Page 9 of Daddy's Little Christmas

I packed my car with what I told myself were essentials: my laptop, a duffel of clothes, toiletries, my favorite mug, the blanket Mrs. Davis had given me my first year of college—and, because I couldn’t bring myself to leave it behind, my reindeer plush, stuffed deep at the bottom of a bag.

Chicago faded behind me in a smear of gray buildings and highway signs. I watched the city shrink in the rearview and felt the tight knot in my throat finally ease.

I listened to music the first day. Podcasts the second. By the time I crossed into Vermont, when frost rimed the edges of gas station windows and the horizon softened into blues and whites, I drove in silence.

The closer I got, the more the landscape changed—flat lines giving way to hills, then to low mountains dusted with early snow. Bare trees. Dark evergreens. Smoke rising from distant chimneys.

By the time I turned off the main road and onto the smaller one that led into Winterhaven, the sky was dipping toward evening. The town appeared slowly—like it was shy about being seen.

Wooden storefronts. Strings of lights. A few people walking with their hands around coffee cups. Wreaths on doors, but not the overdone, movie-set kind. Just… lived-in. Real.

My GPS announced, “You have arrived,” and I looked up at the sign swinging gently over a shoveled walkway.

The Hearthstone Inn.

Inside, the air smelled warm—like cinnamon and fresh bread. My cheeks still stung from the cold as I stepped into the lobby, brushing snow from my coat and nudging the door shut behind me. The floors were old wood, smoothed by years of careful cleaning and footsteps. A stone fireplace took up one wall, unlit for the moment but neatly stacked with logs ready for later. A few armchairs sat around a low table where a puzzle had been left mid-progress, like someone expected to come back to it.

Behind the front desk stood a woman with silver hair pulled into a loose bun. She looked up and smiled in a way that made my shoulders drop without my permission.

“Evening,” she said. “You must be Mr. Callahan.”

“Yes—Rudy Callahan.” I shifted my bag higher on my shoulder, suddenly aware of how travel-worn I must look.

“Welcome to Winterhaven.” She slid a leather-bound registry toward me along with a pen. “I’m Mae. My husband’s in the back finishing up some baking. I’m afraid the whole place smells like it.”

I smiled, tired but genuine. “It smells really good.”

She seemed pleased by that. “Did you come far?”

“From Chicago.” I signed my name, my hand wobbling slightly with fatigue. “I’m working remotely for a bit. Thought I’d try somewhere quieter.”

“Well, you found it.” Mae’s eyes crinkled warmly. “You’re in Room Five. Second floor, end of the hall. Breakfast is served downstairs in the mornings, coffee’s always on, and tea any time you want it. If you need food recommendations, I have opinions.”

“Thank you.” The kindness in her voice felt steadying, like a hand at my back. “I really appreciate it.”

She slid a key card across the desk, then hesitated. “Oh—and if you’re here for the history, the little museum is just two streets over. Arthur and Henry’s story. People come for that more than they admit.”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I… read about them. That’s sort of why I’m here.”

Her smile softened, not curious—just understanding. “Then you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

The words settled somewhere uncomfortably tender, like they’d brushed against a want I hadn’t admitted to myself yet. Imurmured another thanks, picked up my bag, and headed for the stairs.

Room Five was small but warm—soft lamp light, a white duvet, faded floral curtains that made me think of someone’s grandmother. I shut the door behind me and leaned back against it, listening to my own breath for a moment.

You made it.

Then, automatically:Now don’t ruin it.

I set my bag on the bed and unzipped it. Clothes, charger, toiletries. When I reached for my notebook, something small and soft tumbled free onto the quilt.

My reindeer.

He landed on his stomach, antlers slightly askew, one stitched eye a little crooked where I’d repaired it years ago. Mrs. Davis had pulled him out of a clearance bin one December and declared, “Everyone deserves something soft to wake up to on Christmas.”

My throat closed around a sudden ache.

I picked him up carefully, fingers curling around his small body.