Chapter One
Noel
I guided my car along the familiar, winding highway leading to Yuletide Valley. Each turn brought a view, sign, or rock that sent waves of nostalgia washing over me. The town, forever trapped in a festive snow globe of its own making, emerged ahead of me like a scene from a Christmas card I didn’t want to receive.
The phone call from my mother, two days after Thanksgiving, echoed in the dusty corners of my mind. She shared the news of Dad’s sudden passing with a shaky voice.
“When we got up in the morning, he was his usual happy self, but he never came home. A heart attack took him just like that. He was in the middle of arranging the nativity scene in the town square, but he didn’t make it to setting up the manger. Joseph and Mary are still waiting for Baby Jesus.”
I almost laughed at the odd story. It would have been more a chuckle of disbelief than finding humor in the situation. Dad was gone—poof! Rudolph “Kris Kringle” North, who personified Santa Claus for so many, left us just as the official Christmas season began.
Surely, it was some twisted, cosmic joke. Unfortunately, reality began to sink in as I drove past the rows of candy cane-striped lampposts adorned with black ribbons. The Pacific Northwest mountain town known for perpetual Christmas joy was deep in mourning.
Tiny snowflakes began to fall. As they dusted my windshield, I remembered how Dad used to say, “Noel, each snowflake represents a kiss from an angel.”
I snorted at the memory. Dad’s cheesy lines were as much a part of him as his rosy cheeks and Santa-sized belly.
The giant nutcrackers standing guard outside the toy shop made me smile. They were the beating heart of Yuletide Valley. Dad used to joke they were the real mayors of the town.
The quaint shops lining the town square featured charming architectural details like candy cane columns, gingerbread trim, and stained glass windows decorated with images of Santa's sleigh and reindeer.
Pulling up outside the Church of St. Nicholas, I sighed heavily. It was fitting to have Dad’s funeral at a church named after the patron saint of Christmas. The building was postcard perfect, with its steeple capped by snow and doors trimmed with holly. An outpouring of communal grief seemed out of place within its walls.
Cold air nipped my cheeks as I stepped out of the car. The weather contrasted sharply with the warmth of my home in Los Angeles. Before I could take more than three steps, my kooky Aunt Holly, Dad’s older sister, was upon me.
Aunt Holly's holiday pantsuit was a gaudy patchwork of emerald velveteen and crimson corduroy. I remembered it from many past occasions, and it had started to go threadbare at the elbows.
Tiny golden bells dangled from the pointy tip of her felt hat, and they jingled as she rushed up to me. The rich, aggressive scent of peppermint candy canes firmly announced her arrival.
“Noel, dear, let me take a look at you!” She reached out to take my face in her hands. “Such a sad occasion—your father, so tragic. You know, Rudy always said you would make a dashing Santa Claus one day when he was gone.”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat. I knew the topic would come up. Following in his footsteps was Dad’s career aspiration for me. He believed I would be perfect as a second-generation Yuletide Valley year-round Santa Claus. I’d rejected that idea long ago.
Aunt Holly reached up to brush a stray lock of my hair up over my forehead. “I believe you get more handsome with each passing year. You have that in common with your father; God rest his soul.”
She held me at arm's length, scrutinizing me with eyes that sparkled with unshed tears and...was that glitter eyeshadow?
I awkwardly patted her back and scanned the crowd. Seeing so many mourners dressed in holiday sweaters was jarring but not unexpected. Somewhere, up in the clouds, Dad smiled down upon them.
The entire scene inside the church was surreal. Almost everyone appeared in what I assumed was their Christmas best. Mrs. Greenway wore a sweater adorned with LED lights blinking on and off. The Sutterfield twins wore reindeer antler headbands, and Mr. Jenkins, a local baker, sported his best Christmas tie decorated with tiny dancing Santas.
I spotted a group of Dad’s closest friends, all members of the Yuletide Valley Carolers. They huddled together with their voices silenced, but their scarves spoke for them, decorated with names of Christmas carols and merry musical notes.
As I absorbed the bittersweet spectacle, Mayor Winterbourne approached me wearing a Santa hat that tilted rakishly. His bulging eyes glistened with emotion, magnified to twice their size behind bottle glass lenses.
