware store when Noelle and I go shopping, my thoughts… I can’t escape him. Nor do I want to.
I’m in a weird place. I know I was doing fine before Nick came back. I was! I was dating—although that leveled off with the holidays. I put my online dating profiles to sleep for the season so I could focus on work and Noelle and not have to bother with men.
Is that telling? That I think of the men I meet as a bother?
I never thought that about Nick. From day one, he was more help than he was effort. I always felt like I was getting so much more from him that I gave. Not that it was ever a contest. He never made it about him or what he was doing versus what I was doing. In fact, with him, I always felt like I was enough just by showing up. He’d tell me how lucky he felt to have me and Noelle for an evening.
Why aren’t there more men like him?
More men who look so good in a sweater you want to crawl inside of it with them and curl up until Spring.
“Come on, mamma!” Noelle tugs at my hand, her cheeks rosy from the chill and her eyes sparkling with excitement."I want to see if Grandpa made gingerbread cookies!"
I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. “Alright, alright. Let’s see what Christmas treats Grandpa’s cooked up for us today.”
As we step through the front door, the warmth of the house envelops us like a hug. The entryway is festooned with garlands and red bows, and the scent of cinnamon and cloves fills the air. I hang up our coats, breathing in the comforting aroma of roasted turkey and herbs.
“Penelope?!” Grandpa’s voice booms from the kitchen. He appears in the doorway, wearing a Santa Claus apron and sporting a dusting of flour in his white hair. The sight of him, so festive and jolly, makes my heart swell with affection.
Noelle rushes to him, throwing her arms around his waist. “Hi, Grandpa! Did you make gingerbread men?”
He chuckles, patting her back. “An army of them. Go take a look.” She hurries to drag a chair over to the counter where the gingerbread men are lined up, all pipped and perfect. He’s so talented.
I lean in to kiss his cheek, careful to avoid the flour. “It smells wonderful, Grandpa. Thank you for cooking.”
His blue eyes twinkle, reminding me of the songs about Santa’s eyes. I’ll blame Nick for that, too—I’m not usually inclined to think about Ol’ Saint Nick, even during Christmas. I guess with Noelle getting older and more aware of things, I should get used to Santa being a part of our lives.
I can’t believe Nick called the North Pole right there in the hardware store. I would have thought he set the whole thing up except for Benson jumping in there and Brody knowing about the baseball bat thing. That was unreal.
Also, I’m just realizing that I’ve become a skeptic. When I was a kid, I totally believed in Santa. I loved writing my letter. I would decorate the paper with candy canes down the side and holy in the upper corner. It was one of my favorite times of the year.
Then life got hard, and mustering up Christmas spirit was a chore.
I can’t believe I’ve fallen so far from the wide-eyed girl I used to be. A part of me wants to go back to those days and be innocent and hopeful again. The other part of me knows there’s no way to do that without losing my little girl—I’d never wish her away.
I guess the only place to go is forward. Forward and hopefully to a jollier place than I’ve been in the last three years.
Nick could help with that. He loves Christmas, some voice in my head tells me.
Of course Nick loves Christmas , I argue back. He ’s Santa’s son. Not loving Christmas is a horrible offense for him.
How do you know that? challenges the voice.
My goodness, but she is snarky today. I’m not sure what I did to upset her, but she needs to rein it in. I ignore her and bite the inside of my cheek as a distraction.
“Wash up, and let’s eat,” Grandpa tells us.
Noelle and I take turns at the sink, and then we settle around the worn kitchen table. Grandpa put out the gold candlesticks. The sight of them brings a sense of holiday cheer. The table is laden with a deep-brown roast, fluffy mashed potatoes, and green beans. Grandpa’s cranberry sauce sits in a crystal dish, its deep red color a perfect match for the poinsettia tablecloth.
Grandpa’s worked hard to make this meal special for me and Noelle. Bless him for his efforts. He must be feeling Christmas this year—or he’s noticed how I haven’t and he’s trying to make up for it for Noelle.
Maybe he noticed Noelle getting older and being more aware earlier than I did. His hip may bother him, but there’s nothing wrong with his mind.
He offers a prayer over the food and we dig in, and for a few moments, the only sounds are the clink of cutlery and appreciative murmurs. I savor the tender meat, letting the flavors dance on my tongue. It’s moments like these—family dinners—that remind me of how blessed I am.
My peaceful reverie is shattered when Noelle suddenly pushes her plate away, her lower lip jutting out in a pout. “I want chowder,” she announces, crossing her arms over her chest.
I set down my fork, surprised by her sudden change in mood. “Noelle, that’s not very polite. Grandpa worked hard on this dinner for us.”
Her hazel eyes, so much like my own, flash with stubbornness. “But I want to go to the Chowder House with Nick.”
The mention of Nick’s name sends a jolt through me. I take a deep breath, trying to keep my voice calm even as I cast an apologetic look at Grandpa. “I know you wanted to go with Nick, sweetie. Maybe next time.”
Noelle’s brow furrows, her expression a mix of confusion and frustration. “You like Nick, don’t you, Mom?”
