Chapter Six

JACOB

I woke on Christmas Eve to the quiet crackle of a distant fire and the gentle hum of the old mansion’s heater doing its valiant best. I felt like the entire house was caught between centuries—creaking floors and antique furniture playing gracious host to the shiny new holiday décor that Edna had insisted on hanging. Outside, the storm had gentled into a peaceful snowfall. The light filtering through the windows in the morning had been thin and gray, and the day had unspooled slowly, like a spool of crimson ribbon released by a lazy cat.

Now it was late afternoon, maybe early evening, and I found myself settled in one of the manor’s many sitting rooms with Theodore. The room had become a de facto gathering place when we weren’t all working in the kitchen or exploring the old corridors. The fireplace mantel was draped with evergreen boughs and cranberry garlands, and the tree we’d put up stood proudly in the corner with its ornaments glinting softly. We’d managed to salvage a few more strands of lights from Edna’s seemingly bottomless boxes of Christmas supplies, and now the tree shimmered with tiny bulbs that winked and smiled like old friends.

I sat across from Theodore, each of us cradling mugs of mulled wine that Edna had brewed using spices and a bottle of red she’d found. The scent of clove and cinnamon drifted through the room, mingling with the faint aroma of woodsmoke. Theodore stared at the tree, eyes distant, the reflection of the tiny lights like stars in his pupils.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a tree so beautifully done up,” he said quietly, almost to himself. His voice had lost the edge of sarcasm that so often accompanied his pronouncements. Here, in the warmth and hush of Christmas Eve, he sounded like a man remembering a younger version of himself. “My family used to put up a grand tree every year—a real showstopper. Back then, we held dances, parties…everyone would come. I guess time changes a lot of things.”

I sipped my wine, the warmth blooming in my chest. “Time does that,” I agreed. I didn’t push him to elaborate. Theodore wasn’t the type to be rushed.

“By the way, will you be attending the Christmas Day Gala at the ski resort? Assuming we’ll be rescued by then, of course,” I added with a chuckle, remembering the event on my itinerary. My firm had paid for a VIP ticket for me, wanting to make sure that I passed around plenty of business cards to the people of Winterhaven after winning the big case.

Theodore scowled. “I’m slated to make an appearance.” I noticed his fingers tightening on the mug’s handle.

“There were Christmases I squandered,” he continued in a low voice after another pause. “Moments I let slip away because I was too sure of myself, too convinced I had all the time in the world. People I didn’t appreciate fully. Chances I never seized.”

My chest tightened at his words, suddenly seeing in him a reflection of my own regrets.

“It’s easy to think we can always do better tomorrow,” I offered, my gaze drifting momentarily to the hall that led toward the library, where Bailey had disappeared earlier.

Theodore nodded. “Exactly. But tomorrow arrives, and sometimes the people you thought would be there…well, they’re not. Things change.” He sighed, then forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Anyway, that’s old man talk. Christmas does that to you, brings back memories and ghosts from the past.”

I thought of Bailey—how I’d let her slip through my fingers years ago. Back in high school, she’d been my safe harbor in a life of turmoil and unpredictability. I remembered those freezing December nights when I’d walk her home through quiet streets, cutting through fields dusted with snow, boots squeaking in the hush of starlight. At the time, my only goal had been to escape my father’s suffocating presence, his sneers, and put-downs. Not to mention having to witness what he did to my mother, who was too much a victim to fight back. With Bailey, I forgot all that. She was kind, brilliant, and fierce in ways that still took my breath away. When I’d left Wintervale, I told myself it was necessary—that ambition required sacrifices. I didn’t realize I was sacrificing the one person who truly mattered.

Now I had what I thought I wanted: money, prestige, a fancy Chicago condo overlooking Lake Michigan. But every relationship since Bailey Pace had been hollow, more about my image than my essence. Bailey knew me before any of that mattered—when I wore secondhand clothes and dreamed of scholarships. She understood the threads of my history: a father who never believed in me, a mother too wrapped up in her own drama to pay me any attention, and a longing to run as far away as possible and start over from scratch where nobody knew who I was or where I came from.

Back then, Bailey’s family had always shown me kindness. Her mom, Linda, had worked hard scrubbing floors and dusting mantelpieces to help make ends meet, and her dad, Roger, a navy veteran with a back injury and a quiet smile, kept their home stable. I knew they missed Linda now. If I could do something to ease that burden for them, I would. But I wasn’t sure how. I wished I could turn back time, help more, be there, not just vanish in pursuit of personal glory.

Theodore cleared his throat, pulling me from my thoughts. “We used to pass the time playing games—cards, checkers. On snowy evenings, we’d sit by the fire, much like we are now. It wasn’t always grand parties. Sometimes it was just two people, a deck of cards, and a bottle of something warming.”

“That sounds nice,” I said. “Simple pleasures.”

He swirled the wine in his tumbler. “Maybe that’s what we’re missing these days, all of us chasing something bigger, forgetting the small joys.”

Edna, who had just wandered in carrying a handful of candy canes—who knew from where—caught the tail end of this. “Are we waxing poetic about the good old days, Theodore?” she teased, setting the candy canes in a little cup on the sideboard.