“Noel, my boy, your father was Santa Claus to all of us. And today, of all days, we need his spirit. Could I request your indulgence to take on his festive burden, just this once?” He nodded toward my father’s Santa Claus suit, laid out at the front of the church near the casket.
“Just for one day, Noel. It would lift the children’s spirits.” He rested his hand on my shoulder. “It’s what Rudolph would have wanted, keeping the joy alive in Yuletide Valley.”
I shrugged off his hand more harshly than intended. "With respect, how could you know what he wanted? I can barely process losing him myself.”
The mayor backed off, sadness visible in his eyes.
Before I could walk away, my mother stepped in, wrapped in a shawl embroidered with tiny sprigs of mistletoe. Her dark eyes pleaded with me. “Noel, darling, please. It would mean so much to everyone.”
I looked at her, breathed out, and then rejected her request. “Mom, I’m not him. I can’t just step into his suit, today of all days, and be Santa. It wouldn’t feel right.”
She reached out and took my hand in hers, squeezing gently. “I know, sweetheart, but think of the children here and beyond. Your father meant so much to them. You have that same magic in you, whether you know it or not. Perhaps later, you’ll feel different as the great day approaches.”
The mayor stepped forward and chimed in. “It would be one last gift to your father. The perfect way to honor his legacy.”
I sighed, feeling the weight of the responsibility of being my father’s only son. “Not today, but for later, I’ll consider it,” I said finally. It was a compromise I wasn’t sure I was willing to make.
Their faces lit up with hope. It was touching and overwhelming at the same time. I realized that wearing my father’s Santa suit wouldn’t be primarily about filling his boots. It would be about allowing the town to feel some joy during a Christmas season rattled by sudden loss.
The funeral service for my father was an uneasy mixture of grieving his demise and celebrating his love for such a festive holiday. Poinsettias lined the aisle, and the organist played muted Christmas carols while we waited for the program to begin.
At the front of the church, Dad’s casket was closed. Mom informed me over the phone that she consulted with local officials. Viewing the man who played Santa at eternal rest was deemed too much for Yuletide Valley children to handle.
To the right of the casket, a wreath of holly and ivy encircled a photo of my father with his ruddy cheeks, white beard, and sparkling eyes. On the left, a small Christmas tree held ornaments issued for the annual holiday festival from each year Dad presided as Santa.
And there, on a small side table, rested the most iconic artifact of all: the velvety red Santa suit itself. The white, puffy trim missed the usual buoyant bounce it had with a barrel belly to fill out the coat. Gleaming black leather boots sat on the floor, the toes permanently scuffed from years of chimney shuffling.
My breath caught sharply. As my pulse quickened, I had to grip the pew back to stay upright.
While the service unfolded, a small parade of local people shared their memories of Dad. Among them, Mr. Harper, the postman, told a story about how Dad helped him deliver Christmas cards during a blizzard.
"Ol' Kris accompanied me on my entire neighborhood route one December when snow piled up to my truck windows.” He chuckled softly. "We trudged block after buried block dropping holiday envelopes because Kris knew cards from distant loved ones mattered even more when a storm put us all in isolation.”
Mr. Harper’s faded blue eyes misted over behind his spectacles. "We rescued a stranded older couple on that blizzard run, too—carried them and their little dog back home.”
Next, Mr. Jenkins shuffled slowly up to the microphone, brushing a small spot of flour off his jolly dancing Santa tie.
"Kris loved his sweets year ‘round—always said sugar was the best medicine. He'd burst into my little bakery every Monday and exclaim, 'Jenkins! What new delicious disaster ya whipped up this week?'"
Mr. Jenkins stared down at his shaking hands, his voice trembling with grief. "But the kids were the ones he could never forget. He'd insist I load up cookies, pies, anything for the young hospital patients with hollow bellies on top of hurting hearts.”
With each anecdote, my guilt over refusing to deliver a eulogy grew. My throat itched with regret, and I hung my head while the organ played “Deck the Halls.”
