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MAGGIE

The smooth gold band on Maggie Bennett’s right ring finger was cold against her skin as her thumb slowly traced along the metal. It hadn’t belonged to her originally. It had belonged to Tom, Maggie’s husband. She’d had the ring resized after the funeral two winters ago, when the silence in her white clapboard home on Elm Street had grown so unbearable that she couldn’t sleep through the night without holding a piece of him close.

She absentmindedly turned the ring slowly, once, twice, three times. It was a habit she couldn’t break when the frigid sea air swept right in off Cranberry Harbor, turning the warmth of that small piece of metal into a chilly reminder of a past long gone.

Yesterday, another Thanksgiving had ended. It had left behind a quiet house, a half-eaten pumpkin pie, and an empty chair at the end of her dining table. At least one of those three things was a temporary change of pace, even if it had made her slacks just a tad tighter than they were a week ago.

She gave a soft snort, smoothing her hands down her form-fitting beige pea coat.

Maggie was sixty-two years young. Sixty-two wasn’t old, not by any measure. Especially when she never looked her age. She was still plenty fit and took care of her appearance better than most. But standing alone at the edge of Harbor Square, watching the early morning sunrise begin to peek over her beloved coastal town of Cranberry Cove, her chest felt tight, like there was a weight pressing against it the same way it had last December.

She couldn’t help but wonder, would it feel like this every winter without him?

With cold fingers, Maggie opened the thick blue binder resting against her coat, her pen hovering over the detailed checklist. Staying busy was her shield. If her mind stayed anchored to volunteer schedules, garland counts, and bakery donation sheets, there wasn’t room for the ache that threatened to pull her under. Right?

Grief didn’t disappear after two years; it simply stayed hidden beneath the commotion of daily routines, and behind the solid, protective doors she forced shut on her memories. At least, that was what she told herself to keep pushing forward.

Maggie took three steadying breaths, as she had for the past two years when thoughts of Tom flooded her brain. She reminded herself she’d had thirty-four years of a glorious marriage. They had been lucky, blessed with such unbridled happiness. It was a heck of a lot more than many other women ever experienced. Wishing for something better, or even just as good, now felt like a betrayal of the life she’d shared with Tom.

“The banner on the north side’s crooked,” a male voice called out from the brick plaza, jolting Maggie from her thoughts.

She looked up, setting her shoulders and holding her head high as she adjusted her wool scarf. “It’s a few inches low on the right side. I’ve got the tape measure right here.”

She moved across the red-brick courtyard, her pea coat swaying against her black slacks. The town square was mostly empty, with only a few volunteers up extra early to decorate for the annual Wish Tree Awakening.

Pine garlands with sprinklings of bright red plastic holly berries ran along the storefront overhangs, tied with red velvet ribbons that fluttered in the brisk coastal breeze. Salty ocean air drifted up from the docks, mixing with the sharp scent of cut evergreen boughs stacked along the curb. Two young men from the hardware store adjusted the canvas sign stretching across Main Street from atop their ladders.

Maggie gestured toward the brass eyelet anchored into the brick building, not even needing to pull out her tape measure to point out the problem. “Bring that corner up to the mortar line and you’re set,” she called up to them in a commanding tone. “We need it straight before the moisture in the air sets into the fabric.”

“You’ve got an eye for detail,” one of the men replied, pulling the rope taut with a grunt. “We’ll get right on it.”

“Someone’s got to keep this town running on schedule,” Maggie teased, offering a practiced smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Not that these young men knew her well enough to spot the difference.

She checked off the “banner” box in her binder with a neat black mark, releasing a sigh. Organization kept the chaos of her own thoughts at bay.

Near the center of the square stood the reason for the early morning preparations. It was a massive, thirty-five-foot Fraser fir transported from the northern hills just last night. Its forest green branches reached toward the hazy sky, waiting in magnificent patience for the stringing of five thousand white lights.

At the base of the giant tree, tucked off to the side away from the busy volunteers, four women stood clustered around a large wooden crate, their familiar voices chatting and carrying across the open space.

Maggie approached the group, her folded binder held tight against her chest. These four women were her anchor in Cranberry Cove, the kitchen-table council of friends that had stood beside her, laughed with her, and cried with her for thirty years, even carrying her through the darkest months of her widowhood.

Diane Mercer stood closest to the trunk, her sharp eyes reviewing a thick stack of invoices. As usual. At fifty-nine, Diane ran her tax preparation firm with absolute precision. She stood tall and elegant in her tailored maroon topcoat without a single speck of lint, despite the pine needles fluttering around them.

Beside her, Susan Caldwell was busy adjusting a fleece scarf around fifty-two-year-old Carol Whitaker’s neck.

“Susan…” Carol hissed. “Really, I told you the scarf is fine.”

Susan, fifty-five, couldn’t stop her mothering instincts from taking over if she tried, but nobody could blame her. Especially after the tragic loss of her daughter and son-in-law three years ago. Susan’s entire life was now dedicated to keeping her young grandson, Eli, safe and warm. Even if it meant often sacrificing her own comfort in the process.

“You’re going to get a cold if you keep wearing your scarf as an ornament,” Susan scolded the slightly younger woman gently.

Carol’s affronted look was so comical that Maggie’s lips twitched, but she held in the snicker that wanted to escape.

Instead of arguing, Carol just sighed, shook her head, and rolled her eyes. She was a corporate strategist. Rather than lashing out at the mother hen, she went back to scrolling through her smartphone with only a barely audible grumble of annoyance.

Ignoring her friend’s groans, Susan tucked the scarf securely into Carol’s collar before turning toward Maggie with a welcoming smile. “Well, well, well, our party is complete.”

“I’ve got three emails from the regional office waiting,” Carol muttered as Maggie stopped in front of them, though her eyes softened as she finally looked up. “If we don’t finish the lighting grid by seven, the harbor council’s going to file a complaint.”