CHAPTER ONE
December, being the last month of the year, cannot help but make us think of what is to come.
—FENNEL HUDSON
What they don’t tell you about becoming a mother is how hard you fall. And you do fall hard. Of course, Mercy Carr knew she’d love her baby—everybody loves their baby—but the depth and fierceness of the love she felt for little Felicity surprised her. All-encompassing, completely consuming, entirely irrevocable.
For the first time, she understood how those mothers you heard about—you know, the ones who lifted two-ton automobiles to save their children pinned underneath—summoned the inhuman strength to do what needed to be done. These were mothers who would do anything for their children. Just as she would do anything for hers.
Which is why on the longest night of the year Mercy found herself standing in front of the Northshire Town Hall in a long line of moms and kids waiting for Santa Claus, her nine-month-old baby, Felicity, balanced on her hip, her steadfast dog, Elvis, at her side.
They stood about ten feet from the steps of the magnificent Greek Revival building, Felicity’s bright blue eyes on St. Nick, Mercy and Elvis surveying the crowd. It seemed like the whole county was here on the common tonight, along with legions of out-of-towners in for a picture-perfect Christmas market on a picture-perfect holiday in a picture-perfect New England village.
Felicity wanted to see Santa Claus. Giggling, she pointed her pudgy little mittened hand toward the man in the long white beard, someone else’s child on his lap. This baby boy looked to be about Felicity’s age, but he was not happy. He shrieked like only a baby can shriek while his poor mother tried to snap the obligatory photograph, capturing the big moment for posterity: Baby Screams While Santa Smiles.
Elvis pricked his ears at the wailing. The Belgian Shepherd stood alert, his triangular ears perked, his eyes scanning the throng, his nose touching Mercy’s hand under her baby’s bottom. He’d always been protective of Mercy, but now that protectiveness included her daughter as well.
“This is supposed to be fun, you know.” Amy turned toward Mercy, her four-year-old mini-me daughter, Helena, pulling at her parka. Two gray-eyed blond peas in a pod.
“Right.” Mercy’s idea of fun was being home at Grackle Tree Farm, caring for Felicity. She was endlessly fascinated with every moment of her baby’s every move. Every day brought a bright new discovery: first smile, first tooth, first Mama. She was still waiting for that first Mama.
“Come on, Mommy!” Helena bounced up and down on her toes in excitement. “We’re almost there!”
Amy and Helena, who lived in the guesthouse on Mercy and Troy’s property, were like family. Amy, who’d had Helena when she was only a kid herself, had taught Mercy a lot about what it means to be a good mom—and apparently dragging your kid out in the cold to see a man in a faux beard and belly was part of that.
“Not,” said Mercy.
Amy laughed. “Being a mom is all about lines. You’ll get used to it.”
“I know all about lines. In the army, you line up for everything. Drill, chow, latrine. I never got used to it.” She’d thought she was done with lines when she left the service. One more way in which motherhood was proving to be more like the military than she’d ever imagined.
“You have to admit it’s festive,” said Amy, her gray eyes taking in the merriment all around them. “Pretty.”
“Pretty,” conceded Mercy.
And it was pretty. Northshire did December right: candles gleaming in the windows of its lovely Colonial and Federal-era houses, fir wreaths tied with red bows bedecking every door, pine boughs trimmed in red ribbon wrapping every streetlamp as prettily as presents under a Christmas tree.
And the lights! Miles and miles and miles of white lights crisscrossed the streets, twinkled in the branches of bare trees and evergreens alike, and brightened the shops and restaurants along Main Street. The starry effect was especially dazzling here at the Christmas market on the common, where shining paths led from one little chalet-style booth to the next, all strung with lights, lights, and more lights.
When it came to illumination, their little village did the wonder of winter lights proud. Mother Nature appeared to agree, dusting the village earlier that day with a new blanket of fresh snow that reflected the glow of all that radiance. Now the sky was clear and the crisp winter air was rich with the scent of roasting chestnuts and hot chocolate and fried dough. It was cold, below freezing, but the freestanding heaters placed at intervals along the pathways gave visitors a place to huddle and warm up when they grew too chilled.
“I think Northshire is the best place in the world to be this time of year.” Amy smiled, leaning in toward Mercy. “Come on, you have to love the Solstice Soirée.”
The Solstice Soirée was the village’s official holiday countdown, twelve days of eating, drinking, and making merry, beginning on the winter solstice and continuing through Hanukkah and Kwanzaa and Christmas right on to New Year’s Day. An ecumenical approach to the holy season, encompassing all manner of traditions. Starting with tonight and the Druids’ bonfire.
“I do like a good bonfire,” said Mercy, even though in truth what she liked most about this Solstice Soirée so far was the snow. She gazed up at the town hall’s grand Palladiun windows glowing in light and greenery, wishing that she were back at Grackle Tree Farm with her husband, Troy, and Felicity. But it was trapping season, and game wardens like Troy were out patrolling the woods, making sure hunters and trappers followed the rules—and on the lookout for poachers. Her husband wasn’t home anyway, so she might as well be here, giving her infant daughter the childish pleasure of a visit with Santa.
Felicity giggled again, and Mercy giggled along with her. Her baby was loving this, and so she was loving it, too. Lines and crowds and all.
A big gap formed in the line as one tired mother with several restless kids in tow gave up on the long wait and ushered her brood toward the gingerbread chalet. Mercy would have loved to go with them, but instead she said a quiet prayer of thanks.
Helena raced ahead and the rest of them followed, tightening up the line.
“We’re up next,” said Amy, stepping onto the low stairs of the narrow stone porch that fronted the town hall.
In the middle of the porch, framed by massive stone columns, Santa Claus held court in a tall red velvet chair flanked by two elves. One of the elves looked very familiar.
“Tell me that’s not Tandie.”
Tandie was Mercy’s sixteen-year-old cousin; she’d come to live with them before the baby was born after getting kicked out of yet another boarding school. As far as Mercy was concerned, it was the school’s loss and their gain.
“Yes, doesn’t she look cute?” Amy and Helena waved at Tandie and she waved back, far less enthusiastically.
The elves were wearing the quintessential green-and-red costume with the pointy shoes and hat. With her pink hair and piercings, Tandie lent the ensemble a decidedly punk look.
“Tandie is the Number One Elf,” said little Helena proudly.
Mercy laughed. “I can’t believe she’d be seen in public in that outfit.” She kissed the top of her baby’s head.
“I think ‘Over my dead body’ is what she said.” Amy laughed, too. “But when one of the elves called in sick, your mother asked her to sub for her.”
That explained it. Mercy’s mother, Grace, was the Solstice Soirée’s committee chair this year, and no one said no to Grace. Except for Mercy, and now that she was a mother herself, she found herself far less likely to refuse her own mother—and even agreeing with her more often than not. A sobering phenomenon.
She smiled at Tandie, then frowned as she got a closer look at St. Nick himself. “That’s not the real Santa.” This Santa was too tall and too skinny and too timid. His smile was forced and his laugh was more of a whine and his belly did not shake like a bowlful of jelly. “Where’s Pizza Bob?”
“They had to get a new Santa,” said Amy.
“What? Why?” Pizza Bob, beloved owner and proprietor of Northshire’s premier pizza joint, had been the town’s Santa Claus for as long as Mercy could remember.
“Family emergency. Pizza Bob’s grandmother is sick.”
“Oh no. Poor Pizza Bob.” Mercy frowned. “So who is this guy?”
Copyright © 2025 by Paula Munier
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