"JOY TO the World," the chorus sang from the nave of the church.
"The school burnt down," Jecca's nephew sang, earning a glare from his mom.
"That's a better version," his sister muttered.
Nat tried to hide her smile and focused her attention on the multi-denominational program.
The tiny St. Christopher's Church was packed, as always happened during Christmas. The service was lovely, with tons of greenery decorating the pews and a veritable army of poinsettias covering the floors. The locals were there, of course. Zoe was in front with the rest of her clan, mouthing the words to the song. Poor Zoe couldn't even sing Happy Birthday, so she'd developed an effective method of lip-synching.
Jecca was part of the choir and she sang steadily, ignoring her nephew's alternative lyrics.
Marisol was in the left pews with the rest of the Main Street shopkeepers. She was singing cheerfully, but Sara Flores, the owner of the flower shop, was distracted by the wilting poinsettia by her side. Pastor Lindstrom would be hearing about that. Sara was not one to mince words where her precious plants were concerned.
"And Heaven and Nature Sing," the chorus continued.
"And round—"
Jecca's niece smacked her singing brother on the back of his head.
"Ouch," he said, scowling and shooting her a dirty look.
Nat scanned the crowd. All the town residents seemed to be present, except for Nate and his dad. They were both tall, so they were hard to miss.
Noah had agreed to meet her after church, but he was running out of time. The service was practically over.
She didn't know what Noah wanted to talk about. Leah? But why would he want to discuss his love life with Nat? She was the last person someone should ask for romantic advice.
Did Noah want to talk about his dad? That seemed more likely, but Noah's second text had referred to a business matter.
Noah was a director. He was a good businessman and had access to good lawyers and accountants. If he wanted to talk to Nat, there were two possibilities.
The first related to the Holiday Lake business environment. Nat was a lot more tuned to the local business scene than Noah, and he sometimes asked her advice when planning his movies.
Was that what was going on?
It was a more attractive possibility than the second alternative, which was that he wanted to talk about Marisol.
She glanced down the nave of the church to where her mother sat. Marisol looked tired. Maybe it was because she had consumed a bit too much punch last night.
Or maybe it was something else.
A handsome woman with burnished chestnut hair boasting an expensive blow dry and a stylish asymmetric designer sweater, sat three rows away from Marisol. Nat recognized her right away as Margaret Windsor, the manager of Chicago's leading antiques boutique.
Margaret came to Holiday Lake every summer and every winter. She was a town regular, and a frequent Odds and Elves customer. She loved the town and her obsession with Christmas antiques matched Marisol's
And she wanted to buy Nat's mother's store.
Margaret seemed too young and sophisticated to want to rusticate in a small town and spend her days explaining mid-century Kurt Adler production lines to tourists, but different strokes for different folks, Nat thought. Nat certainly couldn't judge. She had, after all, returned to her hometown to devote herself to the art of advanced Christmas-present wrapping.
Come to think of it, Gigi and Jack would be unwrapping their presents right about now. Did they like them? Were they having a good Christmas?
Had Cyrus been able to heat up the French toast? Or had breakfast been a disaster?
Many of her clients had trouble with the Grand Lodge's almost-sentient gourmet kitchen. She was technologically impaired herself, and thus usually unable to help, but she could just call and see how things were going.
She stopped herself. No, she wouldn't call Cyrus.
She was tempted to. She liked chatting with him. She wanted to hear his thoughts about what was going on with Noah. She had a feeling that it didn't all have to do with Leah.
But Cyrus had been a jerk about Noah, so she couldn't talk to him about that.
True, some of her animosity likely had to do with residual issues from her break-up with Ethan, but why would she want to talk to Cyrus, anyway? She'd met him a few days ago and he'd been an unbearable client. Unreasonable expectations, compressed deadlines, not to mention a disturbing affinity for gift bags.
The last thing she wanted was to talk to—
Wait, was that Noah?
She peered through the crowd, looking for a familiar shock of brown hair, as the chorus finished and Pastor Lindstrom stepped forward to dismiss the congregation.
"It's sunny," the Pastor said. "It's bright. It's as cold as it can be, but we are used to that. Go out and enjoy the best day of the year, folks. Blessings."
Nat craned her neck. She could sort of see a lumberjack flannel shirt behind a pillar.
"Blessings," the congregation replied.
Then there was chaos. The attendees rushed for the exits and the flannel shirt was gone.
Nat sighed and picked up her purse. Marisol was in a group, chatting. Maybe she should call Noah and-
"Merry Christmas, Nat," a voice said behind her.
She turned. It was Margaret Windsor.
"Merry Christmas," Nat said. "It's so good to see you, Margaret. I hope you're enjoying your stay. Are you at Birch House again?"
Birch House was one of Holiday Lake's most popular rentals. It was a small one-story house in the middle of town, with gray siding and white trim. Nat had been in charge of decorating it, and she'd picked a neutral palette with pops of red and antique farm instruments.
"Of course," Margaret replied. "I love Birch House. It's my home away from home."
No kidding, Margaret stayed there every year, like clockwork.
Margaret smiled. "It's so nice to have an escape like this. City life is so hectic, and nothing ever changes here. You all work so hard to keep it beautiful and joyful. It's really special."
"Why, thank you," Nat replied, somewhat confused.
Margaret was not usually this effusive or approving. She was a hardworking perfectionist with exacting standards.
A bit like Nat herself.
"Even the Birch House antiques are lovely," Margaret continued. "That antique hay fork in the living room has a patent mark and perfect patina. It would fetch a pretty penny at an auction."
Oh, no, Margaret wanted to talk shop. Nat tried to remember the piece. It sounded like the rusty pitchfork Marisol had found somewhere in Iowa. Patina meant rust, right?
