The Heart of Holly - The Heart of Christmas - First Chapter

Holly Krindle swiped a damp rag across the chipped Formica tabletop, her movements slow and deliberate as she traced circles over the worn surface. She wasn’t really cleaning anymore—she was grounding herself, finding rhythm in the repetition, pretending that the ache beneath her ribs wasn’t still there. Outside the diner’s fogged window, snowflakes twirled lazily down onto the cobblestone streets of Sweetstock, blanketing the quaint little town in a hush of white. The world looked peaceful, untouched, like a postcard sent from a time when life still felt simple. She paused, cloth dangling from her fingers, and pressed her palm against the cold glass. Her breath caught as the sight tugged at her heart—a bittersweet ache that bloomed beneath her ribs. Loss had a strange texture—sharp some days, soft others. Today, it was the kind that whispered instead of shouted, settling deep in her chest where no one could see.

Childhood memories flickered like old film reels: curling up on the sagging couch with her mom and sisters, a bowl of popcorn balanced between them, the glow of the TV painting their faces as they watched those saccharine Christmas romance movies. Her mom’s laughter, warm and bright, had filled the room back then, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she sighed over the predictable happily-ever-afters. “That’s how it was with your dad and me,” she’d say, her voice soft with memory. Holly’s lips curved into a faint smile, but a tear slipped free, tracing a warm path down her cheek. It surprised her every time—that single tear that refused to be contained, as if her heart still hadn’t learned her mother was really gone. Christmas had been her mom’s holiday—her altar of joy, built on sweet stories and the unshakable love she’d shared with Holly’s dad until cancer stole her away five months ago.

Holly blinked hard, swiping the tear away with the back of her hand. Could that kind of love even exist for her? The world felt sharper now, less forgiving than the one her parents had danced through. True romance—storybook romance—seemed to have crumbled into dust somewhere along the way, leaving only fleeting sparks and broken promises in its wake. And yet, a tiny, stubborn part of her refused to let the dream die. Maybe because she’d seen it once—real and fierce—and she couldn’t quite let go of the hope that it might return in some form.

In a few days, her sister Eve would roll into town from college, her suitcase stuffed with textbooks and laundry, staying through the New Year. The rest of the Krindle siblings—scattered like leaves across the map—would trickle in over the holidays, too. It’d be the first Christmas without their mom’s cinnamon rolls rising on the counter, without her humming carols off-key while she strung lights. The thought tightened Holly’s throat. Every holiday tradition now came with an ache attached, a before-and-after etched into everything. At eighteen, barely a month past her birthday and five months shy of high school graduation, she carried more weight than most her age could fathom. While her classmates flirted at bonfires or giggled over milkshakes, Holly had clocked in at the diner since she was sixteen, her paycheck a lifeline for her dad’s mounting bills. She didn’t regret it—not really. Those extra hours had given her stolen moments with her parents, a closeness her older siblings had traded for independence. But some days, the load pressed down until her shoulders sagged, and she wondered if she’d ever catch her breath. Responsibility had a way of wrapping itself around her like a coat that was a size too small—meant to protect her, but always constricting.

Still, Eve’s arrival sparked a flicker of excitement in her chest. Soon, the house would hum with the chaos of the Krindle clan—Jack’s booming laugh, Eve’s teasing jabs, the clatter of dishes as they rallied for their mom’s memory. Holly was determined to make this Christmas flawless, a tribute to the woman who’d lived the season’s spirit year-round. She’d already scribbled out menus in her loopy handwriting—roast turkey with all the trimmings, pecan pie, the works—and mapped a plan to transform the house into a winter wonderland. Lists were her comfort language now. If she could organize the chaos, she could control the ache. Jack would haul in for Wassail weekend, Eve’s fiancé Brad in tow, and together they’d wrestle the decorations down from the attic’s dusty rafters. She could already picture it: Eve stringing garland while Holly piped frosting onto sugar cookies, the air thick with cloves and nostalgia. Her mother’s spirit would linger there, she was sure of it—in the scent of cinnamon, in the flicker of lights, in the laughter that refused to fade.

