Our Mistletoe Moments (eBook)

A Christmas Holiday Romance

Shelia A. Flanders (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
436 Seiten
Seahorse Pub (Verlag)
978-0-00-108885-6 (ISBN)

Infos

In the charming small town of Wintervale, artist Elowen Thorne seeks solace after losing her beloved husband, hoping the serene snowy landscape will mend her shattered heart. But when she crosses paths with handsome bakery owner Alaric Hayes, a widower haunted by his own tragic past, an unexpected spark ignites amid twinkling lights and festive cheer. As gingerbread scents fill the air and holiday traditions weave their magic, Elowen and Alaric discover that love can bloom even in the coldest winter. Will they embrace this heartfelt connection and find healing together, or will old wounds keep them apart? This enchanting tale of grief, hope, and rediscovered passion is perfect for fans of cozy small-town romances like those by Debbie Macomber and Jenny Hale. Curl up with hot cocoa and let the spirit of the season warm your soul in this uplifting story of new beginnings.

Textauszug

Prologue

 

The world beyond Elowen's window existed in shades of white and silver.

Snow had fallen through the night—silent, persistent—transforming Wintervale into something between a memory and a dream. Dawn crept over the rooftops with the hesitance of someone entering a stranger's home, painting the sky in watercolor strokes of pink and gold that seemed almost apologetic for disturbing the quiet. Elowen pressed her palm against the cold glass, feeling the chill seep through her skin, grounding her in this moment, in this place that was supposed to be her fresh start.

Three months. That's how long it had been since she'd made the decision to leave everything behind.

The apartment was still mostly boxes. Stacked against walls. Piled in corners. Each one a small monument to a life she'd carefully dismantled, piece by piece, until what remained could fit into the back of a moving truck. She'd labeled them all in her neat, precise handwriting—Kitchen, Books, Studio Supplies—as if organization could somehow make the enormity of what she'd done feel more manageable. As if categories and compartments could contain grief.

Her reflection stared back at her from the window, superimposed over the snow-covered street below. Dark hair pulled into a messy bun. Green eyes that looked too large in her face, shadowed underneath from too many nights of restless sleep. She barely recognized herself anymore. The woman looking back at her seemed like a sketch—all outlines and negative space, waiting for someone to fill in the details.

When did I become so undefined?

The thought arrived unbidden, unwelcome. Elowen turned away from her reflection, wrapping her oversized cardigan tighter around herself. The apartment was cold. She'd meant to figure out the heating system yesterday, but yesterday had slipped away in a fog of unpacking and second-guessing and moments where she'd found herself standing in the middle of a room, a photograph or a coffee mug in her hands, unable to remember what she'd been doing or why.

Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. She ignored it. It would be her mother, checking in again with that careful, worried tone that made Elowen feel like fragile glass. Or maybe Rosemary, her best friend, texting another article about "healthy grieving" or "moving forward after loss," as if healing could be reduced to a listicle, as if there were ten easy steps to becoming whole again.

The coffee maker gurgled to life—the one familiar sound in this unfamiliar space. She'd set it on a timer the night before, a small act of self-care that had felt monumental at the time. See? she'd thought. I'm taking care of myself. I'm functioning. I'm fine.

But standing here now, in the half-light of dawn, fine felt like a word from another language.

Elowen poured coffee into a chipped mug—one of the few things she'd kept from before. The ceramic was warm against her palms. She moved back to the window, drawn to the view despite herself, or maybe because of herself. The street below remained empty, pristine. No footprints yet to mar the fresh snow. No evidence that anyone else existed in this moment except her.

She thought about David.

Not intentionally. She'd gotten good at redirecting her thoughts, at building walls around certain memories, at keeping the grief contained. But sometimes—in the quiet moments, in the spaces between sleep and waking—he slipped through anyway.

David, who had loved her with an intensity that had both terrified and thrilled her. David, who had known exactly which music to play when she was painting, who had understood that sometimes she needed silence more than conversation, who had made her laugh even on the days when the art wasn't flowing and she felt like a fraud. David, who had been driving home from the gallery opening—her gallery opening—when the truck ran the red light.

Two years ago. Seven hundred and thirty-three days, if she was counting. Which she wasn't. Mostly.

The grief therapist in the city—the one she'd seen for six months before deciding that talking about it wasn't actually helping—had told her that moving away wasn't running away, that sometimes a change of environment could facilitate healing. Elowen wasn't sure she believed that. But she also wasn't sure what else to do. The apartment in the city had become a mausoleum. Every corner held a ghost. Every sound echoed with absence.

