Chapter 6
Holden
The Christmas Committee meets in Delia Ashworth's living room, which looks like Martha Stewart and a Victorian duchess had a baby and that baby exploded.
There's gold leaf on surfaces that shouldn't have gold leaf.
Doilies on things that don't need doilies.
And at least forty-seven throw pillows that seem to serve no purpose except making sitting impossible.
"Don't touch anything," Wren whispers as we enter. "She'll know."
"How?" I ask.
"She has a system. Everything's positioned at specific angles. She once noticed when someone moved a coaster half an inch," she explains.
"That's not possible," I protest.
"Tell that to Jimmy Brennan. He's still banned from the annual tea party," she says.
The committee is already assembled, sitting in a semicircle that feels less like a meeting and more like an intervention. Or possibly a tribunal. Delia presides from what can only be described as a throne, wearing pearls that could probably fund a small country.
"Wren, Mr. Clark," she greets us with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "How timely."
"We're three minutes late," Wren points out.
"Exactly. How timely of you to be precisely three minutes late. Very consistent with your usual patterns," Delia says, making punctuality sound like a character flaw.
We sit on the only available loveseat, which forces us uncomfortably close together. My thigh presses against Wren's, and I try not to think about how she still smells like cinnamon despite the lasagna lunch.
"So," Delia begins, pulling out what appears to be a leather-bound folder. "Holden Clark."
"That's me," I confirm unnecessarily.
"Is it?" she asks pointedly.
The room goes silent. Even the clock seems to stop ticking out of respect for the awkwardness.
"I'm sorry?" I manage.
"It's just such a generic name. Holden Clark. Like something from a romance novel. Or a witness protection program," she observes casually.
"My parents weren't very creative," I offer.
"And where are these uncreative parents?" she asks.
"Dead," I say flatly.
Most people would apologize or look uncomfortable. Delia just makes a note in her folder. In red ink.
"How convenient," she murmurs.
"Delia!" Wren protests. "You can't say death is convenient!"
"I'm simply noting that it prevents verification," Delia says calmly. "Now then, Mr. Clark—"
"Holden," I correct.
"Mr. Clark," she continues, ignoring me. "What exactly are your intentions toward our Wren?"
"Our Wren?" I ask. "Is she community property?"
"She's a cherished member of this town," Teddy Wickham interjects from his corner, his Santa beard quivering with emotion. "We look after our own."
"Like a cult?" I suggest.
"Like a family," June Hartwell corrects, scribbling notes furiously on her notepad.
"That's what cults say," I point out.
Wren kicks me. Hard.
"What Holden means," she blurts, "is that he appreciates the town's close-knit nature."
"Do I?" I ask.
She kicks me again. I'm going to have bruises.
"Yes," she says firmly. "You do."
"I do," I agree, rubbing my shin.
Delia pulls out a laptop. "I've prepared a presentation."
"Of course you have," Wren mutters.
The screen lights up with a PowerPoint titled "Holden Clark: An Investigation." There's a transition effect. And music. The Mission Impossible theme.
"Is this legally actionable?" I ask, wondering how, in the span of an hour, they have been able to put all of this together.
Delia clicks to the first slide. It's a blurry photo of me at The Frosted Pine Inn.
"Day one," she narrates. "Subject arrives. No luggage observed."
"I had luggage," I protest.
"One duffel bag doesn't count as luggage. It counts as suspicious," she counters.
The next slide shows me at the garage. "Day two. Acquires employment despite having no observable mechanical skills."
"I'm learning," I defend myself.
"You put windshield fluid in the oil tank yesterday," Finn says helpfully.
"They're both liquids," I argue.
"That's not how cars work," Teddy says gently.
"I'm discovering that," I admit.
The presentation continues. Slides of me walking around town, which is creepy, me eating at Giuseppe's, which is invasive and only just happened, and me holding Wren's hand.
"This is stalking," I point out.
"This is due diligence," Delia corrects. "Now, let's discuss your relationship timeline."
