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It had been six years now. Six Christmases without her. The grief had softened over time, like people always said it would, smoothed by the passage of days and months and seasons. It didn’t hurt quite as much as it used to, although there were still moments when the loss hit him out of nowhere, usually triggered by some small thing—a song she’d loved, the first snowfall, the smell of her favorite tea.

But he’d kept going. He’d kept living, kept running the B&B, kept making it a place of warmth and welcome and holiday cheer. If anything, he’d leaned into it even more over the years, adding touches that he thought Shelby would have loved, finding new ways to make the Christmas season special for his guests. It was his way of honoring her memory, of keeping her spirit alive in the place they’d both loved so much.

Hearthside Cottage had been Shelby’s dream originally. She’d grown up in Fir Tree Grove, and she’d always loved the idea of running a bed and breakfast. When the old Victorian house just outside of the town center had come up for sale ten years ago, she’d convinced Christopher that they should buy it and convert it into a B&B. He’d been skeptical at first—he’d been working remote for a property management company in Portland, and he’d known the renovation and work to get it going would require both of them. The idea of putting so much of their time and savings into trying to run a small-town B&B had seemed risky.

But Shelby had been persuasive, and once they’d had their grand opening, he’d almost immediately realized that her dream had been the right one to follow. The B&B had been a success from the beginning, partly because of the town’s growing reputation as a Christmas destination, but mostly because of the care and attention Shelby had poured into every detail. She’d designed the rooms, chosen the furniture, created the welcoming atmosphere that made guests want to return year after year. Christopher had handled the business side of things, but Shelby had been the heart and soul of the operation.

After she died, he’d had to learn to be both the business manager and the heart. It hadn’t been easy. But he’d always tried to imagine what she would do, remembered all the ways she’d added her own special touches to the guests’ experience, and he’d done everything he could to make sure that Hearthside kept the reputation they’d both built for it. He’d learned to bake her recipes, put out her decorations year after year, and added on to it until the place had both her memory and felt like his own creation too.

It had, deep down, become not just a way to honor Shelby’s memory but his own purpose, his own reason for getting up in the morning. He’d stayed alone despite others’ efforts to fix him up with someone in the last few years, and while he had friends and enjoyed company, romance hadn’t been on the table. He was focused on preserving what he and his late wife had built together, and that was his sole purpose.

The sound of voices and laughter pulled him from his thoughts. He heard the front door open, followed by the stomp of boots on the mat and the rustle of coats being shed. Guests arriving. He glanced at the clock on the mantel—six-thirty, right on schedule. He’d been expecting a party of four, two couples from Massachusetts who’d booked the rooms back in October. They were staying for a week, if he remembered correctly.

Christopher took a breath, let the bittersweet feelings settle back into the place where he kept them locked away most of the time, and put on the smile that guests expected from the owner of a charming B&B. It wasn’t a fake smile. He genuinely did enjoy this part of his job, the greeting and welcoming and making people feel like they’d arrived somewhere special. It was just that sometimes he had to consciously shift from the private Christopher—the widower who still missed his wife every day—to the public Christopher who made everyone feel at home.

He walked out of the common room and down the short hallway to the front entrance. The foyer of Hearthside Cottage was small but charming, with original hardwood floors that had been refinished to a warm honey color, wainscoting painted in soft cream, and wallpaper above with a pattern of winter birds and pine branches. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, fitted with Edison bulbs that cast a warm glow. A narrow side table stood against one wall, topped with a guest book, a vase of winter greenery, and a platter of welcome cookies in a variety of flavors and shapes.

The four guests were in the process of dealing with their winter gear—coats being hung on the row of hooks, boots being lined up on the mat, scarves being unwound from necks. Two men, two women, all of them flushed from the cold and still laughing about something that had happened on the drive.

“Welcome to Hearthside Cottage,” Christopher said, extending his hand to the nearest guest, one of the men. “You must be the party from Massachusetts. I’m Christopher Holcomb.”

The man shook his hand with a firm grip. “That’s us. I’m David, and this is my wife, Rachel.” He gestured to the woman next to him, who smiled and gave a little wave. “And this is my sister, Emily, and her husband, Marcus.”

“Wonderful to meet all of you,” Christopher said, shaking hands with each of them in turn. “How was the drive up?”

