Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Cole
After Holly parks her car outside Wilde’s General Store, we stand on the sidewalk. Her hand is warm in mine. People wave and smile at us. We wave back.
“What do you need to get at Eli’s?” she asks.
I haven’t told her what we’re doing yet. “Trust me.”
Nodding, Holly squeezes my hand. Doesn’t let go.
Through the window, Eli’s store appears empty. I keep holding Holly’s hand as we step inside. The bell chimes overhead.
Eli glances over from restocking shelves, sees our joined hands, and grins. “Good to see you two together.”
The store smells like coffee grounds, cedar chips from the potbelly stove in the corner, and the faint must of wool coats. Somewhere, a radio plays low, classic Christmas carols that are older than both of us combined.
“Yeah.” My voice is gruff but in a good way.
Eli wipes his hands on his apron. “What can I get you?”
“You still have Christmas trees out back?”
His eyebrows rise. “I do. Was starting to think I wouldn’t sell them all. Most folks got theirs before the storm.”
“I need one. Six feet, maybe seven. Full. Sturdy.”
Holly stares at me. “Cole—”
“Trust me?”
She nods.
Eli leads us out back to where a dozen trees lean against the building. The cold air bites. My breath fogs. As I pick through them, testing branches and checking for bare spots, pine sap sticks to my gloves.
I find one six and a half feet tall. It’s a Douglas fir, symmetrical. “This one.”
“Good choice.” Eli eyes Holly’s small sedan. “That gonna fit?”
“We’ll make it work.”
He helps me load it onto the roof rack and secure it. The rope burns through my gloves. I pull it tighter.
“Need anything else?” Eli asks. “Lights? Ornaments?”
“Got those covered.”
“All right then,” Eli says. “Twenty dollars.”
I hand him the cash.
He pockets it and claps me on the shoulder. “Good to see you doing this, Cole. Emma would be happy.”
“Yeah. She would.”
We climb into Holly’s car. She’s quiet as she starts the engine and pulls away. The scent of pine fills the car. The tree shifts on the roof.
“You bought a tree,” she says finally.
“Yeah.”
“Cole—”
“I haven’t had a tree up in three years,” I say. “Couldn’t stand the thought of it.”
Holly’s quiet as if waiting.
“But this morning…” I take a breath. “I want Christmas again. And I want you there when I do it.”
She’s crying. I can hear it in her breathing.
“So we’re doing this?” she asks.
“If you want to.”
“I want to.”
“Good. Because I already bought the tree.”
She laughs through her tears and heads toward the ridge road.
Snow glints in the sunlight. The road is clear and bright. Holly’s hand rests on my thigh, warm and steady. Through the trees, the cabin looks different. Less isolated.
I untie the tree and carry it inside while Holly unlocks the door. The pine smell fills the space.
Inside, I set the tree against the wall and build a fire while Holly changes into warmer layers. She comes back wearing my thermal shirt and thick socks.
I’m standing in front of the closet.
The one I haven’t opened in three years.
“Cole?” Her voice is quiet.
“I want to do this. With you. If you’re okay with it.”
She crosses to me and takes my hand. “What do we need to do?”
My hand hovers over the doorknob. Three years. Three Christmases without opening the box and decorating.
Holly touches my lower back, and I open the door.
The hinges creak. Dust motes swirl in the afternoon light filtering through the window.
The box sits on the top shelf where I left it. Dust coats the cardboard, but Emma’s handwriting is still clear in black marker: CHRISTMAS. She drew a little star next to it. I’d forgotten that.
I reach up. The box is lighter than I remember.
Or maybe I’m stronger now.
Holly’s there when I turn, ready if I need her. “You sure about this?”
“Yeah. It’s time.” I set the box on the table and lift the lid. “Past time, probably.”
Inside, there are red and gold glass balls. Wooden stars. A delicate angel with silver wings.
Holly touches a carved star. “Did Emma make these?”