Grandpa chokes on his laughter and covers his mouth with his napkin.
I feel heat creeping up my neck, and I’m acutely aware of Grandpa’s laser-like gaze. “Nick is... a nice person,” I say carefully, standing up to rinse my plate. The cool water on my hands helps ground me, giving me a moment to collect my thoughts.
“I like him,” Noelle states. “And he likes you, Mamma. He looks at you all the time, and he trips when he sees you. ”
Grandpa doesn’t bother to hide his laughter this time. “Is that so?” he asks Noelle.
I whip around, my wet hands dripping on the floor. I have to put a stop to this conversation before all my secrets are laid bare. “He ran into my shopping cart. That’s not tripping like that .” I turn back around and yank the towel off the door.
“Noelle,” Grandpa interjects, “why don’t you go get into your Christmas pajamas? We can read ‘The Night Before Christmas’ before bed.”
Noelle sighs dramatically but obeys, sliding off her chair and padding out of the kitchen. As soon as she’s out of earshot, Grandpa turns to me, his expression thoughtful.
“Did Nick ask you out?” he asks, his voice soft and free of judgment.
I shake my head, focusing on scrubbing a non-existent spot on my plate. “Not exactly. He asked us out—me and Noelle. To have dinner at the Chowder House. Just like he used to do.” I can feel a lump forming in my throat, and I swallow hard. “I said no.”
Grandpa moves to stand beside me at the sink. “Why?” he probes gently.
The words tumble out before I can stop them. “Because I wanted to go.”
There’s a moment of silence, broken only by the soft splashing of water in the sink and the faint sound of Christmas carols playing from the living room radio.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully as he fills one side of the sink with water and suds. “you were really happy with him before. Truly and honestly happy.”
I feel a tightness in my chest at his words. “I guess so,” I mutter, grabbing a plate to scrub. Heaven help this thing. It better be made well, or it won’t last. “I guess I got smarter or something.”
Grandpa’s hand comes to rest on my arm, stilling my frantic movements. “You grew hard,” he says softly. “Like someone who’s forgotten the magic of Christmas.”
I stop washing and stare at him, feeling as though the wind has been knocked out of me. His words hit home in a way I wasn’t prepared for, and I find myself struggling to form a response.
Grandpa continues, his voice gentle but firm. “You don’t have to date Nick, Penelope. But you should work on softening your heart and letting down your walls. They make it harder for you to live happily and enjoy the holiday season.”
I blink rapidly, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over. “I’ll... I’ll think about it,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Grandpa nods, seemingly satisfied with my response. He returns to washing the dishes, leaving me to my thoughts.
As I scrub at a plate, my mind wanders back to that night years ago. The night that changed everything. I can still smell the pine needles and cinnamon and hear the jingling of sleigh bells that I’d dismissed as my imagination. “I sort of told him to leave,” I admit softly, more to myself than to Grandpa .
He doesn’t answer me. I’m not sure if that’s because he can’t hear me when I mumble or if he’s smart enough to know when a woman doesn’t need an answer. I don’t want his hearing to go. I don’t want him to slow down. The bakery keeps him going; it gives him a reason to get up each morning. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep it afloat. Gah! I can’t think about losing the bakery, along with all the other things that crowd my mind.
Nick. Nick is pretty much taking over.
The memory of that night floods back, along with all the doubts and questions I’ve carried since then. I thought Nick was lying to me about being part of Santa’s family. It seemed too fantastical, too unbelievable. But now, after everything I’ve seen and experienced, I know he told me the truth.
Since that’s the case, then I have to shoulder the responsibility for Nick leaving. It was my wish—my angry, hurt, disbelieving wish—that made him go. The realization sits heavy in my stomach, like a lump of coal.
Well, he didn’t have to stay away for so long. He could have come back, could have explained, could have fought for us.
But did I give him the chance? Did I leave any room for explanation or reconciliation? No. I cast him aside as if he didn’t mean the world to me. He must have felt so abandoned. Ahh, nutcrackers! The man was half-raised in foster care; sending him away was cruel on my part.
If I could go back to that night, I’d do things so differently. I was so scared of being hurt that I hurt him in the worst possible way .
Looking at it all from his perspective is awful because I see all the parts of myself that no one ever wants to look at. My ugliness is almost too much, even for me. Why would Nick still want me after that?
Because he’s a good man who loves you, that voice answers.
It’s official—the voice is on team Nick.
The sound of Noelle’s laughter drifts from her bedroom, where Grandpa is no doubt regaling her with tales of Christmases past. I didn’t even notice him slip away.
Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to open my heart not just to the possibility of Nick, but to the enchantment of the season that I’ve been denying for so long.
With a deep breath, I set down the dish towel and made my way to Noelle’s room. As I lean against the doorframe, watching my daughter’s eyes light up at Grandpa’s stories and silly voices, I make a silent promise to myself. This Christmas, I’ll try to soften my heart. I’ll try to believe again—in magic, in love, and in the spirit of the season.
After all, isn’t that what Christmas is all about? Second chances, open hearts, and the belief that anything is possible if you just have faith.