“Beautiful,” Rachel said with a smile. “We hit some snow about forty-five minutes out, but nothing too bad. And the town looks absolutely magical. We drove through Main Street on the way here, and it’s like something out of a movie.”

“We do our best to make December special here,” Christopher said. “Let me get you checked in, and then I’ll show you to your rooms. I imagine you’d like to settle in before dinner? The Snowdrift Diner is a perfect spot if you want something cozy and casual, and the Maplewood Tavern is slightly more upscale if you want something a little fancier—although everything here is rustic and homey.”

“Maplewood sounds perfect,” Rachel said, looking at her husband. “Do we need reservations?”

Christopher chuckled. “Nothing like that here. Just head in and they’ll find you a seat.”

He went through the check-in process, collecting credit card information for incidentals and explaining the amenities of the B&B. Breakfast was served between six and nine in the dining room, coffee and tea were available twenty-four hours in the common room, and the hot chocolate bar was always stocked. There was free Wi-Fi, the password was written on cards in each room, and he was available if they needed anything at all.

“The common room is just through there,” he said, gesturing toward the doorway. “Please help yourselves to gingerbread cookies and hot chocolate. The chocolate is from Artisan Chocolates, a local shop that makes extraordinary small-batch chocolates. I think you’ll find it’s the best hot chocolate you’ve ever had.”

“I love that everything is so local here,” Rachel said. “That’s one of the things we were hoping for when we booked this trip. A real small-town Christmas experience.”

“You’ve definitely come to the right place,” Christopher assured her. He pulled two sets of keys from the basket, each attached to its carved wooden tag. “I’ve put you in the Evergreen Suite and the Holly Room, both on the second floor. Let me show you up.”

When he was sure that they didn’t need anything else, he left them to settle in and made his way back downstairs, feeling the familiar satisfaction that came from welcoming new guests. This was what the B&B was about—creating a space where people could step out of their regular lives and into something different, something slower and warmer and more connected to a calmer pace of everyday life. He wanted people to forget their troubles, leave their stress behind, and just exist in the rustic, pleasant joy of Christmas in Fir Tree Grove for a little while.

Back in the common room, he checked the fire again, added another log, and then stood for a moment in the quiet. The Christmas tree lights twinkled, the fire crackled, and outside the window, the snow continued to fall. In a few minutes, the guests would probably come down for hot chocolate before dinner, and he’d chat with them about their plans for tomorrow, make recommendations for shops to visit and sights to see. Later, he’d double check the ingredients for tomorrow’s breakfast—he was planning on cranberry orange scones, maple sausage, and a frittata with local cheese and vegetables.

But for just a moment, while the quiet settled in around him, Christopher simply stood in the room he and Shelby had created together and felt grateful. Grateful for the life they’d had, grateful for the years they’d shared, grateful that he’d been able to keep her dream alive even after she was gone.

“Merry Christmas, Shelby,” he whispered to the empty room, knowing she wasn’t there but also knowing, somehow, that she was.

The fire popped in response, sending up another shower of sparks, and Christopher smiled. Time to make sure everything was perfect for his guests. That’s what he did. That’s what he would keep doing, for Shelby and for himself and for everyone who came through the door of Hearthside Cottage looking for a little bit of Christmas magic.

CHAPTER THREE

The December morning had started early for Layla Thompson, although not by choice. She’d woken at five-thirty in her Portland apartment, unable to fall back asleep as her mind churned through the mental list of everything she needed to accomplish before leaving for Fir Tree Grove.

By six, she’d given up on sleep entirely and had gone for a run along the waterfront, the cold air biting at her cheeks as the city slowly came to life around her. By seven, she was showered, dressed, and packing her leather weekender bag with exactly what she needed and nothing more for three days of travel, as well as a tote with her laptop, notetaking supplies, and her camera.

Now, as she navigated the winding roads that led away from Portland and deeper into Maine’s interior, Layla made yet another phone call, keeping her hands on the wheel while she used the Bluetooth to run through the list of appointments that she needed to reschedule. She knew that Kirkland had said Sarah would handle it, but she wanted to speak to them personally, so that she could do her best to make sure she still had her important features when she returned. Kirkland had said he was going to reassign them, but if the homeowners and business owners were willing to reschedule, maybe she could keep the assignments and just push them to the following week. After all, if they asked for her, surely Kirkland wouldn’t overload someone else who wouldn’t do as good of a job.