"Let's not," I suggest.
"According to my sources," she continues, ignoring me, "you've been dating for approximately two hours."
"That's not—" Wren starts.
"Iris texted me from the garage. Then Giuseppe called from the restaurant. The timeline is very clear," Delia states.
"We've been dating since the tree lighting," Wren insists.
"Really? Then why did Mrs. Connor have to introduce you two days ago?" Delia challenges.
"We were keeping it private," Wren tries.
"In Snowfall Creek?" June laughs. "Privacy doesn't exist here. Mrs. Chang knows what everyone had for breakfast."
"Holden had coffee," Mrs. Chang confirms from her corner.
"How do you—" I start.
"Not important," she waves me off.
"I think it's very important that you know what I had for breakfast," I argue.
"The point is," Delia interrupts, "this relationship seems remarkably convenient. Just as Wren needs someone respectable for the gala."
"Remarkably convenient things happen," Wren says weakly.
"Name one," Delia challenges.
"The invention of sliced bread?" Wren offers.
"That took years of development," Mr. Jackson says. "I looked it up. Very inconvenient actually. The first bread-slicing machine was considered too dangerous."
"Why do you know that?" I ask.
"Trivia night preparation," he says proudly. "We're playing the Millbrook team next week."
"Focus, people," Delia commands. "Mr. Clark, what do you know about The Jolly Trunk's financial situation?"
"It's not great," I say honestly.
"And you're not concerned about dating someone in financial distress?" she presses.
"Everyone's in some kind of distress," I point out. "At least hers is just financial."
"What other kinds of distress are there?" Teddy asks with genuine interest.
"Emotional. Physical. Existential. Whatever's happening with Giuseppe's cooking," I list.
"Hey!" Giuseppe's voice comes from the kitchen. Because apparently he's here too.
"Why is Giuseppe in your kitchen?" I ask Delia.
"He's making refreshments. His therapy includes cooking for groups," she explains.
"Therapy?" Wren asks.
"For his competitive cooking disorder," Delia says carefully.
"That's a thing?" I ask.
"It is now," June confirms, still scribbling notes.
"This town has a lot of very specific problems," I observe.
"Every family does," Delia says. "Which brings me to my next point. Wren, dear, are you absolutely certain about this man?"
"Yes," Wren says immediately.
"Even though he appeared out of nowhere?" Delia presses.
"Yes."
"With no verifiable history?"
"Yes."
"And hands that have clearly never done manual labor before this week?"
We all look at my hands. They're soft. Suspiciously soft for someone who supposedly works with their hands.
"I moisturize," I say weakly.
"Extensively, apparently," Delia notes.
"Is good skincare a crime?" I ask.
"It is when you claim to be a drifter mechanic," she counters.
"Maybe I'm a drifter mechanic with excellent self-care habits," I suggest.
"Nobody's buying that," June says.
"I am," Wren announces. "I'm buying it. All of it. The moisturizing, the mysterious past, the convenient timing. Because, you know what? He shows up. He helps without being asked. He's trying to learn about cars even though he's terrible at it—"
"So terrible," Finn confirms.
"And he kisses me like he means it," Wren finishes.
Everyone leans forward at once.
"That's beautiful," Teddy says, wiping his eyes.
"That's suspicious," Delia counters. "Kissing someone like you mean it is exactly what someone pretending to date you would do."
"That's... actually a good point," Wren admits.
"Thank you, I — wait, whose side are you on?" I ask her.
"I'm getting confused," she confesses under her breath.
"Me too," Teddy adds. "Are we for or against this relationship?"
"I'm for it," Giuseppe calls from the kitchen. "They ate with passion!"
"That's not a voting criterion," Delia says.
"It should be," Giuseppe argues, appearing with a tray of what might be cookies or possibly small weapons. "Love is about passion! And carbohydrates!"
"Those aren't related," I point out.
"Everything's related in matters of the heart," Giuseppe insists, forcing a cookie into my hand.
I take a bite. It's either delicious or deadly. Possibly both.
