Page 15 of Daddy's Little Christmas

I glanced back at her. “Tree lighting?”

“Oh yes. Biggest event of the month.” Her smile softened. “Lights, carols, half the town pretending they don’t like crowds as much as they do. It’s a nice way to see Winterhaven all at once.”

Something in my chest lifted—and tightened right after.

Crowds weren’t my favorite thing. Too many voices. Too much noise. Too many memories of being told I was overreacting.

But I hadn’t driven all this way to hide in my room.

“I might check it out,” I said.

She nodded approvingly and reached under the counter, setting a small paper cup beside my plate. “Hot cider. It’s cold out, and it’s a busy day. Figured it couldn’t hurt.”

I took a sip—warm, spiced, bright with orange peel. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” Her mouth curved. “It’s a good day for wandering. Winterhaven’s the kind of place that rewards it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, and meant it.

As I ate, my thoughts drifted—to the little museum Mae had mentioned the night before. Arthur and Henry. The town’s beginning. The reason I’d driven all this way.

By the time I finished breakfast, the decision had already settled in my bones.

I pulled on my coat and scarf and stepped back outside. The air had sharpened, the kind of cold that woke you up instead of punishing you for existing. Two streets over wasn’t far.

The museum sat in what looked like an old clapboard house, narrow and unassuming, its porch dusted with snow. A simple wooden sign hung beside the door:

WINTERHAVEN HISTORICAL SOCIETY

No fanfare or spectacle. Just a place that trusted its story to speak for itself.

Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of old paper and pine cleaner. The floors creaked softly under my boots. Sunlight filtered through lace-curtained windows, illuminating glass cases and framed photographs along the walls.

“Morning,” a voice said gently.

I turned to see an older man at a small desk near the front, silver hair pulled back at his nape, glasses perched halfway down his nose. He smiled like he’d been expecting me, or someone like me.

“Hi,” I said. “Um—just looking.”

“That’s how most people start,” he replied. “Take your time.”

I moved slowly, letting my eyes adjust.

The first display held tools—simple ones. A hammer worn smooth at the grip. A hand plane. A set of chisels laid out with care.

Arthur Vale, the placard read.Carpenter. Builder. Restorer.

I imagined his hands around the tools. Steady. Patient. Making something solid where nothing had been before.

The next case held sketches—charcoal lines on yellowed paper. Cabins. Trees. Faces caught mid-laugh.

Henry Easton, it said.Artist. Designer. Dreamer.

One drawing on a napkin stopped me cold.

It was Arthur.

Head tipped back slightly, mouth open like he’d been caught laughing at something private.