Her gaze drifted back to the window, to the snow-dusted rooftops and the golden glow spilling from shopfronts along Main Street. Sweetstock was her anchor, its charm woven into her bones. A year ago, the dream had taken root—a gourmet coffee shop, her own little haven of steaming mugs and warm chatter. Just thinking about it filled her with that same kind of warmth—the kind that started in the chest and radiated outward, a spark of purpose she could cling to. She’d watched her siblings flee this place, chasing bigger cities and louder lives, and once she’d dreamed of following. But then she’d cradled her first cup of Ethiopian roast, the rich aroma curling around her like a promise, and she’d known: this town was where she’d build something. Tourists flocked here—Christmas brought Wassail and skiers, summer lured hikers and antique hunters. Her coffee house would thrive, if only she could scrape together the cash. Every spare dime from the diner went into a tin under her bed, but between her mom’s medical debts and her dad’s pinched budget, the pile grew slower than the snow outside. A loan lingered in her mind, a distant hope she’d chase once she could prove she wasn’t just a kid with a dream. She sighed, her breath fogging the glass, and watched a couple duck into the bakery across the street. One day, she’d be the one drawing them in. One day, her place would smell like cinnamon and caramel drizzle, like safety and stories—a place her mother would have loved.

A gentle tap on her shoulder snapped her back to the present. She turned, rag twisting in her hands, to find Katie—her coworker and self-appointed big sister—grinning at her. Katie’s auburn curls bounced as she tilted her head. “Lost in coffee shop land again, huh? Or are you just counting down to your family invasion this weekend?”

Holly chuckled, brushing a strand of chestnut hair from her eyes. “Both, I guess. I’m dying to see Eve, but yeah, the coffee house feels like it’s a million years away.”

Katie propped a hand on her hip, her apron streaked with ketchup. “Girl, slow down. You’re juggling more than a circus clown already. Most girls your age are out chasing boys or sneaking into movies, not plotting world domination via caffeine.”

Holly snorted, shaking her head. “Dating? Please. Nobody’s knocking down my door, and I’ve got zero time for it anyway.” She flashed a playful, exaggerated grin. “I’ve got a future to build, remember?”

Katie’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Oh, I remember. But trust me, the second Mr. Right strolls in, you’ll be penciling him into that master plan of yours.” She winked, dodging the rag Holly tossed her way.

“Not a chance,” Holly called after her, laughter bubbling up as Katie sauntered toward the kitchen. Still, her friend’s words stuck like sugar on her tongue—sweet, a little dangerous. Because deep down, Holly wasn’t sure she’d know what to do if someone like that actually did stroll in.

The bells above the diner door chimed, sharp and sudden. Holly glanced at her watch—4:57 p.m.—and stifled a groan. She was due off at five, and the last thing she needed was a late straggler. Steeling herself, she grabbed a menu and looked up, only to freeze mid-step.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a mop of messy brown hair that grazed his collar, tousled like he’d just run his hands through it. A navy peacoat hugged his frame, dusted with snowflakes that melted into dark spots. Definitely not a local—she’d have remembered a face like that. He had the kind of presence that bent a room’s attention without even trying, and for a moment, the entire diner seemed to hold its breath. His boots scuffed the linoleum as he scanned the room, then settled at the corner table by the window. Holly smoothed her apron, suddenly hyper-aware of the coffee stain on her sleeve, and crossed the floor.

“Good afternoon,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “You can sit anywhere—well, I guess you already did.” She slid the menu across the table, her fingers brushing the edge. “Here you go.”

He looked up, and her breath hitched. His eyes were a deep, startling green, like pine needles after a rain, and they locked onto hers with an intensity that made her cheeks warm. “Thanks,” he said, his voice low and rough around the edges. He held her gaze a beat too long, then blinked, as if catching himself. “I need two dinners to go. What’s good?”

Holly’s mind blanked, drowned in the scent of his cologne—something crisp, like cedar and winter air—and the way his hair fell just so. She swallowed, forcing her thoughts back into line. “Uh, today’s special is meatloaf. Comes with mashed potatoes, green beans, and rolls. Larry, our cook, makes it from scratch—it’s honestly amazing.”

He nodded, handing the menu back without breaking eye contact. “Perfect. My aunt loves meatloaf. Let’s do two of those.”

Aunt. Not girlfriend. Holly’s heart did a stupid little flip as she scribbled the order, her pen digging into the pad. “Got it. I’ll have that right out.” She turned, ticket in hand, and nearly tripped over her own feet as she headed for the kitchen. Sliding the order onto the carousel, she pressed a hand to her chest, willing her pulse to slow. Get it together, Holly. He’s just a guy. A ridiculously good-looking guy with a voice like gravel and eyes she could drown in—but still. She had plans, a future, no room for distractions. Shaking her head, she stole one last glance over her shoulder. He was staring out the window now, chin propped on his hand, and she couldn’t help but wonder who he was—and why Sweetstock had brought him here. Outside, the snow fell thicker, the world beyond the window blurring into white. Somewhere between the silence and the shimmer, something inside Holly shifted—small, quiet, but real. Maybe it was hope. Or maybe, it was the start of something she’d once stopped believing in.