“You two have done enough work the last couple of days, getting the Holly Ball organized,” Trixie argues when we try to force our way behind the table. “Now, shoo. Go have a little fun.”
We meander through the tents, sampling the festive treats, and browsing the wares. Carolers are walking about, singing joyful songs, as families play games and eat all the holiday treats.
Keller and Bran find us, and the four of us pile into the photo booth and make faces at the camera. The result is a hilarious string of black-and-white snaps.
Bran and I share a cup of Hal’s secret-recipe cocoa, and he leads me under every single mistletoe he spots.
At the last one, I am pelted with a snowball in the shoulder.
I turn to see Keller grinning at me.
“Uh-oh,” Bran says before dashing off after Keller, supposedly to defend my honor, but instead of tackling my cousin, he joins forces with him.
I squat to the ground and start scooping snow, packing it into a perfect ball. Then, I stand and take off running, launching it in the air as I give chase.
My snowball makes a precise arc to the intended target when Keller grabs Bran’s sweater and uses him as a human shield.
He yelps and falls backward into the snow, holding his eye and screaming.
Not again.
I freak out and sprint to him and lie in the snow beside him.
“Are you okay?” I ask as I try to remove his hand from his face.
He doesn’t answer. He just tugs me forward, and I fall on top of him. He gives me a devious grin.
“You jerk.”
I try to escape his grip, but he tightens the hold.
“You’re going to have to stop milking it,” I growl.
The intercom announces that the contestants with boat parade entries need to meet at the launch pad, so he releases me, and he and Keller run off to assist Bob.
Willa is stopped by one of her guests, who asks her to be in a few family photos that they have the local photographer snapping for them. I wander off to watch the boats as they begin to fill the shore when snowflakes begin to fall.
I raise my face to the heavens and enjoy the unique beauty of watching snow as it falls from the heavens. I extend my hand and watch as a flake floats down and lands in my palm.
“You should make a wish.”
I look up to see a stocky, older gentleman with a short white beard smiling at me. His head is topped with a red-and-white plaid newsboy cap, and his worn-out black corduroy pants are held up over his long-sleeved white shirt by a set of red suspenders.
“Pardon me?”
“The first time a snowflake lands on your hand, make a wish as fast as you can,” he sings.
“I think that only applies to the first snowflake of winter,” I say.
“Oh, no. That’s a Christmas snowflake you caught. It’s special, and you don’t want to waste its magic,” he says.
“I don’t believe in magic,” I say.
“Just because you don’t believe in it doesn’t mean it isn’t real. What can it hurt to take a chance?”
“I don’t want to be let down,” I say, and the honesty surprises us both.
“I see. You know, Hannah, sometimes, the things we think are wishes that weren’t granted turn out to be exactly what we wanted; the packaging is just different than we expected.”