Page 75 of Daddy's Little Christmas

Inside was a wooden frame.

Inside the frame… Holly & Pine.

Not as it currently stood, but drawn with rich, careful lines—an illustration done in ink and soft washes of color. The glow spilling out of the windows, the wreath on the door. Inside, through the glass, a suggestion of shelves and trees and twinkling lights.

Across the bottom, in Rudy’s neat, looping hand-lettering:

HOLLY & PINE

A Place to Belong

My throat tightened.

“You did this,” I said, because it was the only sentence that would come out.

He swallowed. “Yeah. I, um. I sketched it the night after the decorating party, then cleaned it up on my tablet and had it printed.” He hesitated, then added, “And I… may have built something around it.”

“Something?” My voice sounded strange in my own ears—too thick.

“Not live,” he said quickly. “Nothing published. I promise.” Then, softer, “I just… put together what itcouldbe.”

He reached under the tree and handed me a slim package. After unwrapping it, I pulled out a slim folder and opened it.

Inside were printed pages. A draft landing page, laid out clean and simple. Holly & Pine at the top, the illustration worked in like it belonged there. Sections clearly marked:Seasonal Arrangements. Custom Orders. Events.Photo boxes labeledshop exterior,holiday displays,wreaths and trees—placeholders waiting for real images.

I turned the page. Words this time. Short paragraphs. Clear sentences.

Welcome to Holly & Pine.

A place to slow down.

To find something beautiful.

To belong, even if only for a while.

I recognized myself in them—not because they were clever, but because they sounded like the things I said every day. The way I talked to customers when they lingered. The way I explained why I kept the lights low and the music soft. Nothing flashy.

Another page showed how orders would work—simple steps, clearly laid out. Another had space marked for photos of the shop, the wreaths, the trees in winter light. Another listed events I’d talked about for years and never quite named.

Everything thought through.

I looked up at him, the folder still open in my hands.

“I didn’t want to assume. Or step over a line.” His shoulders lifted in a small, uncertain shrug. “It’s yours if you want it. Some or none of it is. You get to decide.”

“When did you get the time to do all of this?” I asked.

A mischievous smile spread across his face. “Santa never tells his secrets.” Then he grew serious. “I know you don’t love that side of things. And I know you’re good at what you do there—people feel safe when they walk in. I just thought… maybe this could help them find you.” A beat. “Only if you want.”

“Rudy,” I said quietly. “This is… perfect. You saw exactly what this place is supposed to be.”

His shoulders loosened, like he’d been braced for me to tell him it was too much, too big, too something.

“So you like it?” he asked.

“I love it,” I said simply. “I love that you did this. For me. For the shop.”

“Good.” His smile turned a little crooked. “Then rule three can commence.”