"Yes, that piece is lovely," Nat said, suddenly spying a familiar flannel shirt. "It's been great to—"
"Yes, quite lovely," Margaret interrupted. "I always enjoy it here and I find amazing things. That's why I was wondering if the owner would be willing to—"
"I'm sorry," Nat said, stepping back quickly. "I have to go meet someone. Perhaps we can talk later."
Margaret gave her an understanding smile. "Of course. Have a Merry Christmas."
"Same to you," Nat said, backing away before Margaret could ask if she could purchase the rusty pitchfork.
She wove her way through the crowd following the flannel shirt. Noah seemed to be looking for someone, probably her, which was frustrating as the crowd was too thick for her to reach him.
"Nat," someone shouted. "Over here."
Nat turned to find her mother waiving at her from the poinsettia-bedecked altar. Nat sighed and walked over to join her.
Hopefully Noah would wait for her.
She walked towards the altar, which was surrounded by plastic pots wrapped in shiny green and red paper. She'd lobbied for years to have those changed to a nice, neutral burlap, but the church committee had refused.
"Can you believe this?" Marisol said, pointing at the pots.
"I've asked that these be changed several times," Nat said. "They are hideous."
Marisol frowned in confusion. "Are you talking about the paper again?"
"Yes," Nat replied. "Aren't you?"
"We're talking about the plants," Sara said interjected.
Oh, of course they were talking about the plants.
"They're sad, depressed even," Sara said.
"Very sad," Marisol agreed.
Nat glanced at the plants. They were undeniably discolored and wilted, but it wasn't as noticeable as the garish paper.
"It's my fault," Sara said. "I shouldn't have sold the nursery."
"You sold the nursery?" Nat asked in surprise. How had she missed that news?
Sara nodded. "Worst mistake I ever made. I shouldn't have let that princess lawyer talk me into it."
"Nonsense," Marisol said as she patted her friend on the back. "Now you have more time to go shopping for antiques with me. And the new owners will get the hang of it in time."
"It's a plant," Sara muttered. "It needs water. You should know that before you buy a nursery." She glanced at a particularly woebegone specimen and shook her head. "I'm going to talk to Pastor Lindstrom. See you in a minute. Merry Christmas, Nat."
"Merry Christmas, Sara."
Sara walked off. Nat and Marisol looked again at the plants.
Then they started giggling.
"It's not funny." Marisol said. "It's her life's work."
"I realize that," Nat replied. "I just," she giggled again, "can't stop."
"The new owners will figure it out," Marisol said. "And she had to let go. It was too much for her." She shook her head. "It's getting crazy, Nat. This lawyer, that Windsor woman, was hounding me before church to see if I wanted to sell my business. So unseemly."
"I thought you were considering selling."
"That was weeks ago," Marisol snapped.
"Who bought the nursery?" Nat asked, trying to change the subject.
"The owners of Star Lodge. Remember them? They redid the yard when they bought it and put up the fancy retaining walls."
Nat nodded. Star Lodge was a rambling cabin on the west side of the lake. It was decorated in various blue plaids with a star motif.
"Yes," Nat replied. "They owned a landscaping company, a large one in Duluth."
"And now they own Flor de Pascua Nursery," Marisol sighed, caressing a wilted leaf. "They'll figure it out. They just don't understand—"
Nat started giggling.
"That we are very particular about—"
Nat burst out laughing.
Marisol's lips curved into a smile.
"Our Christmas flora."
Then they both laughed loudly.
Mildred Smalls, the choir director, glared at them.
"I should"—Marisol gave one last chuckle—"I should take Sara home. Do you need a ride?"
"No," Nat replied, taking a deep breath. "I have something to do."
Marisol smiled and put on her coat. "Is it the New York client? I've been hearing about Mr. Blackstone."
"No," Nat blurted out. "Why would you think that?"
Marisol shrugged. "Jecca knows." She raised a brow. "And so does everyone else."
"It's not Cyrus," Nat said.
Marisol grinned. "Maybe it should be."
Nat rolled her eyes. "Didn't you recently say that men are flighty and moody and untrustworthy?"
"Still worthwhile, though." Marisol's fingers danced over a wrinkled poinsettia petal. "Kind of like these. You just have to figure them out."
Nat sighed. Cyrus Blackstone was a poinsettia flower? Last night's punch had clearly gone to her mother's head.
Marisol grabbed her purse. "Just think about it. There's more to life than work."
Then she walked out of the church.
And Nat was alone.
The church was quiet, empty except for the choir director, who was still organizing her music.
Nat smiled. That's why she'd returned to Holiday Lake five years ago. It wasn't just because her mother had been having a hard time dealing with her father's death. It was the town itself. People here still cared in this town. They cared about Christmas ornaments, music, and poinsettias.
She put her hands in her pockets and walked towards the church entrance. Noah had probably left without meeting her. That meant she was free to call Cyrus and ask if the kids had liked their presents.
No biggie. No deeper meaning. Just a friendly call to catch up with a client.
She exited the church, raising a hand against the bright morning sun. It was a beautiful Christmas morning, a veritable snowy wonderland thanks to yesterday's precipitation. The trees were covered in white. The townspeople milled about, exchanging greetings and enjoying cookies and hot cocoa...
And Noah stood in the parking lot, chatting with a woman.
A tall, blonde, and elegant city woman, who looked like a princess.
Nat walked down the church steps slowly, hands still in her coat pockets. When had she heard about a tall, blonde princess? Suddenly, that felt important.
Noah looked up and she started to raise her hand to wave. Was he looking for her? No, he was craning his head to look down Main Street, a concerned look on his face.
Nat turned her head, following his line of sight. What was going on?
That's when she heard the sirens, and saw the huge red fire engine racing down the street.
And this time, there was no Santa Claus on the truck.