Mayor Winterbourne’s speech was a highlight of the ceremony. He expertly blended humor with sincere sadness. “Rudolph North was a man who could sport a red coat in July and make it look fashionable.”
The service ended with everyone singing “White Christmas,” Dad’s all-time favorite. As if on cue, the snow outside intensified with massive white flakes drifting to the ground.”
When we filed out of the church, I saw many red-rimmed eyes. They were a tribute to what my father meant to so many.
I lingered behind and walked up to the front of the sanctuary. Deep thoughts took over as I stood before the Santa suit. Staring at it, I felt a deep connection to Dad, the town, and the indescribable but unbowed spirit of Christmas.
The reception following the funeral took place at the town hall, the largest gathering place in Yuletide Valley. Still, the crowd spilled onto the sidewalk and into the parking lot.
The culinary talents of the town’s residents were on abundant display on the buffet table downstairs in the basement. Miniature mince pies were stacked in a perfect pyramid next to mountains of fluffy mashed potatoes and a large, honey-glazed ham. Further down, I eyed platters of gingerbread cookies shaped like Santa and reindeer.
What I needed most was a mug full of Mrs. Harper’s famous spiced eggnog. The warm blast of rum could help calm my nerves.
As I zigzagged through the crowd, I caught snippets of various conversations. “Kris Kringle loved his gingerbread,” one woman said.
Next to her, another woman chuckled. “Remember the year he ate so many cookies he couldn’t fit into his Santa suit?”
The warm laughter brought a gentle smile to my face. It eased my aching heart for at least a few minutes.
Just as I was about to swallow another mouthful of eggnog, Mrs. Harper greeted me. “Ah, Noel. Your father would have loved this. He always said good food was one of the best ways to heal a broken heart.”
I raised my mug. “A solid drink doesn’t hurt either.”
“I’ll consider that a compliment,” she blushed.
“Please do, and Dad did love his mince pies.”
Mrs. Harper patted my hand. “He was a good man, a very, very good man.”
As we drifted our separate ways into the crowd, I came upon a group of Dad’s old friends seated at a table. “He had the jolliest laugh I’ve ever heard,” Mr. Benson, our local butcher, insisted. “That ‘Ho Ho Ho’ could raise the dead.”
The group erupted in laughter, and I suddenly longed for Dad’s presence.
I spent the rest of the evening drifting through the hall and listening to stories about my father. Each one added a new layer to my understanding of what he meant to the people of Yuletide Valley.
As the evening wound down, the soft strains of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” filled the air. A sense of peace settled over me like a blanket of snow.
Dad may have been gone, but his spirit clearly lived on.
The snow was falling gently outside when I left. Dad would have approved of the reception—a blend of great food, charming company, and the playful spirit of so many Christmases past.
Before I could find my car, Aunt Holly cornered me near the town hall’s nearly fifteen-foot-tall Christmas tree. It held bright, glittery ornaments and flashing, multi-colored lights. I noticed a determined twinkle in Aunt Holly’s eyes.
“Noel, darling,” she began in a low, urgent voice. “I know today has been hard, but we need to have another conversation about you and that Santa suit.”
I sighed as the weight of the topic settled on my shoulders. “I’m sorry, but I’ve already gone over this with both you and Mom. I don’t think I’m the right person…”
She waved a hand in a dismissive gesture, causing her bracelet laden with Christmas charms to jingle. “Nonsense! You are the best person. I know today wasn’t the right day, but Christmas Eve is the date for the annual celebration for the dear children at the hospital. Think of them. They are expecting Santa.”
A sense of uneasiness twisted my gut into a knot. “You hit the nail on the head. They are expecting Dad, not me as an impostor.”
She leaned in close, and her eyes searched mine. “Your father would have wanted you to take over, at least for one day. Both you and I know that to be true.”
She had me over a barrel. I looked away, unable to tolerate the impact of her stare any longer. A blend of grief and nostalgia seemed to hang like a cloud around me. It smelled like the pine of the town's Christmas tree.
“Me wearing that suit won’t bring Dad back,” I insisted. “It won’t give anybody closure. It will feel like we’re all pretending.”
