Page 4 of Chloe

The house is decorated for Christmas. Twinkling white lights outline the roof and porch. A classic wreath with red berries and an enormous bow hangs on the deep green front door. Through the ornate front window, I can see the soft glow of what must be a Christmas tree.

For a moment, I sit in the car, stunned. Who could have done this? How did they get into the house? A mix of anger and confusion swirls in my chest as I grab my bags and march up to the front door.

The key turns smoothly in the lock, and as I step inside, I’m enveloped by the scent of pine and cinnamon. The interior of the house is just as festive as the outside. Evergreen garlands and holly adorn the walls, stockings hang from the fireplace mantel, and sure enough, a small Christmas tree stands in the corner of the living room, its lights twinkling softly.

I drop my bags, my mind racing. This has to be some kind of mistake. Maybe the cleaning company thought they were doing me a favor, preparing the house for my arrival. But as I move further into the house, taking in the vintage-style sage green cabinetry in the kitchen, the soft quilts draped over the furniture, I realize that this goes beyond simple decoration. The house looks lived in, loved.

Just as I’m about to call the local police station to report a possible break-in, there’s a knock at the door. My heart races as I approach it cautiously. Who could it be? The mysterious decorator? A nosy neighbor?

Taking a deep breath, I open the door. Standing on my porch is a young woman about my age, her long golden hair catching the late afternoon sunlight. Her bright eyes—are they blue? Green? I can’t quite tell—twinkle with a mixture of friendliness and something else I can’t quite place.

“Hi there,” she says brightly. “I’m Rebecca. I live next door. I saw you pull up and thought I’d come over to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

I blink, taken aback by her cheerful demeanor. “I’m Chloe,” I reply automatically, then hesitate. Should I ask her about the decorations? Demand to know what’s going on?

Before I can decide, Rebecca continues, “I hope you don’t mind, but when we heard Marge’s granddaughter was coming to stay for Christmas, we couldn’t resist sprucing the place up a bit. It’s a bit of a tradition here in Benton Falls—no one spends the holidays in an undecorated home.”

Her words hit me like a physical blow. The entire neighborhood knew I was coming? They took it upon themselves to decorate my house? A mix of emotions swirls within me—anger at the invasion of privacy, confusion at their presumption, and underneath it all, a tiny flicker of something that feels dangerously like gratitude.

“That’s... very thoughtful,” I manage to say, my voice stiffer than I intend. “But it really wasn’t necessary. I’m only here for a short while, and I’m not particularly interested in celebrating the holidays.”

Rebecca’s smile falters for just a moment before brightening again. “Well, decorated or not, we’re glad to have you here. Will you be attending the Tree Lighting Ceremony tonight? It’s quite the event—the whole town turns out for it.”

I shake my head firmly. “No, I’m afraid I’ll have to miss it. I have a lot of work to catch up on.”

A little lie, but I’m not expecting Santa to bring me presents, anyway.

“Oh.” Rebecca’s disappointment is palpable, but she rallies quickly. “Well, if you change your mind, it starts at 7 PM in the town square. You can’t miss it—just follow the crowds and the smell of hot chocolate.”

I nod noncommittally, already planning my escape from this overly friendly interaction. “Thank you for stopping by, Rebecca. I should really get unpacked now.”

“Of course.” Rebecca steps back, still smiling. “Don’t be a stranger, Chloe. And welcome to Benton Falls.”

As I close the door, I lean against it, suddenly feeling exhausted. This is exactly what I was afraid of—the forced cheer, the expectations, the assumption that everyone must love Christmas. I glance around at the festive decorations, feeling more out of place than ever.

With a sigh, I pick up my bags and head to the bedroom. To my relief, it seems to have escaped the worst of the holiday makeover. I unpack quickly, hanging my clothes in the vintage wardrobe that still smells faintly of cedar and my grandmother’s perfume.

As night falls, I settle on the couch with my laptop, determined to lose myself in work. But the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree keep catching my eye, and the scent of the holiday seems to permeate everything. Despite my best efforts, memories of past Christmases creep in.

I remember my first Christmas after my grandmother died, spent in a group home. The sad little tree with its sparse decorations, the meager gifts that were more necessity than joy. I remember promising myself then that I would never be in that position again. That I would work hard, become successful, ensure that I never had to rely on anyone’s charity or pity.

And I’ve done it. I’ve built a life for myself beyond my wildest childhood dreams. So why does sitting here in this cozy, Christmas-filled house make me feel so... empty?

I shake my head, banishing these thoughts. I’m here to work, not to dwell on the past or get swept up in a small-town Christmas cheer. Opening my email, I immerse myself in reports and projections, letting the familiar world of numbers and strategies wash away the uncomfortable emotions.

As midnight approaches, I finally close my laptop. The house is quiet, the only sound the soft ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hall. I make my way to the bedroom, studiously avoiding looking at the Christmas decorations.

Lying in bed, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling, I can’t shake the feeling that coming here was a mistake. I don’t belong in this world of neighborly kindness and Christmas traditions. I’ve worked too hard to build my walls, to protect myself from the pain and disappointment that comes with letting people in.

Tomorrow, I decide, I’ll call the office. Surely there’s some crisis that requires my immediate attention, some reason for me to cut this enforced vacation short. I’ll go back to Boston, back to the world I understand, where success is measured in dollars and cents, not in twinkling lights and warm smiles.

As I drift off to sleep, I try to ignore the small voice in the back of my mind, the one that whispers that maybe, just maybe, I’m running away from something more than just Christmas cheer. That perhaps what I’m really afraid of is not the possibility of failure, but the terrifying prospect of letting myself feel again, of opening my heart to the warmth and joy that seems to permeate this little town.

But those are dangerous thoughts, ones that threaten the carefully constructed world I’ve built for myself. So I push them away, burying them deep beneath layers of determination and ambition. I’m successful CEO and have built a billion-dollar company. I don’t need Christmas, and I certainly don’t need the pity or charity of a small town stuck in the past.

As sleep finally claims me, my last conscious thought is a determination to remain aloof, to resist the pull of Benton Falls and its Christmas magic. Little do I know that the universe—and a certain guardian angel in training - have other plans for me this holiday season.

Two

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