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Here, Christmas was something special. It was sleigh rides with Grandpa George and hot cocoa at Imogen’s coffee shop and helping Mabel set up Santa’s throne in The Toy Chest. It was Jackson hanging lights on their house and baby Philip’s eyes going wide at the sight of the Christmas tree. It was neighbors stopping by with cookies and the whole town coming together for the holiday market and the sense that Christmas mattered not because it was flashy or expensive but because it was human and real and good.

“Dinner’s ready!” Jackson called from the kitchen, and Vanessa stood, brushing off her pants and taking a deep breath.

She needed to think of how to make Jackson feel secure again. She needed him to know that Fir Tree Grove wasn’t a sacrifice she’d made—it was a gift she’d been given, and she was grateful for it every single day.

As she walked toward the kitchen, she thought again about Layla Thompson. The reporter would be in town just long enough to write her article and leave. She’d come in with her assumptions and her big-city perspective, would gather her quotes and take her photos, and then she’d go back to Portland convinced that she understood what Fir Tree Grove was about. But she wouldn’t. Not really.

Vanessa wondered if Layla would give Fir Tree Grove the chance she had, or if she’d leave exactly as she’d arrived—certain that bigger was better, that small-town life was charming but ultimately insignificant, that real meaning could only be found in cities and careers and accomplishments that looked impressive from the outside.

She hoped, for Layla’s sake, that the reporter might be surprised. That she might glimpse, even for a moment, the possibility that happiness could be found in unexpected places, that small didn’t have to mean less.

Jackson was setting plates on the small dining table when she entered the kitchen, and the sight of him made her heart swell. She moved to him and wrapped her arms around him from behind, pressing her cheek against his back.

“I love you,” she said. “And I love our life. I need you to believe that.”

She felt him relax slightly in her embrace, felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders. “I love you too,” he said softly. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I am,” she insisted. “I really, truly am.”

And as she said it, standing there in their warm kitchen with the smell of pot roast filling the air, Christmas music playing softly in the background and their son sleeping peacefully upstairs, Vanessa knew it was absolutely true.

She was happy. Not despite choosing small-town life, but because of it. Not in spite of leaving the city behind, but because she’d found something here that the city had never given her: a sense of home and belonging.

Layla Thompson might never understand that, Vanessa thought. She might write her article and leave Fir Tree Grove behind without ever grasping what made it special. But that was okay. Not everyone had to understand. Not everyone had to see what Vanessa saw when she looked at this town and the life she’d built here.

As long as Jackson understood. As long as he knew that she had no regrets, that she’d choose him and Philip and Fir Tree Grove a thousand times over.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The nausea hit Imogen the moment she opened her eyes, a wave of queasiness that rolled through her stomach and made her press her hand against her mouth. She lay still for a moment, breathing slowly through her nose, willing the sensation to pass. The bedroom was still dark, and beside her she could hear Lincoln’s steady breathing, deep and even in sleep.

Staying still wasn’t helping—the longer she lay there, the worse the feeling became. Carefully, moving as slowly as she could manage, Imogen slipped out from under the covers and padded across the carpeted floor toward the bathroom. The cold air of the bedroom raised goosebumps on her arms, but she barely noticed, too focused on the roiling in her stomach to pay attention to anything else.

In the bathroom, she stood at the sink and splashed cold water on her face, studying her reflection in the mirror. She looked paler than usual, and there were shadows under her eyes.

What was wrong with her?

That cheeseburger that Lincoln had brought her for lunch yesterday had made her feel so nauseated, just by the smell, even though she loved the cheeseburgers from Jackson’s diner. And even the smell of chocolate, her favorite scent in the world, had started to smell a little… off to her.

She’d been inexplicably exhausted by three in the afternoon, too, so tired that she’d actually considered closing the shop early and coming home to take a nap, which was completely unlike her.

And now this morning, the nausea was undeniable. Something was definitely wrong. And the last thing she needed was to be sick for the holidays.

Imogen went back out to grab her robe and slippers and made her way downstairs, moving quietly so as not to wake Lincoln or their daughter Katie. The house was still quiet and peaceful. Through the windows, she could see that snow had fallen overnight, covering everything in a fresh white blanket that looked almost ethereal in the early morning light.

She headed for the kitchen, thinking that maybe some toast would settle her stomach. Or tea. Something mild and comforting that wouldn’t make the nausea worse. As she entered the kitchen, her eyes fell on the coffee maker on the counter. Lincoln had set up the night before on a timer so it would be ready when they woke up, and now the rich scent filled the air. It made her stomach lurch.

Coffee. She couldn’t even think about coffee without feeling worse. What was wrong with her?

She moved past the coffee maker, giving it a wide berth as if proximity alone might trigger another wave of nausea, and reached for the kettle instead. Tea. She would make tea. Something herbal and soothing. Peppermint, maybe, or chamomile. Ginger, even. Any of those would settle her stomach, she was pretty sure.

“Mom?”

Imogen turned to see Katie standing in the doorway of the kitchen, still in her pajamas, her long dark hair tangled from sleep. “Good morning, sweetheart,” Imogen said, trying to inject some normalcy into her voice. “You’re up early.”

Katie walked into the kitchen, eyes narrowing as she plopped down into one of the chairs at the kitchen’s table. “You don’t look like you feel good,” she said with the bluntness that only an eleven-year-old could manage. “Are you sick?”

“I’m fine,” Imogen said automatically, then reconsidered. “Well, maybe not fine. I think I might be coming down with something. But I’m sure some breakfast will do just the trick.” She gestured toward the refrigerator, forcing brightness into her tone. “How about we get started on some eggs? Maybe some toast?”