She reached out and grabbed my hand. “It’s not about pretending, sweetheart. It’s about honoring Rudolph’s legacy and giving the world a piece of the joy he can’t offer anymore. You have so much more of him inside you than you know.”
Honoring Dad's legacy, I mused silently. It sounds like I’d be stepping into a shadow I've spent my life trying to escape.
I chuckled softly despite the intensity of the conversation, and I tried to lighten the tone. “More of Dad? I hope that doesn’t mean my beard will start turning white, and I’ll crave cookies 24/7.”
The dark mood lifted slightly as we laughed together. “A few cookies never hurt anybody,” she said. “Please consider it—for the kids, the town, and your father.”
Aunt Holly’s intentions were good. I knew that, but stepping into Dad’s legendary role was too much. I would constantly worry about my performance and need to take more time off work.
At last, I dug in my heels. “The answer is still no." Hurt flashed across her face, and to avoid wavering, I tightened my jaw and looked away. "Please respect that I'm not ready to make some big public Santa spectacle out of my grief."
"But Noel...the children...it's what your father would have..." She protested and gripped my arm.
“I have to go.”
A cold chill gripped my guilty heart as I rushed to my car without looking back. I couldn’t possibly uphold such a painful role so soon after…could I?
Chapter one
Alex
The evening train shuddered to a stop in Yuletide Valley, brakes squealing against frozen rails. I gripped my leather weekender, heart hammering.
Fifteen years of Broadway had taught me about dramatic timing—the buildup, the reveal, and the audience reaction. Unfortunately, this wasn't a performance. This was a surrender.
"End of the line," the conductor announced. "Yuletide Valley, where it's Christmas every day of the year." He winked. "And if you're lucky, the magic finds you too."
At eighteen, getting out of Yuletide Valley had dominated every waking thought. Now here I was at thirty-three, creeping back with a closet full of chorus costumes and a spectacular meltdown on my resume. Three panic attacks during Phantom callbacks. That's what it took to end a career—well, that and eight months of unprocessed grief.
The moment I stepped onto the platform, warmth washed over me despite the falling snow. Not train heat. It was something more profound. It sank into my bones and whispered home.
The town square teemed with tourists, their laughter floating up while snowflakes drifted down in patterns too perfect to be natural. The massive Christmas tree's lights pulsed gently with the carolers' songs. I ducked my head, praying for invisibility.
I'd forgotten how alive my hometown felt during the season. Like the air itself was celebrating.
Cedar Street offered a quieter route, though even there the historic buildings screamed Christmas cheer. I tried to slip past Holly's Apothecary—one of the few shops I'd loved as a kid. The window display hadn't changed: crystalline snowflakes holding captured starlight, herbs bundled with silver thread, and candles flickering despite being unlit.
My right foot hit the ice.
Time stopped. For one impossible heartbeat, I hung suspended, snowflakes frozen mid-fall like I'd stumbled into a snow globe. Then time snapped back, and I was falling.
"Alex? Alex Garland?"
Mrs. Brubaker's voice cut through my descent. The crack of my tailbone against the ice punctuated her query.
"Alex! Don't move—Ben, help him!"
Strong, callused hands gripped mine. Heat bloomed where our skin touched.
He pulled me to my feet, and I looked up—and up—into eyes the color of hot chocolate, flecked with gold.
Wheat-blond hair. Flannel stretched across shoulders that made my mouth go dry. The scents of cedar, pine, and cinnamon clung to him, making me want to lean forward and breathe him in.
His hands slid from my wrists to my biceps and lingered. Even through my coat, I felt the heat of his palms.
"You okay?" His voice was warm and resonant. "That looked painful."
"Just my dignity." I tried for a smile, aware of his thumbs rubbing small circles against my arms. "And possibly my tailbone."
A dimple appeared when he grinned, and desire pooled low in my stomach. "I'm Ben. Ben Blitzen."
"I remember you. You were a few years behind me in school."
"Three years behind." His gaze dropped to my mouth before meeting my eyes again. "You played Danny Zuko in Grease my freshman year. Changed my life, actually." He brushed snowflakes off my shoulder. "Guess I owe you for that."