“Some of them. The wooden ones were her project every fall. She’d sit at the workbench with her carving tools and make two or three new ones. Said the tree needed to grow every year, same as we did.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“Yeah.” I pick up a ruby-red glass ball, turning it so the firelight moves inside. “The glass ornaments belonged to our mom. Emma kept them after she passed. Said memories deserved space, not storage.”
“Your sister sounds wise.”
“She was.”
“Then let’s hang them,” Holly says. “Let her be here with us.”
We spend the next hour stringing lights and hanging ornaments, our fingers brushing as we pass decorations between us. Her shoulder bumps me. I steady her when she reaches high.
“This one…” I hold up a small silver bell. “Emma got it our first Christmas after Mom died. She was sixteen. I was twenty, home on leave. She hung it by the door and said it rang like home. Each jingle was Mom saying hello.”
Holly takes the bell and hangs it near the window. It chimes.
“Hello, Emma.” Holly’s hand finds mine. She squeezes.
I lift a wooden star, the edges smooth from years of handling. “High school woodshop. She made ornaments instead of the assigned bookshelf. Nearly failed. Said she was choosing joy.”
“I would’ve liked her.”
“She would’ve loved you. Would’ve tried to set you up with me in five minutes.”
“Smart woman.”
I hang the star on a center branch. “The smartest.”
I lift a glass icicle. It catches the firelight like a prism, throwing tiny rainbows across Holly’s face. “This was Emma’s first purchase with her own money. She was eight. Saved her allowance for three months.”
Holly turns it in her hands, watching the light dance. “What did she see in it at that age?”
“Magic. She said it looked like captured magic.”
“It does.” Holly hangs it on a branch where it can catch the light.
Then I hold up a tiny wooden sleigh, no bigger than my thumb. The wood is dark with age, and I laugh. “Mom made this the year I was born. Emma used to tease me. Said it was like me, small but determined.”
Holly laughs. “Sounds right. Though you’re not small anymore.”
“Emma said that too.” I hang it low.
Holly touches it with her fingertip, like she’s afraid it might break.
We reach for the next ornament at the same time. Our hands brush. She doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
We hang the rest in silence. No more stories needed. Her shoulder is against mine, our breathing matching as we build something new.
“This angel belonged to my mom,” I pull it out of the box and unwrap it. “Emma insisted it go on top every year. Said Mom was watching over us, and the angel made it official.”
I place the angel carefully and then look up. “What do you think?”
“She’s beautiful. I think Emma would love it.”
“Yeah. She would.”
We stand back and look at the tree. Lights glow. The ornaments catch the firelight.
“We need one for you,” I say.
“What?”
“An ornament. One that’s yours. To add to the tree.”
“Cole, I can’t—these are Emma’s—”
“And now they’re ours. You need a place on this tree too.”
She inhales sharply. “I don’t have anything.”
“Then we’ll make one. Next year. We’ll carve it together. Your name. Your memory. Your place here.”
Next year.
“Okay.” She smiles. “Next year.”
“Why don’t you rest? You haven’t gotten much sleep the last couple of nights.”
“I’m fine.”
“Holly. Rest. I have a project I want to work on.”
She studies my face, then nods. “Okay. I will for a few minutes.”
She curls up on the couch under a quilt, and within minutes, her breathing evens out.
I slip into the workshop. The tools are where I left them. Emma’s carving set is where she left it. The blades are clean, and the handles are worn smooth.
I find a piece of birch in the scrap pile. Pale wood. Fine-grained. Good for detail work.
My hands still know the motions after all this time. Rough out the shape first. Add holly leaves. Three of them overlap in the way they grow. Then the berries. Small. Round. Clustered at the stem.
Wood curls from the blade. The workshop smells like sawdust and Emma. She used to stand at this bench beside me, her tongue between her teeth when she concentrated.
The letters take the longest. H-O-L-L-Y. I carve each one clean and deep. Emma taught me that. Said a name deserves care.
I think about Holly’s name on everything she owns. Labels on her mugs. Lists with her signature. Like she’s trying to prove she exists and claim space in a world that overlooks her.
Not anymore. Her name goes on this tree. In wood. Permanent. No one can take it away.
