Chapter 10
Holden
Sterling's ringtone sounds like corporate doom set to elevator music. It's been going off every ten minutes for the past three hours, which I know because I've been timing it instead of doing actual work at the garage.
"Your phone's having a seizure again," Finn observes from under a Honda that's older than some countries.
"It'll stop eventually," I say, shoving it deeper into my pocket.
"Will it though?" he asks, sliding out to look at me. "Because it's been going off since you got here looking like someone killed your dog."
"That's specific," I note, pretending to understand what I'm doing with this oil filter.
"Delia's PowerPoints leave a mark," he explains, wiping grease on an already destroyed rag. "Speaking of which, how's Wren handling the aftermath of the shadow puppet incident?"
"She's reorganizing," I tell him.
"Her shop?"
"Her entire life. When I left, she was creating a spreadsheet about spreadsheets," I say.
"That's her coping mechanism," Finn confirms, standing up. "Last year when her heat went out, she alphabetized her anxieties."
"She has them alphabetized?" I ask, genuinely impressed.
"From 'Abandonment' to 'Zombies,'" he says proudly. "Very thorough."
My phone buzzes again. This time it's a text:
Sterling: Board wants update. Town acquisition timeline critical. Stop ignoring me.
"Is that your mysterious past calling?" Finn asks, noticing my expression.
"Something like that," I admit, setting down the wrench I've been holding wrong.
"The past that involves corporate espionage and destroying small towns?" he suggests casually, leaning against the workbench.
I freeze. "What?"
"Oh, come on," Finn laughs. "You show up out of nowhere with hands softer than a baby's conscience, you can't tell a wrench from a ratchet, and you flinch every time that phone buzzes. Either you're the world's worst spy or the world's most obvious one."
"I'm not a spy," I protest weakly.
"Corporate reconnaissance specialist?" he tries.
"That's just a fancy way of saying spy," I point out.
"So, you are a spy!" he exclaims triumphantly.
"I'm not—" I start, then stop. Because what am I supposed to say? That I'm here to evaluate the town for acquisition? That everything Wren fears about losing her shop is directly my fault?
"Look," Finn says, his expression turning serious. "I don't care what you were. I care what you are. And right now, you're the guy who makes Wren smile like she hasn't since Helena died. That's worth more than whatever corporate nonsense you're running from."
"What if I'm not running from it?" I ask quietly. "What if I'm still part of it?"
Finn considers this while my phone continues its death rattle of corporate obligation.
"Then you better decide which matters more," he says finally, "the job that makes your phone scream, or the woman who made you brave shadow puppet judgment for forty-three slides."
Before I can respond, the garage door flies open and Teddy Wickham bursts in, his Santa beard fluttering with excitement.
"Emergency!" he announces, arms waving. "Christmas emergency!"
"Is that different from a regular emergency?" I ask.
"It's December, so all emergencies are Christmas emergencies," he explains with impeccable logic. "The town tree is tilting!"
"Tilting?" Finn repeats, grabbing his coat.
"Leaning! Listing! Experiencing gravitational disagreement!" Teddy elaborates frantically.
"How does a tree experience gravitational disagreement?" I wonder.
"Aggressively and with poor timing," Teddy says. "The inspector’s coming for the pre-gala inspection in two hours. If the tree falls, we'll lose points!"
"Points?" I ask, following them out.
"Small Town Christmas Competition points," Finn explains. "We're currently tied with Millbrook for 'Most Festive Display.'"
"There's a competition for that?"
"Just like committees, there's a competition for everything," Teddy says, already speed-walking toward the square.
"Why does everything here have a competition?" I mutter.
"Gives us purpose between seasons," Finn explains.
My phone rings again. This time I pull it out to decline the call, but Teddy gasps.
"Did that say Pierce Industries?" he asks, stopping mid-stride.
"How do you know about Pierce Industries?" I deflect.
"My nephew works there. Says it's soul-crushing, but the dental is excellent," Teddy explains. "Why do you have them on your phone?"
"I...?" I try.
"Can we focus on the tree emergency?" I plead.
"Tree emergency!" Teddy remembers, resuming his frantic pace.
We arrive at the square to find the town tree indeed experiencing what can only be described as an existential crisis. It's leaning at approximately a fifteen-degree angle, like it's trying to escape.
