Chapter 27
CHAPTER 27
NICK
T he rich aroma of clam chowder wafts up from the styrofoam container in my hands, but as I lift a spoonful to my lips, I can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. The creamy soup slides down my throat, and while it’s undeniably delicious, it doesn’t quite taste the way I remember.
Maybe that’s because I’m sitting at the kitchen island in the Kringle house, surrounded by the warm glow of Christmas lights, instead of at the Chowder House with Penelope and Noelle like I wanted.
I set down my spoon with a sigh. The disappointment of Penelope turning down my invitation sits heavy in my chest, overshadowing even this anticipated meal.
I take another half-hearted bite and grimace as I replay our earlier interaction in my mind. The way her eyes had widened slightly when I asked her out, reminding me of a rabbit who spies the fox. That makes me the man who wants to devour her. And while I would love to get my lips on her, I would—just as much, if not more—love to wrap her up in my arms and tell her how precious she is to me.
Then, there was the hesitation in her voice as she declined. I mean, she didn’t spit on my invitation. Hey, I’m a decent guy. I don’t want her to leave her grandpa alone for a night, especially if he went to all the trouble to make a good meal. In the past, she would have turned the invitation around and invited me. Maybe that’s why she hesitated. Maybe a part of her wanted to invite me to dinner.
Yeah, and reindeer like to eat their vegetables.
We were having a moment—we’ve had several moments, if I’m being honest with myself—and I want more. I want to get over what happened before and start talking about a future together.
I’m not usually one for wallowing, but right now, I can’t seem to shake off this mood. I would have thought, after a week of being here, that we’d be further along.
The sound of the back door opening pulls me from my brooding thoughts. I look up to see Oliver striding in, his broad shoulders dusted with a light sprinkling of snow. In his arms, he carries a large package, the words “NORTH POLE” stamped across the top in festive red lettering.
“Hey, Nick,” Oliver greets me, as he sets the package down on the coffee table. “You okay? You look like someone stole your favorite Christmas sweater.”
I manage a weak chuckle at his attempt at humor. “No, thank goodness. Penelope turned down my invitation to The Chowder House. ”
Oliver’s expression softens with understanding. “Ah, that explains the takeout. These things take time—or so I’m told. I don’t really know, so take my advice for what it’s worth.”
I nod, grateful for his empathy and his incredible honesty. “Thanks. I will. What’s in the box?”
Before Oliver can respond, Rye bounds through the front door, his copper-colored eyes alight with excitement and a sleek laptop tucked under his arm.
“Guys, you won’t believe this!” Rye exclaims, his rust-colored hair slightly disheveled as if he’s been running his hands through it in excitement. “They promoted me to manager and gave me this awesome laptop. How cool is that?”
His enthusiasm is contagious, and I find myself smiling despite my earlier gloom. “That’s great, Rye. Congratulations.”
Rye beams, puffing out his chest with pride. He turns towards the stairs and calls out, “Hazel, can you come down here for a second?”
There’s a soft patter of footsteps, and Hazel appears at the top of the stairs. Her ice-blue eyes peer down at us with a mix of curiosity and hesitation. “What’s up?” she asks, her voice soft as she descends the stairs.
Rye’s grin widens. “Can you grab your purse? I need to look the part of a manager, you know?”
Hazel nods, a small smile playing on her lips as she retreats to fetch her purse. As we wait, Oliver turns his attention back to the package from the North Pole. He begins to carefully open it, his movements precise and methodical.
Hazel returns, handing her purse to Rye.
“Thanks, Haze,” Rye says. He’s already tapping away at his new laptop. “Guys, I have over thirty emails to answer already. This is so cool! None of the elves ever email me.”
Oliver lets out a low whistle as he unpacks the contents of the box onto the table. “Well, would you look at this,” he murmurs, his eyes wide with fascination.
I lean forward, grabbing what’s left of my chowder and storing it in the fridge. Maybe I’ll be hungry later. My curiosity piqued. The table is now covered in a tangle of wires, strange-looking machines, and what appears to be an ancient computer. The sight is both intriguing and slightly overwhelming.
“It’s from Lux,” Oliver explains, pulling out a Christmas card from amidst the technological jumble. He clears his throat and begins to read aloud:
This is the machine I built to measure Christmas Magic back when Ginger was dating Joseph. It was made to help her find her true love. I’m not sure how helpful it will be since Nick’s already in love, but I thought I’d send it on to you. Perhaps you can see patterns in behavior that will help him in his quest. Love, Lux."
I feel my cheeks grow warm at Lux’s casual mention of me being ‘in love.’ It’s not like I’m hiding it, but it feels weird to throw it out there as a fact or something that would be recited in an oral report.
Oliver is engrossed in the machinery; his brow furrowed in concentration as he examines each component. “ This stuff is ancient,” he mutters, more to himself than to us. With deft movements, he begins hooking up the various parts to our television, moving between the two rooms with intense focus and speed. Santa can move faster than regular people, especially on a Christmas Eve ride, but no one has really claimed that as a power. Maybe there’s a little of it in a lot of us.
Not in me. I work at a steady rate until the job is done, which is a gift in and of itself. But I’m not a sprinter.
