27. Neesha
NEESHA
Thanksgiving Day
T hanksgiving in Maple Falls looks exactly like a Hallmark movie: smoke curling from chimneys, neighbors stopping by with homemade pies, and the beginning signs of Christmas decorations going into shop windows.
Life has been a whirlwind since my interview with Vivian Johns hit Northwest Food Magazine .
The feature brought dozens of new orders from as far away as Portland.
The mayor’s gala in mid-November became a community effort that we somehow pulled off, with half the town pitching in.
Between borrowing Mrs. Nelson’s kitchen and spending evenings at Lucian’s place, I’ve managed to keep up with demand while finally paying off Mom’s remaining medical bills.
Soon, I’ll have enough saved to buy a food truck and get my business name painted on the side: The Icing on the Cake.
With everything that’s happened—the business success, the town coming together, and me deciding to put down roots in Maple Falls for good—this Thanksgiving feels especially meaningful. Especially since I’m celebrating not just with Lucian, but with his dad, Charles Lowe.
“Pass the cranberry sauce, please,” Charles says, reaching across Lucian’s dining table with a smile that reminds me so much of his son.
It’s been three days since he arrived in Maple Falls, and I’m still getting used to seeing the family resemblance—the same blue eyes, the same way they both run their hands through their hair when they’re thinking.
He’s older, the wrinkles around his eyes deeper, but there’s no doubt they’re father and son.
“Dad, you’ve already had three helpings,” Lucian teases, handing over the bowl.
“Your girlfriend is an incredible cook,” Charles says, winking at me. “I’m making up for lost time.”
I give both men a smile that tells them I’m glad they’re here together.
When Lucian first told me his father was coming, I’d been nervous.
Everything I’d heard about Charles Lowe painted him as an ambitious businessman who’d hurt the people he should have protected.
But the man sitting at our table, talking about how proud he is of Lucian’s winning goal in the last game, asking thoughtful questions about my business plans, doesn’t match that description at all.
“I still can’t believe you came to the game,” Lucian says.
“I had almost thirty years of games to make up for,” Charles replies. “And watching you play, seeing how the team looks up to you, how the whole town supports you …” He shakes his head. “I finally understood what I’d been missing.”
When he looks at Lucian, his expression is pure pride.
“It was a team effort,” Lucian says.
“I know, but the crowd went wild when you scored,” Charles continues. “I may have been the loudest one there.”
“You definitely were,” Lucian laughs. “I could hear you from the ice.”
“Well, I’m new to this hockey thing. I’m still learning what’s appropriate behavior. ”
Lucian smiles. “You’re doing fine, Dad.”
It’s such a small moment, but I can see how much it means to both of them—this rebuilding of what they’d lost.
Just then, the doorbell rings and Lucian and I exchange glances—we weren’t expecting anyone else for Thanksgiving.
“I’ll get it,” Lucian says, standing. “Probably Mrs. Nelson checking to make sure you’re still going on her historical tour she’s planned just for you.”
Lucian makes his way over to the door where I hear an unfamiliar voice ask, “Are you Lucian Lowe?”
“Yes.” Lucian hesitates. “Do I know you?”
“No, but I spoke with your father. I’m Alexander MacDonald. I was hoping I could talk with all of you for a moment.”
My fork clatters to my plate. Alexander MacDonald? Here? On Thanksgiving?
Charles rises from his seat. “Ah, Mr. MacDonald.” He puts his hand out. “It’s good to finally meet you in person.”
The men shake hands, like they know each other.
I look between the two men, not understanding how they know each other.
Alexander turns his attention toward me. “Ms. Gilmore?” he asks, extending a hand. “I’m Alexander. My apologies for interrupting your Thanksgiving dinner.”
“We were just finishing up,” I say, shaking his hand. “Would you like a seat?”
“I can’t stay, but thank you,” he answers politely.
Behind him, a black sedan with tinted windows waits on the street.
“First of all, I’ve been calling on several Maple Falls citizens today.
I owe the town and your family an explanation.
” His gaze shifts to Charles. “I know our legal teams have been in communication quite a bit lately.”
I look at Lucian, finally putting the connection together. “You asked your dad for help?”
“I did,” Lucian confirms. “But I didn’t know Dad was working on it. ”
“He knew my expertise would be helpful to the town,” Charles explains. “And that my legal team could deal with Mr. Hunt.”