"It's making a break for it," Wren says, appearing beside me with a clipboard.
"How long have you been here?" I ask.
"Since Teddy sent the bat signal," she says, showing me her phone with seventeen text messages, all variations of "TREE DISASTER" with increasingly creative emoji combinations.
"There's a Bat-Signal?"
"It's just Teddy screaming in the group chat," she explains. "Very effective, though."
Delia stands at the base of the tree, directing operations with the efficiency of a general preparing for a battle.
"We need to pull it straight before the inspector arrives," she announces, pointing at various people. "Finn, get the truck. Teddy, find rope. Lots of rope."
"What kind of rope?" Teddy asks.
"The kind that ropes things," Delia says impatiently.
"All rope ropes things. That's what makes it rope," Teddy points out.
"Then get all of it!" she commands.
"I'll help," I offer, following Teddy toward the hardware store.
"Oh good, corporate hands to help with manual labor," Wren teases, falling into step beside us.
"My hands are becoming less corporate daily," I inform her, showing her a fresh callus.
"One callus doesn't make you blue collar," she says, but she takes my hand to examine it closer. "Though this is impressive. Did you name it?"
"Why would I name a callus?"
"I name everything," she admits. "My anxieties, my plants, that weird stain on my ceiling that looks like Elvis."
"Elvis?" I ask.
"Young Elvis, not Vegas Elvis," she clarifies. "Very different bone structure."
The hardware store is chaos. Apparently, a tilting tree is the type of emergency that requires full town participation. Mrs. Chang is arguing with Giuseppe about rope thickness while June documents everything for posterity.
"We need maritime rope!" Giuseppe insists, gesturing dramatically. "Strong as the sea!"
"We're in Vermont," Mrs. Chang points out. "The sea is a rumor here."
"Can we focus on the tree?" I suggest. "The one currently defying physics?"
"Physics is more of a suggestion anyway," Wren says, grabbing several coils of rope. "Like serving sizes or speed limits."
"Those aren't suggestions," I point out.
"They are if you're creative," she says cheerfully.
We haul approximately a hundred miles of rope back to the square, where Finn has positioned his truck and Delia has created what appears to be a pulley system designed by either an engineer or someone having a breakdown. Possibly both.
"Attach here, here, and here," she directs, pointing at seemingly random spots on the tree.
"This looks like we're about to torture it for information," I observe.
"If the tree knows why it's tilting, it better talk fast," Delia says grimly.
We spend the next hour playing what can only be described as festive tug-of-war with a forty-foot spruce. Every time we think we have it straight, it lists in a new direction, like it's doing some sort of slow-motion hula hoop.
"Pull!" Delia commands.
We pull. The tree leans left.
"Other way!" she shouts.
We pull the other way. The tree leans right.
"Are we sure the tree wants to be straight?" Wren pants beside me, her face red from exertion. "Maybe it's expressing itself."
"Trees don't express themselves," I say, adjusting my grip on the rope.
"You don't know that. You don't speak tree," she argues.
"Nobody speaks tree," I point out.
"Druids do," Teddy offers helpfully, somehow completely tangled in his section of rope.
"We don't have any druids here," Finn says from his truck.
"Can we please focus?" Delia demands.
My phone rings again, the doom theme cutting through the chaos. Everyone stops pulling to stare at me.
"Is that 'Carol of the Bells' in minor key?" June asks, pencil poised.
"It's festive," I defend weakly.
"It sounds like Christmas got fired," Wren corrects. "From a cannon. Into the sun."
"Just answer it," Delia orders. "We can't work with that funeral dirge playing."
I step away and finally answer. "What?"
"Finally!" Sterling's voice is pitched somewhere between relief and homicidal rage. "Do you know how many times I've called?"
"Forty," I guess.
"Fifty-three! The board demands an update. What's your timeline for the Snowfall Creek acquisition?" he demands.
I look around at the chaos—Teddy now completely wrapped in rope like a festive mummy, Giuseppe directing with wild hand gestures, Finn's truck somehow now stuck in reverse, and Wren laughing as she tries to help untangle Teddy while also holding the tree steady.
"There is no timeline," I say.
"What do you mean there's no timeline?" Sterling screeches.
"I mean, it's not happening. Snowfall Creek isn't for sale," I tell him, watching Wren's hair escape from her knit hat.