When I’m done, I blow away the dust. Run my thumb over the letters. Smooth. The wood is warm in my palm.
I sand the edges until they’re soft. No splinters. Nothing that could catch or hurt her.
A decision like this deserves care.
And Holly deserves something that says You’re not temporary. You belong here.
I rub the ornament with linseed oil until it glows, then drill a small hole at the top for string. Perfect.
I return with the carved ornament cradled in my palm. It’s a holly and berries disk with her name carved beneath: HOLLY.
She’s awake now. I give it to her. “For you.”
Her lips part. She takes it with both hands. Her fingertips trace the carved letters. “You made this?”
“Yeah. You should have a place here. On our tree. With Emma. With me.”
Tears fill Holly’s eyes. “Cole—”
“You fit here, Holly. In my life.”
“It’s beautiful.” She rises and hangs the ornament next to Emma’s star.
Wood touches wood.
“Welcome home,” I say.
That night, we stand, wrapped in firelight and the glow of Christmas lights, looking at the tree.
“Thank you.” Holly leans into me. “For sharing this with me. For letting me be part of it.”
I brush my lips over her hair. “Thank you for being here. For making it okay to remember. For not being scared of her memory.”
Outside, snow falls again. Soft and gentle this time. The kind that makes everything clean and new.
“I’m happy you’re here tonight,” I say. “With me and Emma’s lights and your ornament on the tree.”
“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
We settle on the couch, wrapped in blankets, watching the lights flicker and dance. The fire crackles. The cabin is warm. Her head is on my shoulder. My arm is around her.
Holly shifts, turning to face me. Her hand comes up to cup my jaw. “Thank you for today. For all of it.”
I cover her hand with mine. “You made it possible.”
She kisses me, soft at first, testing. I cup her face, angle deeper. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer. Not urgent like before but slow and sure. Thorough. The kind of kiss that says I’m here, I’m staying, I’m yours.
My hand slides to her waist. She shifts closer, settling into my lap. Her weight against me feels right. Her heart beats against my chest.
I break the kiss to trail my lips along her jaw and down her throat. She tilts her head back, giving me access.
Her fingers thread through my hair. “Cole…”
I return to her mouth and kiss her until we’re both breathing hard. Until the fire isn’t the only thing making the cabin warm.
When we finally break apart, we’re both flushed. She rests her forehead against mine. Her eyes are closed, and she’s smiling.
“I love you,” she whispers.
I breathe easier than I have in three years. The ornament box is empty now. The tree is full. And Holly’s name hangs next to Emma’s star.
It feels…right.
Later, after we’ve eaten and the fire’s burned low, Holly unzips the duffel bag she brought with her. “I want to show you this.”
She pulls out a leather journal that’s worn at the edges. The leather is soft and cracked along the spine. She opens it carefully. “This is my grandma’s recipe book. She died when I was twelve. It’s all I have left of her.”
I take it from her hands. The pages are yellowed. Some are stained with flour and butter. Handwritten notes are written in fading ink. Ingredient lists. Margins are filled with annotations in different pens, different years.
Add more vanilla. Tom loves these. Made for church bake sale 1987.
I turn another page.
Holly’s favorite. Make a double batch for her birthday. She helps with frosting now.
I swallow. “She wrote about you.”
“Yeah.” Holly’s voice cracks. “She did. That’s why I couldn’t leave it in the car any longer. Why I had to get it back.”
I understand now. It’s not just recipes. It’s proof someone saw her. Loved her. Made her favorite cookies and wrote her name in the margins.
Like the way I carved her name into wood tonight.
“Some things are worth the risk,” Holly says.
My chest tightens. “Yeah. They are.”
She zips the bag and sets it aside. “Thank you for understanding and going out to get it.”
“You’re welcome. But Holly, don’t you ever go out in a storm alone again. Not for recipes or for anything. You call me. You wait. You trust me to come back.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I know you are.” I pull her close, and she settles against me. “I’ll keep you safe.”
“And I’ll keep you safe.” She doesn’t hesitate.
“Yeah.”
She chooses me. I choose her.
That’s all we need.