Page 56 of Rebel Without a Claus
FINAL NOTICE.
My stomach drops.
No. No, no, no. I shouldn’t look. I know I shouldn’t. But my hand’s already moving, sliding the envelope free before my brain can argue.
It’s from the bank. My fingers tremble as I rip it open, my eyes flying over the blocky type.
Final warning before foreclosure proceedings will begin unless payment is made in full.
My chest tightens, like someone’s cinched a belt around my ribs. I knew things were bad—of course I knew—but this is worse than I thought. Not just late payments. Not just scraping by. This is the edge of the cliff.
I stare at the paper until the words blur, my mind ricocheting between panic and guilt. This festival… this contest… it isn’t about bragging rights or the Holly Ridge trophy anymore. It’s survival.
If we don’t win, if we don’t pull in enough guests this holiday season, my family’s inn—the thing we’ve poured decades into—will be gone.
I slide the letter back under the flyers, careful to angle it exactly how I found it. My parents don’t need to know I’ve seen it. They’ve been carrying this weight long enough.
But now the heaviness is in my chest too, pressing down.
And underneath it is something else—Luke.
I think about his voice last night, tight with frustration. The way we’d stood there, both too stubborn to back down, both convinced the other was wrong. I hate fighting with him, especially now, when I can’t stop wondering if I made a mistake pushing him away.
Then there’s the job offer waiting for me in my inbox. A shiny escape hatch that could solve all my money problems—mypersonal ones, anyway. But taking it would mean leaving Holly Ridge, leaving my parents to fight this battle without me.
And leaving Luke.
If he even wants me to stay.
I press my palms against the desk and inhale, forcing air into my lungs. Not now. I can’t unravel over my entire life plan before I’ve had coffee.
I turn toward the kitchen—and freeze.
Through the big front windows, I spot my dad outside, already dressed head-to-toe in his Santa suit, beard and all, perched precariously on a ladder leaning against one of the giant spruce trees in the front yard. He’s holding a golden star in one gloved hand, a wooden angel in the other, humming some Christmas tune I can’t quite place.
Below him, my mom stands with her arms crossed, calling up something I can’t hear through the glass. Her posture says it all—arms crossed, toe tapping against the snow dusted planks of our porch.
Here I was thinking I’d be the first one awake, putting on the finishing touches for the decorating contest… and my parents are both already up and at it.
I crack open the window, just in time to hear her yell, “The trees are already decorated, Mike! We don’t need any more dang lights!”
He ignores her, shifting the ladder a few feet to the right toward the next branchy giant. “I’m enhancing the magic,” he calls down with a grin that’s half sheepish, half proud. “Kids need magic.”
“Kids also need Santa to be in one piece,” she bellows, her open coat catching the wind and billowing out behind her. “Are you listening to me?”
“If I don’t do it, I’ll just find Eve up here adding more lights, anyway!” And then he chuckles, like that’s the most reasonable argument in the world.
And I hate to admit, it kind ofis.
Mom sighs and with a shake of her head, she turns to adjust the poinsettias on the porch.
A low rumble rolls through the quiet street before I even see him—deep and steady, like the sound of trouble coming.
Luke’s truck turns the corner, that hulking diesel engine pulling the massive silver reindeer trailer behind it. Frost clings to the metal, catching in the morning sun, throwing shards of light across the inn’s front yard.
My heart does an infuriating little flip.
Betrayal. That’s what it is. My own chest betraying me.