Theodore glanced up and huffed, but not unkindly. “I was telling Jacob how we used to play cards until the wee hours. How about we find a deck and give it a go, Edna? Unless you fear I might beat you again.”

She raised an eyebrow and patted her hair. “Oh, I don’t fear that at all, dear. I recall winning more often than not.”

I laughed softly, amused by their banter. Theodore’s face softened at her teasing, and he glanced at me. “See what I must endure?” he asked, faux-aggrieved.

“Be careful, Theodore,” I said, standing to rummage in a chest of drawers that looked like it might yield a deck of cards. “If we find a pack, you’re both going down.”

Edna giggled, and I couldn’t help smiling at how the tension between them had eased. Maybe the mansion’s magic extended beyond just Bailey and me—maybe it was melting old grudges and regrets everywhere it touched.

In the second drawer, I found a deck of cards with a faded pattern on the back and a small wooden box that contained checkers pieces. “I’ve got cards and some checkers here,” I announced, holding them up triumphantly.

“Oh, splendid,” Edna said, coming over. “Jacob, have you any idea how to play Rummy? Or should we try something simpler?”

“Rummy’s fine,” I replied. “Though it’s been a while.”

We cleared the coffee table and set about dealing cards. The radio in the corner offered a gentle soundtrack—Bing Crosby’s mellow voice crooned softly about a white Christmas, as if we didn’t already have one.

Theodore and Edna settled into a rhythm of mild trash-talk and fond recollection. “Do you remember that one year,” Edna said at one point, “when the storm knocked out the power and we played by candlelight for hours? I think that was the Christmas you tried to cheat by hiding a card under your sleeve.”

Theodore feigned shock. “I never cheated! It must have been static cling holding the card to my cuff.”

I chuckled at their new rapport. Each barb they exchanged seemed to hold a kernel of affection, as if they were remembering not just the games but the bond that once existed between them. Perhaps second chances could appear in the most unexpected places, if only one had the courage to seize them.

Eventually, Edna excused herself to fetch more mulled wine—only one glass in and I could feel its warmth spreading pleasantly—and Theodore followed, muttering something about ensuring she didn’t water it down. Their departure left me alone for a moment, staring into the fire. The flames danced across the logs, sending shadows flickering over the evergreen boughs. I thought of Bailey, how I’d nearly kissed her under the mistletoe yesterday, how she’d pulled away, her eyes conflicted. A year ago, I would have told myself it was better not to complicate things. But now, seeing what we had lost, I realized how foolish I’d been. I couldn’t let this slip through my grasp a second time.

I rose, running a hand through my hair, and decided to find her. She’d mentioned earlier she wanted some quiet time, said something about exploring the library. I followed the corridor lit by the soft glow of the string lights and the occasional flicker of candlelight. The mansion’s hush enveloped me—no city horns, no cell phones chirping, just the distant murmur of Edna and Theodore in another room, the whisper of my footsteps, and the muffled hush of falling snow outside.

The library door stood slightly ajar, and I paused, hearing a faint rustle of pages. Inside, it smelled of leather bindings, old paper, and tobacco. The space was all warmth and shadow, shelves climbing high, and a small Christmas tree—probably one of Edna’s touches—stood in a corner, adorned with delicate glass ornaments and a single strand of rainbow lights that cast tiny rainbow shards against the spines of countless books.

Bailey sat in an armchair near the tree, a blanket draped over her legs. She held a hardcover book open, its gilt edges catching the lamplight. She hadn’t noticed me yet, so I took a moment to appreciate the scene. Her profile was lovely—jawline softened by the glow, hair tumbling over one shoulder. My heart squeezed at the memory of us reading each other a collection of poetry in the park.

Stepping forward, I cleared my throat gently. “Am I interrupting a holiday reading marathon?”

She looked up, startled, but then smiled lightly. “Not at all. I was just reading some classic Christmas tales—Dickens, a bit of O. Henry. You know, reminding myself of the old stories.”

I moved closer, easing into a chair beside her. The library’s lamps and tree lights gave the room a magical air. “Those are some of my favorites,” I said, tilting my head to see the page. “ The Gift of the Magi always gets me.”

She nodded. “There’s a certain timelessness to these stories. They make you think about what truly matters.”

Our eyes met. The tension was palpable. “Speaking of what matters,” I ventured softly, “I know last night was…well, awkward. I just…I guess I want to say I’m here. And I’m willing to listen, or just read with you, if that’s easier for now.”

Her expression softened, and she tapped the page thoughtfully. “How about we read aloud? Like we used to.” Her voice was quiet, as if we were sharing a secret.

My chest warmed. “I’d like that.”

We took turns selecting passages, our voices weaving through the quiet air. She read a humorous scene from A Christmas Carol , and I read a sentimental paragraph from a collection of Christmas poems. Occasionally, we paused to comment on the language, the era, or the themes of generosity and hope. Laughter sprinkled through our conversation like powdered sugar on freshly baked cookies. Outside, the wind had stilled, and I imagined the world holding its breath, giving us this pocket of time.

