Page 11 of Healing Hearts at the Christmas Inn
"Mr. Christmas, I understand your position." The bank manager's tone carried that careful balance of sympathy and firmness that came from years of delivering bad news. "But the extension we granted you in August is coming to an end. We need to see significant progress on the outstanding balance by the end of December, or we'll have no choice but to move forward with foreclosure proceedings."
Jack's jaw tightened. He turned away from the window and paced across the worn floorboards of his office, past the filing cabinets stuffed with decades of invoices and booking records, past the bookshelf lined with architectural journals and old family photo albums. "The holiday season is our busiest time of year. The Nights of Lights festival brings in tourists from all over the country. We're already seeing an uptick in reservations. If you could just give us until February?—"
"I'm afraid that's not possible." The manager paused, and Jack heard the rustle of papers on the other end. "Mr. Christmas, I should also inform you that we've had interest from a development company. They're prepared to purchase the inn's debt and handle the property directly."
The words hit Jack like a punch to the gut. His hand tightened around the phone, knuckles going white. "A developer."
"Yes. I can't share specifics at this time, but they've made a very competitive offer. If the situation doesn't improve by year's end, the bank will likely accept their proposal."
Jack closed his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. The inn. His grandfather's legacy. The place where three generations of the Christmas family had poured their hearts, their sweat, their entire lives. Reduced to a line item on some developer's spreadsheet.
"I understand," Jack said quietly. "Thank you for the call."
He ended it before the manager could offer any more hollow sympathies and set the phone down on his desk with more force than he intended. The sound echoed through the small office, sharp and final.
For a moment, he just stood there, staring at nothing.
The inn had been in his family since 1899. His great-great-grandfather had built it with his own hands, using timber from the mainland and coquina stone quarried from the island itself. Every beam, every floorboard, every window had a story. His grandfather had expanded it in the twenties, adding the east wing and the wraparound porch that overlooked the ocean. His father had modernized the plumbing and electrical systems in the sixties, fought to get the inn listed on the National Register of Historic Places in the eighties.
And now Jack was going to be the one who lost it.
He moved back to the window, bracing his hands against the sill, and stared out at the water. The sky was heavy with clouds, the kind that promised rain before nightfall. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and mournful. Down on the beach, a couple walked hand in hand, their figures small against the vastness of the shore.
A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.
"Dad?"
Jack turned to see Jane standing in the doorway, a tray of decorations balanced on one hip. Garland, ornaments, a tangle of fairy lights that hadn't been sorted yet. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and there were smudges of gold paint on her hands. She looked tired. Thinner than she'd been a year ago. But her eyes, those deep blue eyes she'd inherited from him, held a flicker of something that might have been hope.
"Hey, sweetheart." He managed a smile. "What've you got there?"
"Decorations for the dining room." She shifted the tray, studying his face with the same careful attention she'd had since she was a little girl. "You okay?"
"Fine." The lie came too easily. "Just a long morning."
Jane didn't look convinced, but she nodded and offered him a small, worried smile. "Gran's asking if you want tea. She's in the kitchen with Isabella."
"Tell her I'll be there in a minute."
Jane hesitated, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer, then disappeared down the hallway. Jack heard her footsteps fade, followed by the distant murmur of voices and the clatter of pots from the kitchen.
He should go. Should reassure his mother, help Jane with the decorations, and check on the construction progress. But he couldn't make himself move. The weight of it all pressed down on him like a physical thing, heavy and suffocating.
The phone rang again.
Jack stared at it for a moment, debating whether to let it go to voicemail. Then he sighed and picked it up. "Christmas Inn, this is Jack."
"Jack Christmas, the man who never sleeps." Logan Miller's voice came through the line, warm and teasing. "You sound like someone just told you Christmas was cancelled."
Despite everything, Jack felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. "Logan. What's up?"
"Can't a guy call his best friend without needing a reason?" Logan paused. "Okay, fine. I need a reason. I'm bored out of mymind in Tampa, and I figured I'd come down for the holidays. Help you out with the renovations. Drink some beer. Annoy you relentlessly."
Jack leaned back against the desk, crossing one ankle over the other. "You're already annoying me, and you're not even here yet."
"That's the spirit." Logan's tone shifted, growing more serious. "How are things, really? Jane mentioned you've been stressed."
Jack hesitated. Logan had been his best friend since high school, the kind of friend who showed up when you needed him without being asked. But pride was a stubborn thing, and admitting how bad things had gotten felt like failure.