Hazel, who has been quietly observing Oliver until now, picks up the card and reads it again. Her delicate features scrunch up in concern. “Wait, she was tracking Aunt Ginger? Does that mean she’s tracking us ?”
Oliver shrugs, not looking up from his work. “I assume she is. It only makes sense.”
Hazel’s eyes widen in shock. “To you , ya techie weirdo,” she exclaims, her voice rising slightly. “I don’t want them knowing where I am all the time or if I’m falling in love or not. That’s private information.”
We all turn to look at her, surprised by her outburst. I clear my throat, trying to keep my tone gentle. “You know Ginger has the whole Naughty/Nice radar thing going on, right?”
“That’s different,” Hazel protests, crossing her arms defensively.
“Not really,” Rye chimes in, his eyes still glued to his laptop screen. He’s typing furiously, clearly engrossed in his new responsibilities and loving every second of it. That man will take over the world if we’re not careful. It’s not on purpose, mind you; it’s just who he is. I thought it was only elves who loved to follow him, but apparently, it’s people, too.
I’m about to say more when Oliver steps back from the TV with a satisfied nod. “That should do it,” he announces.
We all turn our attention to the screen where a graph has appeared. There are two lines—one steady line stretching across where Christmas Magic should be and another line that’s bouncing all over the place, presumably showing where Christmas Magic is at the moment.
Oliver squints at the screen, interpreting the data. “It looks like it’s stabilizing today,” he observes. Then he turns to me, curiosity written across his face. “What did you do?”
I feel a twinge of embarrassment as I answer, “I asked Penelope out, and she turned me down.”
“Huh,” Oliver muses, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “According to this, I’d say you’re on the right track. Keep at it.”
Hazel, who has been chewing her lip pensively, speaks up. “Maybe try something a little more subtle tomorrow?”
I raise an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. “Like what?”
Her eyes light up with an idea. “I could send her a dream about you, a good dream.” She rubs her palms together, clearly warming to the idea. “I saw this romance the other night where the billionaire jerk, who turned out to be a misunderstood prince, flew his lawyer—who is also his love interest—to the beach to build a sandcastle because she never got to build one when she was a kid. It was so romantic. Let me cast you as a billionaire.” She squeals and claps her hands repeatedly.
“Whoa!” I exclaim, waving my hands frantically. “Penelope knows you have dream magic. The last thing I need is for her to think I’m invading her dreams.”
“Fudge ripple,” Hazel’s face falls. “Yeah. I guess if she already knows. . .” She picks at the wrapping paper Oliver discarded. “You could get her a gift like the billionaire did. Like, the perfect gift.”
“I’ll think about that.” I consider my options.
What could I possibly give her that would express my feelings without looking desperate?
I lean back in my chair, letting my eyes wander around the room.
My gaze falls on the fieldstone fireplace, its mantel adorned with garlands and twinkling lights. The stockings hanging there catch my eye—each one hand-knitted by Gail and unique, just like the members of our family.
What does Penelope love?
Noelle, of course. Her grandpa. His bakery. She’s shared dozens of stories with me about that place and how much she loves it. It looks old, and it needs a face lift. It doesn’t take a genius to see that the business is going under.
I stand up. “I’m heading out for a bit,” I announce to my cousins. “I’ve got an idea I want to work on.”
Oliver looks up from the Christmas Magic machine, a knowing smile on his face. “Good luck, Nick. Remember, the graph shows you’re on the right track.”
I snort. “That makes me feel so good. ”
It doesn’t.
Lux built the machine, so it has to work. I take off, walking down Harbor Street to the Bakery. The lights are off, and the ‘CLOSED’ sign is prominently displayed in the window, but I can still smell the lingering aroma of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries.
With renewed purpose, I turn away from the bakery and head towards the craft store on the corner. It’s a small, family-owned place that stays open late during the holiday season. As I push open the door, a cheerful bell announces my arrival.
“Nick!” Mrs. Peterson, the owner, greets me with a warm smile. “What can I help you with?”
I laugh, running a hand through my wavy hair. “Do you have any miniature baking tools? Like for dollhouses, maybe?”
Mrs. Peterson’s eyebrows rise in surprise, but she doesn’t question my odd request. Instead, she leads me to a corner of the store I’ve never explored before. “Right here, dear. We’ve got tiny rolling pins, miniature mixing bowls, and even little loaves of bread. What exactly are you planning?”
As I explain my idea to her, her face softens. “Oh, Nick. That’s a lovely thought.”
With her help, I gather all the supplies I need—miniature baking tools, tiny jars to represent ingredients, even a small chalkboard to recreate the bakery’s daily specials board. As she rings up my purchases, Mrs. Peterson adds a small sprig of mistletoe to the bag.
“For luck,” she says with a wink .
I thank her, but my mind is already racing with plans for how to put all of this together. As I step back out into the night air, I feel a sense of excitement building in my chest. This is the feeling of Christmas giving that is contagious. I hope she likes this gift. I hope she loves it.
And I hope she loves me too, though I don’t have a lot of evidence to follow that up. That’s what faith is for, right?