Page 19 of Love in a Christmas Storm
Lettie reminded me. She reminded me that Christmas isn’t about perfection—it’s about intention. That the magic of the season isn’t manufactured—it’s inherited. Built slowly, lovingly, by people who dared to believe in something bigger than themselves.
She stopped scrolling. Carlos hadn’t written about the Holiday Trail. He’d written about her. Not the snarky journalist. Not the legacy name. Her.
This magazine was started by her family. Their joy. Their traditions. Their grit.
And now, thanks to Lettie, I finally understand what they were building all along.
Something not just merry—but meaningful. Not just cozy—but courageous.
Because it takes courage to care. To question. To stay.
I’m a better man because of her.
Her laptop screen blurred again, and this time she let the tears fall. In another tab, she had the means to expose everything. To prove she couldn’t be fooled by holiday charm or a crooked smile. And instead, someone had written her story like it mattered.
Like she mattered.
From now on,Noel Magazinewill include:
– A Stocking Stuffer of the Month column
– A Monthly Hot Cocoa Recipe Spread
– An Annual Ugly Sweater Fashion Guide
Because this is a magazine built on legacy. But it’s also built on evolution.
Thank you, Lettie—for showing me how to honor both.
And for reminding me that the Noel in all of us… is worth celebrating.
The cursor blinked in the corner of her own article. Instead of hitting submit, Lettie closed the tab. Her story could wait. Because maybe there was still time to write a better ending to the one she left unfinished a few days ago in Honor Valley.
Carlos had seen her. Not just the woman behind the byline. Not just the keeper of a crumbling legacy. He’d seenher. And if he had the courage to say all that in front of the world… maybe she could find the courage to do something about it.
Lettie scrambled off the couch, grabbed the first sweater and jeans she could find, tugged her boots on without socks, and rushed toward the door. When she flung it open, the last thing she expected was to see her parents standing on the porch.
Her father was brushing snow off his shoulders mid-sentence. “—told you we should’ve turned left at the gas station with the moose?—”
“It was not a moose, Abraham,” her mother huffed, half-laughing. “It was a cow with a Santa hat. They don’t even have moose in this part of the state.”
“Mom? Dad?”
Bethany and Abraham Noel looked up together at her voice. Identical grins broke across their faces.
“There’s our Christmas girl!” Her dad beamed.
Before Lettie could move, they surged forward and wrapped her in a bear hug that smelled like peppermint and gingerbread and the faintest hint of clove—the exact scent of her childhoodDecembers. Her mother’s wool coat was dusted with snow, and her father’s scarf still held the warmth of travel.
For a moment, Lettie didn’t say anything. She just held on. Tighter than she’d dared to in years.
Her dad gave her a squeeze. “You okay, sweetheart?”
“Y-yeah,” Lettie whispered, voice thick. “I just… What are you two doing here?”
Her mother leaned back and looked at her like the answer was obvious. “We were invited. Didn’t you get your invitation?Noel Magazine’sthrowing a Christmas party tonight. The invitation said we were honored guests.”
Lettie stared at them, her eyes stinging again—this time not with grief, but with something dangerously close to joy.
