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“Oh, isn’t the food wonderful?” Mabel said, sitting down across from her. “My husband George and I eat there at least once a week.”

Layla clicked her pen open, ready to get down to business. “So, how long has The Toy Chest been part of Fir Tree Grove?”

Mabel’s eyes grew distant, thoughtful. “Oh—since I was in my early forties, maybe? It feels like forever, honestly.” She chuckled softly. “After my children moved away for a bit, I needed something to do. Empty nester, you know. So I thought I would try my hand at something I’d always wanted to do. The town didn’t have a dedicated toy store then, just what was sold at the Holly & Ivy Market, and I thought I could start just the thing. My late husband was so supportive of the idea too. I’ve always loved children, even thought of being a teacher at one point, and making a place that was all about the magic of the holidays for them felt like a dream. And now…” Her smile widened. “My granddaughter Vanessa Hayes moved here a couple of years ago to help me run it. Is there anything better than having a family business like this, something you can pass down through the generations?”

Layla wrote quickly, capturing Mabel’s words. “That’s charming,” she said, keeping her tone neutral. “If one likes that sort of thing.”

The words came out more dismissive than she’d intended, and she saw something flicker across Mabel’s face—not offense, exactly, but definitely an understanding of Layla’s feelings about the whole thing that made her feel more vulnerable than she liked.

“You know,” Mabel said gently, tilting her head a bit, “you seem as if you aren’t fully excited about this feature you’re writing.”

Layla opened her mouth to deny it, but the words stuck in her throat. There was something about Mabel’s kind gaze that made it impossible to lie convincingly. “I just… I feel that there are more important things I could be doing with my time,” she admitted, then immediately regretted the confession. “I usually cover Portland’s restaurant scene, profile successful entrepreneurs, cover events that have real cultural significance. This is—” she gestured vaguely around the shop, “—it’s nice, but it’s not exactly hard-hitting journalism.”

Even as she said it, though, she thought about the omelet Christopher had made that morning. It had felt like such an innocent, kind gesture, born entirely out of the desire to make her morning more pleasant. Not to be the best in a competitive restaurant environment, or score another Michelin star, or make his establishment profitable. Just to make her happy.

That had been real, hadn’t it? And there were aspects of the town that were truly charming, she had to admit that. The way the snow looked on the historic buildings, the genuine warmth in people’s voices when they talked about their community, the sense that people here actually cared about each other. The food was beyond what she’d expected, certainly. And everyone she’d encountered so far seemed to genuinely love what they did for a living, rather than just getting by to pay the bills or choosing what would be the most successful or profitable.

She’d always thought the latter was the best way to define success, but maybe there was something more to it than just that.

But before she could follow that thought any further, Mabel was speaking again, graciously moving past Layla’s admission. “Well, let me tell you about something that might interest you for your article. Come with me.”

Mabel stood and led Layla toward the side of the shop where the faux mantel was, where a raised platform sat against the far wall. On the platform was an ornate chair—no, not just a chair, a throne, Layla thought with some confusion. It was made of dark wood with a high back, and it was carved with intricate designs: snowflakes, reindeer, and candy canes. The seat was upholstered in deep red velvet, and the arms were wrapped with tinsel. It looked, Layla thought, slightly absurd.

“This is Santa’s throne,” Mabel said, her voice filled with affection. “My husband George made it years ago for the shop, long before we were together. It’s been part of Fir Tree Grove’s Christmas celebration for as long as anyone can remember. Every year during the Christmas festival, we bring it out and Santa and Mrs. Claus sit here while children come to tell them what they want for Christmas. It’s tradition.”

Layla took several photos with her phone, then took some notes, trying to stay as objective as possible. “Who plays Santa and Mrs. Claus this year?” she asked automatically, purely for the sake of adding details to her article.

Mabel sighed a little sadly. “Normally, that would be me and my husband George. He owns Merry Pines Christmas Tree Farm just outside of town. We’ve played the roles for… oh gosh, years now.” She shrugged with a nostalgic smile. “But we’re too busy this year. George is dealing with some issues at the farm—a late growing season that’s kept him scrambling to keep up with tree orders—and I’ve been running the shop by myself more than usual with Vanessa needing to be home with her baby. We just don’t have the time or energy to commit to it this year.”

There was real regret in her voice, and Layla found herself feeling a small pang of sympathy. She made a note about the Santa and Mrs. Claus tradition, wondering if she could work it into her article as an example of how even beloved traditions sometimes had to be set aside when life got busy.

The bell over the door chimed again, and both women turned toward the sound. A young woman entered, pushing a stroller with one hand while managing to balance a large coffee cup in the other. She looked to be in her early thirties, with auburn hair in a messy bun that was coming slightly loose and dark circles under her eyes that Layla knew meant she’d been dealing with a number of sleepless nights. But despite the obvious exhaustion, her face was bright with happiness as she maneuvered the stroller through the door and into the shop.

“Mabel!” she called out, her voice warm. “I brought you coffee from the diner. That new peppermint mocha that Jackson got in that you like.”

“Vanessa!” Mabel’s face lit up, and she hurried toward her granddaughter, accepting the coffee with obvious delight. “You’re an angel. I was just telling Ms. Thompson here about you.”

Vanessa looked over at Layla with friendly curiosity, and Layla offered a small wave. “Layla Thompson, The Portland Chronicle. I’m writing about Fir Tree Grove’s Christmas traditions.”

“Oh, how nice!” Vanessa said, parking the stroller near the seating area and bending down to check on her son. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. Mabel knows everything about Christmas in this town.”

The baby made a small sound, and Vanessa straightened up, running a hand over her bun in a gesture that suggested she was trying to look more put-together than she felt. “Oh, I meant to tell you, Mabel—I got Nolan to drop off an extra bundle of firewood this morning. So George doesn’t need to drop by with some. It’s been especially cold lately, and I don’t want Philip catching a chill, so I’ve been keeping the fireplace going.”

“Who’s Nolan?” Layla asked curiously, her pen poised over her notebook. Every detail she could get was one closer to having this article wrapped up and ready for Kirkland so that she could go back to her usual beat.

Mabel smiled with amusement. “Nolan McCoy is our postman. Good man, always helping people out with firewood and errands, checking in on the elderly residents, that sort of thing.” She paused, then added with a mischievous glint, “Although everyone calls him the town Grinch because he never really got into Christmas. Doesn’t decorate his house, doesn’t come to the festivals, just goes about his business with this sort of bemused tolerance of all our holiday cheer.”

Layla felt as if she had something in common with at least one of the residents, then, as she jotted down a few notes. She liked the idea of a postal worker in such an overwhelmingly Christmas-focused town that rejected the whole thing. It resonated with her own resistance to getting swept up in Fir Tree Grove’s relentless seasonal enthusiasm.

Mabel set down her coffee and moved toward the stroller, bending down with her arms outstretched. “Come here, sweetie. Let Nana snuggle you.”

Vanessa unbuckled Philip from the stroller, and Mabel snuggled her great-grandson into her arms. Philip was wearing a small Christmas sweater with a reindeer on the front, and Mabel held him up slightly, examining the garment with exaggerated surprise.

“My goodness, what an adorable sweater! I wonder where this came from?” She looked at Vanessa with mock innocence. “This looks very familiar somehow.”

Vanessa laughed, tiredly, but with genuine amusement. “Don’t act as if you don’t recognize it. It was an early Christmas gift from Grandpa George. You were there when he gave it to Philip last week. In fact, you encouraged giving it to him early.”

Mabel tried to maintain her innocent expression but failed, her face breaking into a sheepish grin. “Was I? I don’t recall.”