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Maggie picked up her binder and held it close, a sturdy comfort as she watched Vivian step onto the lowest level of the two-step ladder. The secret of that magical wooden heart had lasted forty years, but as the winter wind whistled through the high pine branches above them, Maggie had the distinct sensation that the old oak carving held stories none of them had even begun to read.

When Maggie heard the screech of the old, rusted metal screws protesting in the ladder as Vivian prepared to take a step higher, she flinched. “Just let Susan grab the other ladder,” Maggie urged. A sharp knot of worry tightened in her chest.

Seeing Vivian, who had always seemed entirely indestructible, lift her foot to the top rung of the rickety contraption made Maggie’s throat ache. Life had taught her how quickly a simple moment could turn into something painful.

“The other ladder is half a mile away, and we don’t have time to waste,” Vivian pointed out, setting her left foot on the top rung.

“The ground is honestly pretty uneven,” Diane warned again, her pen hovering over her ledger. “It slopes sharply toward the brick path.”

Vivian ignored them all and didn’t pause. She reached upward, her arm extending toward a thick bough eight feet off the ground. The velvet ribbon caught on a pine needle, twisting slightly in the damp breeze. Vivian muttered under her breath and reached higher.

Across the square, near the dark timber facade of the old boat repair shop, a tall figure in a black utility jacket appeared, catching Maggie’s attention. It was the man they had just been speaking about, Arthur Hale. He moved with the strong, purposeful rhythm of a man who had spent the bulk of his life working on timber hulls and tide-swept docks.

His dark gray hair was tucked under a knit cap, and a worn leather tool bag hung from his shoulder. He stopped short near the iron park bench thirty feet away, his sharp eyes locking onto Vivian leaning over the fir tree.

“Get down from there!” Arthur called out, his deep voice rumbling through the morning chill with a raw authority that startled the group. He dropped his heavy bag onto the red brick path with a dull thud and crossed the square in a few lengthy, determined strides.

Vivian whipped her head toward his voice, her hand pausing near her desired branch. The sudden movement shifted her center of gravity. Beneath her, the rickety step ladder creaked and wobbled against the sloped dirt. The rusted and cracked metal leg behind Vivian’s right foot bent inward with a sickening groan.

Maggie gasped, dropping her binder into the dirt as she launched forward, but the distance was too great. Vivian’s body tipped sideways with a yelp of surprise, her left ankle catching between the stool leg and top step. Maggie watched, frozen in helpless horror as Vivian’s ankle twisted at an unnatural angle, her body careening toward the brick path.

A collective cry rose from the group, but before Vivian’s head could hit the cold ground, Arthur reached her. He slid in the damp dirt, his large hands lurching out to support Vivian’s shoulders before she dropped against his chest with a thump.

The seventy-year-old man was out of breath. His face had gone chalk-white, his jaw in a rigid lock with an intense, personal terror that transformed his usually stern and uncaring features.

“Don’t try to move.” Arthur’s command trembled slightly as he cradled Vivian’s head against his grease-stained work jacket. “Where does it hurt? Tell me where it hurts.”

Maggie, Diane, Carol, and Susan crouched beside them as Vivian grunted and let out a short, shuddering breath, her gloved fingers clutching Arthur’s coat sleeve. Her face was pale, but her eyes held her usual fierce stubbornness.

“Only my ankle and my pride,” Vivian let out in a pained whisper, her voice strained as she pointed to where her ankle remained caught in the tipped ladder.

The cold ground soaked through Maggie’s slacks as she pressed closer and gingerly slipped Vivian’s foot free before resting it on the path. “Is it broken?” Her eyes were wide as they swept over Vivian’s injury, but she could see nothing past her thermal leggings and ankle boots.

“It’s twisted bad,” Arthur growled softly, carefully removing Vivian’s boot to probe her ankle. For a man who spent his days hammering iron fittings and shaping oak planks, Maggie noticed how gently he touched Vivian. He grabbed her wrist, his thumb resting over her pulse as he checked her vitals. “We need to get Vivian off the ground before the cold sets into her joints.”

Carol already held her phone to her ear, her voice snapping with worry as she spoke to the local clinic receptionist. “Please connect me with the doctor. We have an emergency at the square. Vivian Ellis has fallen and hurt her ankle.”

Susan hovered near Vivian’s feet, her hands trembling as she pulled off her own woolen scarf to bundle it up and tuck it beneath her shoeless foot. “Keep her warm. The shock is the worst part,” she told Arthur.

Maggie’s gaze flicked to Vivian’s left hand. Clutched tightly in her fist, partially hidden beneath the cuff of her dark sleeve, was the carved heart. The green ribbon dangled across Arthur’s knee. Vivian noticed where Maggie’s attention had shifted and followed her gaze, then Arthur did the same. The moment his eyes landed on the ornament, his entire body went rigid.

Maggie watched Arthur’s breath hitch in his throat. His jaw tightened so hard that a muscle twitched along his cheekbone. For three long seconds, he stared at the carved wood as if he’d seen a ghost rising from the etched tide line. The color drained from his lips entirely, leaving him looking older and far more fragile than the returned master boatbuilder of Cranberry Cove had any right to look.

Maggie’s brow knitted together as she caught Arthur’s eye. “Do you know this ornament?” she asked quietly.

Arthur jerked his chin upward, blinking rapidly as he pulled his gaze away from the heart. The raw emotion vanished behind his usual stoic mask so quickly that Maggie wondered if she’d imagined it. “Everyone in this town knows that ornament,” he replied, curt and dismissive. Maggie didn’t miss how his fingers trembled as he tucked Vivian’s coat closer around her throat. “Hasn’t it appeared on this tree for forty years?”

Vivian peered up at Arthur’s face with an intensity that made the air between them feel charged.

As if remembering where she was, Vivian turned away from Arthur, cleared her throat, and lifted the cherished carving to her chest. “Thank goodness I didn’t break the heart.” She breathed a sigh of relief.

“No, but you nearly broke your neck trying to hang it up,” Arthur ground out through gritted teeth.

Carol’s voice called out from across the square, “Arthur, can you bring her to my car? I’ll drive her to the clinic.”

Arthur unceremoniously plucked the ornament out of Vivian’s hand and plopped it into Maggie’s, ignoring the elder woman’s protests. Then he moved around to Vivian’s side to slide one strong arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her from the dirt in one fluid movement. He didn’t wait for Maggie or the others. He moved across the road toward Carol’s parked car, his strides long and sturdy despite carrying a person in his arms.

Maggie clutched the famous Christmas heart tightly as she shared a quick, bewildered look with Diane and Susan. Their matching expressions confirmed Maggie wasn’t the only one who had just witnessed something intense between Cranberry Cove’s boatbuilder and the matriarch of the Christmas Wish Society.