Page 52 of Healing Hearts at the Christmas Inn
"Are you serious?" Jack finally managed.
"Completely." Jane straightened, her chin lifting slightly. "Gran's on board. We have three weeks. It's going to be perfect, Dad. Just like Grandpa used to do it."
Jack opened his mouth to say something. To ask how, when, why, what was she thinking, where would they find the time, the money, the resources. To point out all the reasons this was impossible.
But before he could form any of those questions, Jane was already backing out of the doorway.
"I'll take that as a yes on the ladder," she called over her shoulder. "Love you!"
And then she was gone, her footsteps quick and light down the hallway, leaving Jack sitting alone in the office with his mouth still hanging open.
The Winter Ball.
His daughter, who had barely smiled in two years, who had spent months moving through the inn like a ghost haunting her own life, wanted to host the Winter Ball.
Jack sat back slowly, his mind spinning. The logistics alone were staggering. They'd need to hire staff, arrange catering beyond what Isabella could handle alone, rent tables and chairs, hire musicians, send invitations, coordinate with the town for parking and traffic. The cost would be enormous. The time required would be massive. And they were already stretched so thin that one more thing might break them entirely.
He should have felt panic. Should have felt the weight of one more impossible thing piling onto their already overwhelming load. Should have been calculating how much this would cost,how many hours it would take, how they'd possibly manage it on top of everything else.
Instead, what he felt was something he hadn't felt in a very long time.
Wonder.
Pure, uncomplicated wonder at the sight of his daughter's face, alive with purpose and excitement. At the sound of her voice, bright with determination instead of weighted with grief. At the knowledge that she was planning, dreaming, and believing in something bigger than just getting through another day.
Jack looked around the office, at the antique desk that had belonged to generations of his family members, at the framed photos on the walls that showed decades of holiday celebrations, and at the window that looked out toward the ocean his family had called home for generations.
His father's voice echoed in his memory, warm and certain:"Sometimes, son, you just have to believe in the magic. Especially at Christmas."
Jack had stopped believing in magic somewhere around the time Pamela left, and his business collapsed, and life became about survival instead of joy. He'd forgotten what it felt like to dream, to plan, to hope for something impossible.
But watching Jane's face this morning, seeing that spark return to her eyes, he felt something shift in his chest.
Maybe impossible things were actually possible after all.
Maybe the inn had been waiting for exactly this moment. Waiting for Holly to arrive with her offer of help. Waiting for Logan to push him toward accepting assistance. Waiting forTrinity to give Jane a reason to remember joy. Waiting for all the pieces to fall into place so that something impossible could become real.
Jack stood and moved to the window, looking out at the morning light painting the ocean in shades of gold. In three weeks, if Jane had her way, the ballroom would be full of people again. Music, laughter, and dancing would fill the space that had been silent for ten years. His father's tradition would live again.
And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to save them all.
Jack smiled, surprising himself with how easily it came.
"Alright, Dad," he whispered to the memory of his father, to the inn itself, to whatever force was orchestrating all of this. "Let's see what magic looks like."
Behind him, the office door creaked slightly, as if the building itself was agreeing.
And for the first time in a very long time, Jack Christmas believed in miracles.
16
LOGAN
Logan stood in the inn's hallway, the thick envelope tucked under his arm, and tried to remember the last time his heart had hammered quite this hard over something that wasn't life or death.
This was ridiculous. He was fifty-eight years old, not some stammering teenager about to ask the head cheerleader to prom. Charlie Burke was just a woman. An attorney. Someone who could help with a legal problem.
Except she wasn't just anyone, and that was the problem.