The air between us was electric, like in a thunderstorm. A streetlight nearby flared brighter, then settled.
Holly swept past in jingling bracelets, gathering my scattered belongings. Up close, I caught the scent of herbs, wood smoke, and something wild, like a forest at midnight.
"Inside, both of you." She thrust my bag at Ben. "Mind the step—it's blessed for safe passage, but you still have to watch your feet."
They ushered me into Holly's Apothecary. Lavender, sage, chamomile, and rosemary filled the air. Bundles of dried herbs swayed as they hung from the ceiling. A woodstove crackled in a corner.
Candles flickered in enticing colors. Amethyst-tinged, rose-gold, and the pale green of new leaves.
"Sit." Holly pointed at overstuffed armchairs near the fire.
Ben folded into the chair nearest the stove. I sank beside him, and the leather adjusted to support my bruised spine.
Our knees almost touched. I was acutely aware of the space between us—small enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Tea first," Holly announced, measuring leaves that seemed to glow faintly. "For bruised dignity and other ailments."
Mrs. Brubaker perched on a stool. "Alex, dear, I heard about your grandmother. I'm so sorry."
Her words landed hard. "Thanks. It's been rough."
"She came to every production after you left," Ben said quietly. "Always sat front row. Always had notes for me about the set design." The candles nearest him burned brighter. "Good notes, too."
I had to look away, blinking hard.
Holly pressed a steaming cup into my hands. "Chamomile for calm, lavender for peace, rose hips for heart-healing, and a touch of cedar bark for grounding."
"Is that why I smell like I live in a sawmill?" Ben asked, deadpan.
Holly swatted his shoulder. "You smell like cedar because you've been refinishing box seats for three weeks straight, you ridiculous man."
"Fair point." He glanced at me.
The tea touched my lips, and comfort surged through my veins. My shoulders relaxed. The grief sitting on my lungs shifted, just enough to let me breathe.
"What's in this?"
"Things that help," Holly said mysteriously. "The valley provides."
Mrs. Brubaker accepted her cup. "Speaking of the valley—Alex, I think you arriving tonight might be more than a mere coincidence."
"I'm just passing through."
"The valley has a way of keeping what it needs," Holly said. "Especially during the Twelve Nights."
"The Twelve Nights?"
Ben shifted, drawing my attention to how his flannel stretched across his chest. "The twelve nights before Christmas, when the veil between hope and reality gets thin. When magic works best." He spoke as if he were describing weather patterns.
"Sandra Martinez was supposed to direct our Christmas play," Mrs. Brubaker continued. "But she broke her leg last week. We're in rather a bind."
"We have the rights to Miracle on 34th Street—The Musical," Holly added. "Special permission. They have a soft spot for towns where miracles still happen."
"Wait. Those rights are nearly impossible to get—"
"Holly has her ways," Ben said, that dimple flashing. "Usually involving homemade jam."
"Lavender-honey preserves," Holly confided. "Works every time."
Despite everything, I laughed.
"The blocking for 'Plastic Alligator' alone requires someone who understands musical theater," Mrs. Brubaker said gently. "The valley brought you here for a reason."
"You'd need the crowd scenes organic but controlled," I said before I could stop myself. "And the parade has to build momentum without overwhelming the transition. Then there's Susan's emotional arc from cynicism to belief—"
I stopped. They were staring.
"See?" Ben leaned forward, closing most of the space between us. "You already know the show inside and out."
"I understudied ensemble roles. Years ago." I wrapped my hands around the cup, trying not to notice how his gaze had dropped to my mouth again. "That doesn't mean—"
"Look," Ben said quietly. "Maybe you could stop by tomorrow? Watch a run-through and share some thoughts?" He paused. "I'll be there early, working on sets. I could show you the theater renovation."
The logs popped, sending sparks in impossible colors—copper, green, deep purple. Shadows shifted across bottles on a shelf.
"Ben restored most of the original woodwork himself," Mrs. Brubaker added. "Some say the building sings now, when performances are good."
"You saw my West Side Story?" I asked Ben.