So she'd researched small towns. Places where people knew their neighbors. Places with low crime rates and good coffee shops and something approximating community. Wintervale had appeared on her screen late one night, when insomnia and desperation had combined into a kind of reckless clarity. A town in upstate New York, small enough to feel intimate but large enough to not be suffocating. Known for its Christmas celebrations and arts community. Affordable rent. Good schools, though that didn't matter to her anymore—would never matter to her in the way she'd once imagined it might.

She'd applied for the artist residency at the Wintervale Cultural Center on a whim. Had been genuinely surprised when they'd accepted her proposal. Six months to create a new body of work, with studio space provided and a small stipend that wouldn't cover all her expenses but would help. Six months to figure out who Elowen Thorne was when she wasn't David's wife, wasn't the promising young artist whose career had stalled after tragedy, wasn't the woman everyone looked at with that mixture of pity and discomfort that made her want to disappear.

Six months to become someone new. Or maybe to remember who she'd been before.

The sky was lighter now, the sun climbing higher though it remained hidden behind a veil of clouds. Elowen finished her coffee and set the mug in the empty sink. She should eat something. Should probably shower. Should definitely unpack more boxes. The list of things she should do felt endless, overwhelming.

Instead, she pulled on her boots—still damp from yesterday's walk—and grabbed her coat from the hook by the door. The key felt foreign in her hand, the simple act of locking an apartment door both mundane and significant. This was hers now. This space. This life. This chance.

The cold hit her immediately, sharp and clean. Elowen breathed it in, letting it fill her lungs, letting it wake something in her that had been dormant. The street stretched before her, a blank canvas of white. For a moment, she hesitated at the threshold of her building, one foot on the step, one hand on the railing.

I've been living in the shadows of the past for too long.

The thought arrived with unexpected clarity, cutting through the fog that had become her constant companion. She could feel it—something shifting, something loosening in her chest. Not healing, not yet. But maybe the beginning of a willingness to heal.

Maybe it's time to step into the light again.

Elowen descended the steps carefully, her boots crunching in the snow. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the stillness, announcing her presence, marking her passage. She left footprints behind her, a trail leading from her doorway to the sidewalk, evidence that she existed, that she was moving, that she was here.

Main Street unfolded before her like a postcard someone might send with the words "Wish you were here" scrawled on the back. Brick buildings lined both sides, their facades decorated with wreaths and garlands even though Christmas was still two months away. Apparently Wintervale took its holiday reputation seriously. String lights hung between lampposts, dark now but clearly waiting for evening to transform the street into something magical.

The town was beginning to wake. Lights flickered on in shop windows. A car drove past slowly, cautiously navigating the snow-slicked road. Someone in a puffy jacket emerged from the bakery three doors down, carrying what looked like a pastry box, their breath visible in small clouds.

Elowen walked without destination, letting her feet choose the path. Past the used bookstore with its crowded window display. Past the antique shop that seemed to specialize in Victorian-era curiosities. Past the small park where benches sat half-buried in snow and a gazebo stood like a wedding cake decoration in the center.

Everything felt both foreign and strangely comforting. This wasn't her city, with its aggressive energy and constant noise and the way loneliness could feel even more acute in a crowd of thousands. This was different. Slower. Gentler. Like the world had agreed to turn down the volume, to give her space to hear herself think.

She turned a corner and found herself on a narrower street lined with houses painted in cheerful colors—yellow and blue and soft green. Smoke curled from chimneys. Children's toys lay abandoned in yards, half-covered by snow. A dog barked somewhere, muffled and distant.

A small shop appeared ahead, its windows glowing warmly. The sign above the door read "The Cozy Cup" in script that looked hand-painted. Elowen's stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten, and almost without conscious decision, she found herself pushing open the door.

Warmth enveloped her immediately, along with the scent of fresh bread and cinnamon and something rich and chocolatey. The interior was exactly what the name promised—cozy. Mismatched furniture arranged in intimate groupings. Bookshelves lined one wall, stuffed with paperbacks that looked well-loved and frequently borrowed. A fireplace crackled in the corner, casting dancing shadows.

"Good morning!" The voice came from behind the counter—a woman in her sixties with silver hair and a smile that crinkled the corners of her...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 25.10.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-108885-8 / 0001088858
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-108885-6 / 9780001088856