Christmas Lights and Small-Town Nights
I never thought in a million years I’d find myself standing in the middle of Main Street again, holding a spool of electrical wire while snow drifted through the air like ash. The cold here has a different kind of bite: dry, mineral, carrying the smell of coal dust even though the last mine shut down decades ago. Somehow, the air remembers what we had tried to forget.
Carol stood just ten feet away, her gloved hands busy testing bulbs along the string of Christmas lights that would be draped across the coal-drop platform. She was half-laughing, half-sighing as every third bulb flickered out. “These damn things are older than I am,” she muttered, shaking the wire. “If we get half of them to work, it’ll be a Christmas miracle.”
“Pretty sure that’s not how miracles work,” I said.
She gave me a look: that dry, almost teasing sort of look that said she’d been up since dawn but wasn’t about to complain. “Around here it is.”
We were part of a ragtag crew of six volunteers: a few retirees, the mayor’s nephew, and a high school kid who clearly wished she were anywhere else. The Coal Drop rig loomed over us like some relic of industry and stubborn tradition. On New Year’s Eve, they’d lower a glowing chunk of coal from the tower: Ashford Hollow’s answer to the Times Square ball. It was small-town charm with a side of rust and frostbite. Plus some damn fine hot cocoa.
The day stretched on. Snow collected on our hats, in our boots. I found myself watching Carol more than I should’ve..but the way she laughed with the older volunteers, how she paused to check her phone only to sigh softly before tucking it back into her coat. Probably checking on Jade. It was all too much in exactly the right way.
When we finally called it for the afternoon, she turned to me. “Hey, before you head out, I’ve got a step at the apartment that’s loose. I keep forgetting to fix it, and Jade nearly went flying off it last week. If you’re not busy…”
“To protect Jade, you know I’m not,” I said too quickly. “I’ll swing by.”
Her smile was small, grateful. “You sure? I don’t want to rope you into handyman duty.”
“Trust me,” I said, brushing the snow off my coat. “I could use something to do besides staring at Mom’s medication schedule.”
Her apartment was on the second floor of an old brick duplex just off the main drag. It smelled faintly of cinnamon and laundry detergent. The living room was small but cozy: a tree in the corner, lopsided but brightly decorated with paper ornaments and strings of popcorn. Jade was sprawled on the floor, coloring something that looked like a dragon wearing a Santa hat.
“David Jones,” she said without looking up. “Mom says you’re good at fixing things.”
“That’s what she tells people,” I said, setting down my tool bag. “We’ll see if her theory holds true.”
Carol laughed quietly and gestured toward the front step. “It’s the bottom one…it wobbles when you step on it. I keep meaning to borrow a drill from work, but…” She trailed off, shrugging.
“Say no more.” I crouched, testing the board. The wood groaned under pressure, but the fix was simple enough. I pried it up, tightened a few screws, and replaced it solidly. “There,” I said after a few minutes, “safe as new.”
“Impressive,” she said. “How much do I owe you?”
“Cup of tea?” I said before I thought twice about it.
She grinned. “I can do better than that.”
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting at her kitchen table with a mug of cocoa that smelled like heaven. Jade had joined us, carefully spreading cookies out on a tray. “We were gonna decorate them tonight,” she said, glancing at her mom. “You can help if you want.”
“I’m not much of a decorator, more of a maker.” I said. “Last time I tried to ice cookies, they looked like crime scenes.”
“That’s okay,” she said seriously. “Mine look like mistakes.”
Carol shot me a look over her mug…that mix of amusement and gratitude that makes a person’s chest tighten unexpectedly. “You’re welcome to stay for a bit,” she said softly. “Jade likes the company.”
I could’ve left. I should’ve left. But instead, I rolled up my sleeves and took a seat at the counter beside Jade.
She handed me a snowman-shaped cookie and a plastic knife. “You do the icing. I’ll do the sprinkles.”
“Deal.”
For the next half hour, we worked in companionable silence broken only by Christmas music from a small radio. Jade talked about her school’s pageant, about how she was supposed to be a reindeer but secretly wanted to be a narrator instead. Carol chimed in now and then, teasing gently, her voice light. The kind of warmth that fills a house and makes you forget how cold the world is outside those walls.
When the tray was full of misshapen but proudly decorated cookies, Jade leaned back in her chair. “These are good,” she said, mouth full. “Even yours, David.”
“High praise,” I said.
“Indeed.” Carol laughed the sound was soft, genuine. “See? You’ve still got it.”
I smiled, but something inside me ached. I hadn’t realized how long it’d been since I’d sat in a room like this, feeling like I belonged somewhere. Not since before everything with Regan. Not since before the surgeries, the months on painkillers, the long silences that followed all of it.
“Mom,” Jade said suddenly, licking the excessive amount of frosting from her finger. “Can David come to the Coal Drop with us?”
“Jade…” Carol started, but I raised a hand.
“It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll see. I might still be helping out that night.” Not wanting Jade to be turned down, or maybe not wanting the sting of rejection.
“Well,” Jade said, clearly undeterred, “you should come anyway. It’s better than standing around by yourself.”
I smiled faintly. “You make a good point.”
When she left the table to rinse her hands, Carol leaned forward slightly. “She doesn’t open up to people much,” she said quietly. “It’s good to see her talking like that.”
“She’s a good kid,” I said. “You’ve done a hell of a job with her.”
Carol’s eyes flickered, was it pride, exhaustion, maybe a little sadness? “I try,” she said. “Some days are better than others.”
The silence between us stretched, comfortable but charged. I wanted to tell her she didn’t have to do it all alone, that I saw the strength in her even when she didn’t. But that would’ve crossed a line one I wasn’t ready to name yet. One I hadn’t earned the right to cross yet.
Instead, I stood and rinsed my mug. “Thanks for the cocoa,” I said. “And the cookies. You’ve officially ruined me for diner desserts, well except the shoefly pie”
She smiled. “Anytime, David.”
The walk home was quiet. Snow fell heavier still, thick flakes that softened the edges of the streetlights. The whole town seemed to exhale all at once: no traffic, no voices, just the faint creak of trees under the weight of winter. My boots crunched in rhythm with my thoughts.
Ashford Hollow hadn’t changed, but somehow it didn’t feel like the enemy anymore. Maybe it was the cocoa, or the laughter, or the way Jade’s eyes lit up when she got something right. Or maybe it was Carol, the steadiness in her, the way she seemed to move through the world like she was holding everything together with quiet strength. But it was something, that much he knew.
I stopped about halfway up the block, looking back at the glow from her apartment window. For a second, I saw them both silhouetted against the curtains: Carol cleaning up, Jade still bouncing around, probably arguing about which cookie to save for breakfast. It was a simple scene, almost painfully ordinary.
And that’s what made it hurt.
Because I wanted it. Not them, well not exactly, not yet anyway, but the feeling of it. The warmth, the ease, the sense that life could still be good in small, quiet ways. After everything that had broken, that kind of peace felt dangerous. Fragile. Knowing those edges could be filed down to no longer be painful, it was a healing thought.
I shoved my hands deeper into my coat pockets and kept walking, breath fogging the air.
By the time I reached my mother’s house, the lights inside were off. I stood on the porch for a moment, listening to the wind move through the empty street. Somewhere, Christmas music drifted faintly from a neighbor’s radio.
It should’ve felt like coming home.
But instead, it felt like standing on the edge of something I didn’t quite trust yet: something that would change me or break me all over again.
