Page 13 of Mountain Man's Holiday Home
“The candle maker is completely swamped,” I observed, watching the long line at the beeswax candle booth. “And look at the crowd around the woodworker’s station.”
It warmed my heart to see how the little festival had become a place where people connected—not just with handmade goods, but with each other. I’d lost count of how many couples had gotten their start browsing side by side through the festival booths, bonding over hand-carved ornaments or locally made fudge.
“Remember when you thought two weeks wasn’t enough time to build something real?” Hendrix murmured against my ear.
“I was an idiot,” I admitted, turning in his arms. “Good thing you were stubborn.”
“Good thing you were worth being stubborn for.”
A commotion near the hot apple cider stand caught our attention. Luca was gesturing animatedly at a customer, but he was grinning, so it was probably fine.
“Think he needs backup?” Hendrix asked.
“Nah. He’s in his element.” I watched my brother lead a couple toward the Christmas tree lot. “He loves this almost as much as we do.”
The festival had brought more than just business to our little mountain town. It had brought community, connection, and hope. Every year, I watched new relationships bloom between the booths, saw friendships form over shared hot chocolate, and witnessed the magic that happened when people slowed down enough to really see each other.
“So,” Hendrix said, his voice taking on that tone that meant he was up to something. “I have an idea for next year’s festival.”
“Oh no. The last time you had an idea, we ended up with a petting zoo.”
“The kids loved the petting zoo.”
“The goats ate Mrs. Sutherland’s entire display of knitted scarves.”
“Details.” He waved his hand dismissively, then grew more serious. “Actually, I was thinking about adding a weekend component. Maybe expand it to run every weekend in December instead of just the week after Thanksgiving.”
I considered this, watching a family of four navigate between a booth selling handmade soaps and another offering custom woodwork. “That’s…actually not a terrible idea. We’d need more vendors, though.”
“I may have already reached out to a few people.” His grin was sheepish. “There’s a glassblower in Asheville who’s interested, and a jewelry maker from Charlotte who does amazing work with locally sourced gemstones.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“I’ve been inspired.” He spun me around, making me laugh. “By you, by this place, by what we’ve built together.”
As the afternoon sun began to sink behind the mountains, casting everything in golden light, I looked around at our festival—our little piece of Christmas magic. The tree lot where we’d first met was still the heart of it all, but it had grown into something neither of us could have imagined that day ten yearsago when I’d been wrestling with a Fraser fir and gotten rescued by a mountain man.
“I love you, Hendrix Lowe,” I said, standing on my tiptoes to kiss him.
“I love you too, Lainey Lowe. Thanks for letting me stay.”
“Thanks for wanting to.”
In the distance, I could hear the sound of children laughing, couples planning their holiday decorating, and vendors calling out their wares. The Wildwood Valley Christmas Festival was more than just a market—it was a celebration of everything that made this little mountain community special.
And it was just the beginning.