“That’s what I wanted to explain. Jeremy Hunt was supposed to be handling a simple property acquisition, not waging war on a community,” Alexander says firmly. “I’m sorry for that.”
“Your lawyer made some bold threats until he realized he was facing serious opposition,” Charles says.
“When I found out about his tactics—the intimidation, the aggressive legal maneuvers—I fired him immediately,” Alexander says. “He was acting outside his authority.”
Charles nods approvingly. “Good. That kind of behavior has no place here.”
Lucian looks between them. “But what about the land claims?”
“Your father’s team did their homework,” Alexander says.
“They identified environmental protections, historical preservation issues, and issues Hunt had glossed over. The town was already gathering evidence to fight the claims when Mr. Lowe’s team joined the battle.
So when Northwest Development formally challenged our claims, I realized I wasn’t facing a small town with limited resources anymore—I was looking at a legal battle that could drag on for years. ”
Charles shifts, putting his hands in his pockets.
“When my son came to me for help, I couldn’t ignore what was at stake.
This wasn’t just about property lines; it was about Neesha and Lucian’s future.
Most small towns can’t afford the kind of legal representation needed to fight back.
My business expertise was the one thing I could offer to help. ”
Alexander looks at Lucian. “Your father is a very persuasive businessman. But there was someone else who helped change my mind.”
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“The woman who runs the historical society,” he says.
“Mrs. Nelson?” I say, aghast .
“There were several people in town instrumental to this, but she started calling my office, then followed by sending me things. Historical documents. Old letters. Pictures of my ancestors.” He pulls out a picture of a family standing in front of a house.
Lucian points at it. “I saw that picture when I was helping Clément fix something at his house. I didn’t know she gave that to you.”
“I don’t think anyone knew what she was doing behind the scenes,” Alexander admits. “She put human faces to what I considered an impersonal business deal.”
Alexander pulls out a folded letter from his pocket that I immediately recognize. “A copy of this letter was emailed to me first. But Mrs. Nelson sent it to me directly. I think she knew holding it in my hands would be like holding a piece of history.”
“Victor’s letter to Catherine,” I say. “After reading it, I returned it to the historical society, afraid it would get lost again.”
“One of many letters Victor wrote to Catherine before they were married,” Alexander says.
“Reading his words, I realized I was about to destroy the very thing my ancestor treasured most.” He pauses for a moment.
“Which is why I’ve dropped all land claims. After firing Hunt, I told the mayor that all the money the town raised can go toward improvement projects and charity—basically, to do with as they please.
My only request was designating part of the park as ‘Heritage Green’ to honor Victor and Catherine. ”
Charles lifts his eyebrows. “You’re giving up?”
“I’d call it giving back, Mr. Lowe. This letter helped me understand that Victor didn’t just want land—he wanted to build a life here, a legacy.
” He holds out a folder to Charles. “Would you give all of this to Mrs. Nelson when you see her? All the historical documents she sent me belong with the historical society in the town where this story began.” Alexander turns to Lucian once more before leaving.
“Your father’s a good man, Lucian. I hope you know that. ”
He looks at his dad for a second before turning back to Alexander. “I do.”
We watch in silence as Alexander heads to his black sedan and drives away as quietly as he arrived.
Charles shuts the door, then studies the folder. “Well, that was unexpected. I have a feeling this is going to make Mrs. Nelson’s day.”
“Are you kidding me?” I say. “This story is going to be town gossip for the next decade. Mrs. Nelson will probably have it published in the historical society newsletter by Christmas.”
Charles laughs. “I have a feeling she’s going to enjoy telling this story even more than giving me that tour.” Charles checks his watch. “You don’t mind if I leave you alone for a few hours while I take these over to Mrs. Nelson?”
“Not at all,” I say as he puts on his coat. “Dessert will be ready when you come back. And make sure Mrs. Nelson knows she’s invited.”
“I will,” he says as he heads next door.
As he leaves, the timer on the cupcakes goes off and I head to the kitchen to unload the last of the maple-glazed pumpkin cupcakes onto the cooling rack. When I finish, an arm slides around my waist from behind.
“Well, that was quite the surprise,” Lucian whispers as he nuzzles my neck.
“I know,” I say, leaning into his embrace. “I don’t know if I can take any more surprises today.”