As we read, I leaned forward to turn a page and noticed her shiver slightly. A draft, perhaps from an old window frame or a gap in the wainscoting, brushed past us. Without thinking twice, I stood and fetched another blanket folded neatly over an old leather ottoman. I draped it around her shoulders, my fingers grazing her arm as I did. Her eyes flicked up to mine, and in that moment, the distance between us collapsed. The faint vanilla scent of her shampoo and the feel of her warmth beneath my fingertips sparked something elemental inside me.

She whispered a soft thank you, and I swallowed hard. The small Christmas tree’s lights glittered, reflecting in her eyes, and for a heartbeat I thought I could see our past, present, and future colliding in that amber glow.

I didn’t plan the kiss. I leaned in, guided by instincts honed years ago—instincts that recognized her as my anchor, my true north. When our lips met, it was gentle at first, a question rather than a demand. She answered by leaning closer, the tension in her shoulders melting. The world beyond these walls disappeared: no old grudges, no storm, no city lights, no deadlines. Just her, and me, in the middle of stories.

The kiss deepened, and time suspended. I tasted peppermint chapstick and the subtle sweetness of the mulled wine we’d all had earlier. Her hand came up to rest lightly against my chest, and I felt my heart hammering in response. The small tree’s ornaments tinkled softly, perhaps stirred by our movement, or maybe by some friendly ghost of Christmas past.

When we finally parted, we were both breathless, as if we’d run miles through snowy fields. I searched her face for reassurance, for the sign that this was right, that we could reclaim what we’d lost. But her eyes were filled with complexity —longing, fear, surprise, and something else I couldn’t quite name.

“Bailey,” I began softly, “I…”

She pressed a finger to my lips, shaking her head. “I don’t know,” she whispered, voice trembling slightly. “I don’t know what happens now. Our lives are so different. You in Chicago, me back in Seattle. There’s so much uncertainty…I don’t know what I want anymore.”

I caught her hand and held it gently. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight,” I said, hoping to soothe her doubts. “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. Maybe we can just let ourselves feel this moment and we’ll tackle the next when it comes?”

She inhaled shakily, as if weighing my words. “That’s the problem. We’re in a snow globe, sealed off from everything real. What happens when the roads clear and we drive away?”

The question hung between us feeling a fragile crystal bauble ready to shatter.

I wanted to promise her the world—that I’d upend my life, move back home to be with her. But I knew that might scare her, that she needed time. Before I could formulate a careful response, she drew back, pulling the blanket tighter around herself.

I nodded, heart aching. “I understand,” I said, though my pulse hammered with urgency. I wanted to tell her we’d already wasted so much time. But one step at a time. I had to give her—us—room to breathe.

She stood up suddenly, the book left forgotten on the armchair. “I’m going to just get some air in the hallway,” she said lamely. She backed away, her eyes not quite meeting mine.

“Bailey…” I began, reaching out a hand.

She was gone before I could finish, disappearing past the heavy library door, her footsteps echoing faintly in the hall.

I exhaled slowly, raking a hand through my hair. She was scared, and I couldn’t blame her. In many ways, we were strangers now, with separate histories carved into our skin. Yet the love we’d shared once still lingered, and I was sure it was as bright as ever, for both of us. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be reacting like this. I’d have to convince her that the world beyond these snowdrifts had a place for us—together.

I sank back into the armchair, staring at the small tree in the corner. I had to show Bailey that I wasn’t the boy who ran away anymore, nor was I the hardened lawyer who’d forgotten how to laugh. I was someone who could love her right now—today, tomorrow, and every Christmas after that.

Beyond the door, I heard Edna’s laughter and Theodore’s voice rumbling softly, perhaps teasing her over the card game. On the radio in the distance, Nat King Cole crooned about chestnuts roasting. The mansion felt alive with possibilities, and I hoped that was true. I thought of Theodore’s earlier words, his regret-laden memories. He’d warned me, indirectly, that waiting too long or hiding behind pride would lead to a lifetime of “what ifs.” I wouldn’t make that mistake again. Before the clock struck midnight on Christmas Eve, I would find a way to reach Bailey’s heart and show her that no matter how different our worlds had become, we still fit together like two pieces of a puzzle.

Standing, I paced the length of the library, pausing by a window. Outside, the snow had tapered to a gentle whisper, leaving the landscape blanketed in silence. In that hush, I felt the weight of the moment like a mantle on my shoulders. Was the magic of Christmas working a subtle alchemy within these forgotten walls? Perhaps miracles could come true, after all. If one was lucky enough to believe in them.

I turned my gaze back to the door, imagining Bailey in the corridor, perhaps pressing a hand to her chest, calming herself. She was torn between old love and new fears. But I could guide us toward understanding. I could remind her that we had been each other’s sanctuary once, that we could be again.

Leaving the library, I ventured down the hall, intending to find Theodore and Edna, to rejoin the laughter and warmth. They might not know it, but their rediscovery of each other encouraged me. If they could reclaim something they’d lost—if they could find joy amid old hurts—then maybe Bailey and I had a chance too.