"Good?" Giuseppe asks eagerly.
"I'm having feelings," I say carefully.
"See? Cookies create feelings! Feelings create love! Love creates more cookie sales!" Giuseppe beams.
"That's not how economics works," I say.
"That's not how feelings work either," Wren adds.
"You two are perfect for each other," Mrs. Chang observes. "Both equally confused about everything."
"We're not confused," Wren protests.
"Then explain your relationship," Delia challenges. "Without looking at each other for help."
We immediately look at each other.
"That's what I thought," Delia says triumphantly.
"Fine," I say, standing up. "You want the truth?"
"Holden," Wren warns.
"Yes, I met Wren recently. Yes, the timing is convenient. Yes, my hands are suspiciously soft. But you know what? She makes me want to be someone who belongs here. Someone who knows how to fix cars and attends committee meetings and eat Giuseppe's possibly toxic cookies—"
"Hey!" Giuseppe protests.
"And maybe that's not love yet, but it's something. And something is better than the nothing I had before," I finish.
Teddy is openly sobbing now, using his beard as a tissue. "That was beautiful," he manages between sobs.
"That was vague," Delia counters. "What nothing? Where's before?"
"Does it matter?" Wren asks, standing beside me. "He's here now. With me. Isn't that enough?"
"For the gala? Perhaps. For the long term?" Delia shakes her head. "The loan committee will see through this immediately."
"Vote!" Giuseppe shouts. "All in favor of love?"
Several hands go up, including Teddy's both hands somehow.
"All opposed to this fake love, because that’s what I believe this is… fake?" Delia asks.
"You can't be opposed to love," Teddy protests. "That's like being opposed to puppies."
"I'm opposed to deception," Delia clarifies.
The room erupts in crosstalk about love, deception, therapy, and somehow the Millbrook trivia team. Delia raises her hand for silence and remarkably, gets it.
"Enough!" She stands, towering over us despite being five foot two. "Three weeks. You have three weeks to convince not just the loan committee but the entire town. If even one person doubts this relationship at the gala, the loan committee will know."
"That's ridiculous," Wren says.
"That's Snowfall Creek," Delia responds. "We support our own, but we don't support deception, which is what I think this is.” She hesitates then adds, “Unless it's about property lines. We're very flexible about property lines."
"And speed limits," Teddy adds.
"And technically who owns the town square," June contributes.
"But not about love," Delia says firmly. "Never about love."
She dismisses us with a wave that suggests we've been judged and found wanting. As we leave, she calls out, "Oh, and Mr. Clark? Next time, try to look less like you're running from something."
"I'll work on that," I say dryly.
"Work harder," she suggests.
Outside, Wren and I stand in the snow, still processing what just happened.
"That was intense," she says.
"That was insane," I correct.
"Same thing in Snowfall Creek," she sighs. "Think we fooled them?"
"I think we confused them, which might be better," I say.
"Confusion buys us time," she agrees, then looks down at our joined hands. Neither of us remembers deciding to hold hands. It just happened. "We're getting better at this."
"At what? Lying or hand-holding?" I ask.
"Yes," she says simply.
The scary part is she's right. We are getting better at both. The scarier part is I'm starting to forget which one we're practicing.
"Your place or mine?" she asks suddenly.
"What?" My voice cracks like I'm thirteen.
"We need to practice. Being a couple. Your hotel room or my apartment?" she clarifies.
"Yours. Mine still smells like motor oil and broken dreams," I say.
"Broken dreams?"
"Failed attempts at understanding car maintenance," I explain.
She laughs, and the sound warms me more than it should. "Come on, fake boyfriend. Let's go practice being real."
The irony of that statement isn't lost on either of us. But we go anyway, walking through the snow-covered streets of Snowfall Creek, playing at being in love while the whole town watches and judges and takes notes.
Three weeks to fool everyone, including ourselves.
At this rate, we'll either succeed spectacularly or fail so completely they'll write cautionary tales about us.
Either way, it's going to be memorable.