"Front row, opening night." He smiled. "You were incredible. Made me want to be part of creating those moments." He shifted, his knee brushing mine. Electricity shot up my thigh. "Sorry."
"It's fine," I managed.
"What Ben's too modest to mention," Holly said, eyes twinkling, "is that those box seats he's refinishing? The wood practically purrs under his hands now."
I tried not to think about what those hands would feel like on my skin, ignoring imagining them sliding under my shirt, rough and—
"Someone had painted over the cherry?" I asked, voice slightly strangled.
Ben grinned. "1970s orange paint. Crime against woodworking."
We exchanged smiles. The candles leaned toward us, flames stretching.
"So," Ben said, voice dropping lower. "Tomorrow? Seven AM? I make decent coffee, and the theater's warm. Generates its own heat during the season, radiating all those years of joy that soaked into the walls."
Every instinct screamed at me to refuse. Unfortunately, Ben's eyes sparkled, and the idea of spending tomorrow morning with him, watching those capable hands work—
"Only to observe," I heard myself say. "No promises."
"Perfect." His smile was like sunlight breaking through clouds. "No pressure. Just... it would be nice to have someone around who really understands this stuff."
"Don't get your hopes up too high."
"I'm a carpenter, not a dramaturg." He stood, extending a hand. When I took it, those callused fingers wrapped around mine with gentle strength, and heat raced up my arm.
I didn't let go immediately. Neither did he. We stood there, hands clasped, close enough to see freckles scattered across his nose and gold threading his irises.
"But I know good craftsmanship when I see it," he said quietly. "In sets or in performance."
Holly pressed a warm jar into my free hand as I reluctantly released Ben's. "Arnica salve. For your tailbone. Also works on bruised hearts. Rub it in clockwise, three times, and think about what you want to heal."
Mrs. Brubaker walked us to the door. "Alex, dear—we're glad you're home. This town has always been a safe place for people to be exactly who they are. That hasn't changed. The valley protects its own, especially during the Twelve Nights."
The words settled a hint of anxiety in my chest. "Thanks, Mrs. B."
Ben walked me out, carrying my bag. "I'll help carry your things to the house. These sidewalks are treacherous, and the valley's magic doesn't prevent all accidents. Only the ones that aren't meant to happen."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He fell into step beside me, close enough that our shoulders brushed. "Besides, I like talking to you. Somehow, I think I was waiting for it."
We walked in comfortable silence. The streetlights glowed warmer as we passed. Snow fell gently, considerately. Distant bells chimed.
"Can I ask what brought you back?" Ben asked. "You've got the look of someone carrying something heavy."
"I had a spectacular breakdown at an audition. Panic attacks. Couldn't get through 'Music of the Night.'" I laughed bitterly. "Turns out you can't outrun grief. It just tackles you on stage in front of fifty industry professionals."
"I'm sorry." He reached for my hand, fingers lacing through mine like they belonged there. "My mom died when I was nineteen. Took me years to realize I'd been holding my breath, waiting for the world to make sense again."
"Does it?" I asked, staring at our joined hands. "Make sense again?"
"Not the same way. But different can be okay too." He squeezed gently. "The valley has a way of showing you what you need, if you're ready."
We reached Grandma's Victorian. The gingerbread trim glowed with tiny lights pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat.
"Here you go." Ben set my bag down but didn't let go of my hand. "Railing looks good."
We stood there, snowflakes drifting around us, his hand warm in mine.
"Thanks for everything," I said.
"See you tomorrow?" He rubbed the back of my hand with his thumb, and I wondered whether he could feel my pulse racing. "Just so you know—nobody in this town will think you failed. We'll think you're human. That's allowed."
"Yes, I'll make a quick stop."
He was so close that his breath misted with mine. "See you at seven. Fair warning: Greta's cinnamon rolls are enchanted. You eat one, you'll never want to leave Yuletide Valley again."
"Enchanted rolls?"
"Everything here is, during the Twelve Nights." His smile was soft. "The valley's been waiting for you, Alex. I think maybe I have too."
Before I could process that, he squeezed my hand and turned back toward Holly's shop. He walked away, leaving tracks that glowed faintly in the moonlight.
Amanda Meuwissen
