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“Fine.” She didn’t look at him. “Just worried about getting a signal. And how long it’s going to take for all this to clear up.”

“We’ll find you a signal,” he promised. “Even if we have to drive all the way to the edge of town.”

She nodded but didn’t respond, and Christopher turned his attention back to the road. Anything but the woman sitting beside him and the growing feeling that when she finally did leave Fir Tree Grove, she’d be taking a piece of his heart with her.

They made it to Main Street finally, and he could see that the damage was worse than he’d thought. Power lines sagged or lay broken across the street. Tree branches had snapped and fallen, blocking sidewalks and knocking several decorations askew. Several storefronts had lost their awnings under the weight of the snow, and he could see broken windows from other branches that had gone through them. Snow was piled up everywhere, blocking several doorways.

Christopher pulled the truck to a stop near the town square and idled, leaving the heat running. “Let’s see if you can get a signal here,” he said. “The cell tower’s just over that hill—if it’s got backup power, you might have luck.”

Layla pulled out her phone, and he watched her face as she waited, hoping for bars to appear. She shook her head.

“Nothing yet.”

Christopher let out a breath, trying not to feel any relief that she was going to be there longer. “We should check in with some folks,” he said finally. “See what needs doing.”

He climbed out of the truck, and after a moment’s hesitation, she did too, her phone clutched in her gloved hand like a lifeline. She moved a few steps away, holding the phone up, trying to find the best signal, and Christopher watched her for a moment before forcing himself to turn away.

There was plenty to do in town. But as he walked toward a group of people trying to make sense of the booths that had been knocked down in the market square, he couldn’t quite shake the image of Layla standing in the snow, trying to get back to the life that was waiting for her somewhere else.

And he couldn’t quite shake the foolish, impossible wish that she might want to stay there, instead.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Layla could hardly believe the damage that the storm had done.

She finally gave up on trying to get a signal, looking around Main Street as Christopher helped a group of people with their fallen booths and surveying what the storm had left behind. Snow was piled everywhere—against storefronts, burying cars, reaching halfway up some doorways. Tree branches lay scattered across the sidewalks and streets. A section of decorative fencing from the town square had been torn loose and now leaned at a precarious angle against the general store. Christmas lights that had been strung so carefully just days ago hung in tangled loops, blank and no longer twinkling.

The cold bit at her cheeks despite the layers she’d bundled herself in. Christopher finally came back to join her, looking around with an assessing expression.

“I’ve seen bad storms before,” he said quietly, “but this one…” He shook his head, leaving the sentence unfinished.

Layla pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. Many of the businesses they could see from where they stood were dark. The power was out across much of the town. The storm had taken down lines, knocked out transformers. It could be days before everything was restored.

The homes that she could see were dark too. The first visible street had residents standing around and talking in worried clusters while the children played in the snow. She could imagine how worrying it was, with no way to cook or heat unless they had fireplaces, and even then, that wouldn’t keep a whole house warm.

“Come on,” Christopher said, touching her elbow gently. “Let’s check on some of the businesses. Make sure everyone’s okay.”

They made their way down Main Street, stopping at the general store first. The owner, was inside sweeping up broken glass from a window that had shattered during the night. He waved them off with a tired smile, insisting he was fine, just needed to get some plywood up until he could get in a new pane. At the bookstore, the proprietress was moving inventory away from a leak in the ceiling, her breath visible in the frigid air of the unheated shop. She accepted Christopher’s offer to help with the leak, and together they managed to get a tarp secured over the worst of it.

The Toy Chest was closed, Mabel clearly somewhere else. Imogen and Lincoln were at Artisan Chocolates, clearing snow and branches away from the front of the store and fixing the decorations that had been torn down. The bakery’s freezers had gone out, and the owner was trying to salvage what she could, giving away bread and cakes and pastries to anyone who passed by rather than let them go to waste.

With each stop, Layla felt the weight of the storm’s impact settle more heavily over her. It felt more personal, somehow. These were small businesses, personal dreams that had been impacted, not big corporations. And they were all helping each other, focusing on what had been hit the worst rather than everyone just attending to their own needs. The community that everyone had talked about when she’d interviewed them was written all over this incident, and it made Layla’s heart thaw to see it.

By the time they reached the Snowdrift Diner, her fingers were numb despite her gloves, and her nose felt like it might fall off. But as they approached, she noticed something different. Light was spilling from the diner’s windows onto the snow-covered sidewalk.

“They have power,” she said, surprised.

Christopher nodded, a relieved expression on his face. “Generator. Jackson got one several years back after a bad ice storm. Said he never wanted to be caught unprepared again.”

The diner had sustained the least damage of any building they’d seen—just some torn awning and a few broken icicles that had fallen from the roof. Through the windows, Layla could see people moving about inside, a bustle of activity that was startling compared to the devastation outside.

Christopher pulled open the door, and a wave of warmth rushed out to greet them. The smell of coffee and bacon and cinnamon enveloped Layla like a hug. The diner was packed with people standing in clusters near the counter, voices rising and falling in animated conversation.

“Christopher! Layla!” Jackson’s voice came from behind the counter. He was wearing his usual apron over jeans and a flannel, his face flushed from the heat of the kitchen, a wide grin on his face as he saw them. “Get in here before you freeze to death!”

They stepped inside, and Layla felt the door swing shut behind them, cutting off the bitter wind. She pulled off her gloves, flexing her fingers as feeling slowly returned to them. The warmth of the diner was almost overwhelming after the cold outside, and she had to resist the urge to simply stand there and soak it in. She checked her phone again; still no signal. She shoved it back in her pocket and looked around, realizing that something was different.

The diner was full, yes, but people weren’t just sitting and eating. They were working. At one table, a group was packing food into containers. At another, she saw several people chopping veggies and putting them in bowls to take back to the kitchen. Near the kitchen, teenagers were filling thermoses with what looked like soup or coffee. Everyone seemed to have a task, a purpose, moving with the coordinated efficiency of a well-rehearsed dance.