"Everything's for sale at the right price," he argues.
"Not this. Not them," I say firmly.
"Them? Holden, please tell me you haven't gone native," Sterling says with horror.
"I prefer 'culturally integrated,'" I say, watching Wren successfully free Teddy only to get tangled herself.
"This is about that toy shop woman, isn't it?" Sterling guesses. "The one with the debt?"
My blood runs cold. "How do you know about her debt?"
"We know everything. That's what due diligence means," he says impatiently. "Look, if she's the obstacle, we can make her debt disappear. Hell, we can make her entire shop disappear and give her a settlement that—"
I hang up. Then I look at my phone, Sterling's contact still displayed, and make a decision. I block the number. Then, I delete it entirely.
"Corporate troubles?" Wren asks, appearing at my elbow with rope burns and twigs in her hair.
"Ex-corporate," I correct, pocketing my phone. "Very ex."
"That sounded like a breakup," she observes, pulling a pine needle from her sleeve.
"It was. I just divorced an entire industry," I tell her.
"That's very thorough. I usually just block their number and eat ice cream," she says.
"I did block the number," I admit. "Might still do the ice cream part later, though."
"Giuseppe makes a flavor called 'Relationship Death.' It's chocolate with tears," she informs me.
"Whose tears?" I ask warily.
"It's better not to know," she says wisely.
"PULL!" Delia screams, and we rush back to our positions.
This time, miraculously, the tree straightens. And stays straight. Everyone cheers.
"We did it!" Teddy celebrates, still partially wrapped in rope like the world's happiest bondage Santa.
"Five minutes before the inspector!" Delia says, checking her watch. "Everyone looks festive! Teddy, untangle yourself! Giuseppe, stop crying!"
"They're tears of joy!" Giuseppe protests, wiping his face.
"They're going into the ice cream, aren't they?" I whisper to Wren.
"Probably," she whispers back.
The inspector arrives—a stern woman with a clipboard thicker than my guilt and an expression that suggests she's seen too many Christmas disasters.
"Snowfall Creek," she says, like it's a diagnosis. "Tree appears festive."
"Very festive and straight," Delia confirms. "Geometrically straight. Mathematically verified."
"That's not necessary," the inspector says, making notes.
She walks around the tree slowly, examining every angle. We all hold our breath. Even the wind seems to pause. Then she nods.
"Acceptable. You maintain your points," she declares.
The town erupts in celebration. Teddy starts crying. Giuseppe starts singing what might be the Italian anthem. Mrs. Chang breaks out emergency cookies from her purse.
"We should celebrate," Wren says, tugging my hand. "Want to help me reorganize my anxiety spreadsheet? I need to add 'Tree Gravity' between 'Traffic' and 'Unexpected Guests.'"
"That's the most romantic offer I've received all day," I tell her honestly.
"I also have wine," she adds. "Real wine, not apple juice."
"Sold," I say.
As we walk away from the chaos, my phone buzzes one more time. A text from an unknown number that must be Sterling
Unknown: This isn't over.
But it is. I delete that too without responding.
"You okay?" Wren asks, noticing my expression.
"Yeah," I say, looking at my hands. They're red from rope burn, dirty from tree sap, with that one callus I'm oddly proud of. They look nothing like the manicured hands that signed corporate documents just weeks ago. "I'm good."
"Your hands look terrible," she observes cheerfully.
"I know," I say, smiling. "Aren't they great?"
She laughs, linking her arm through mine as we walk toward her shop. "You're very weird."
"Says the woman who alphabetizes anxiety," I point out.
"It's very efficient. I can panic in alphabetical order," she explains.
My father would be appalled. He'd have tons of files about missed opportunities and profit margins, about legacy and family obligations.
But I'm walking through snow-covered streets with a woman who names her ceiling stains, toward a shop full of vintage toys that no acquisition could properly value, in a town that just spent two hours saving a tree for points in a competition that shouldn't matter but somehow does.
The tree stands straight behind us, wrapped in lights that will shine tonight. Tomorrow there will be new crises, new committees, new reasons for Giuseppe to cry into ice cream. And I'll be here for all of it.
Because somewhere between the soft hands and the calluses, between the corporate calls and the rope burns, I stopped being who I was supposed to be and became who I actually am.
And that person is completely, ridiculously, irrevocably in love with Wren Holloway.