The Midnight Carousel
(A Forest Falls Frolic)
By Hanna Park
Belle Stanhope had plans. Good plans. Practical plans.
None of them involved Hudson Carver.
The florist with the crooked smile had become a distraction she neither wanted nor could avoid. Which was inconvenient, considering the Pretty River Inn and the upcoming bachelor auction left little room for distractions.
For years, Hudson had been content with the life he'd built beneath Christmas Mountain. His flower shop, his workshop, and the friends who had become family were more than he'd ever expected. Then he met Belle Stanhope.
As Christmas approaches, the carousel's calliope sings off-key, and the old magic he'd left behind stirs once more. The life he'd built and the life he wants are no longer the same.
In Forest Falls, wishes have a way of finding the people who need them most.
Excerpt
Nana Iris adjusted enormous round glasses farther up her nose before studying me over the edge of a chipped ceramic teacup painted with tiny mushrooms. “You smell like cedar and poor decisions.”
I should have been offended. I pointed at her over the top of my scarf. "Oh, absolutely not."
A slow smile curved her mouth beneath her silver braid. Nana blew gently across her tea. “So it’s serious.”
"We're not discussing this."
Mistletoe leapt into Nana Iris’s lap and betrayed me by purring.
Nana Iris wore a long patchwork cardigan over flowing skirts, layered with wool socks and battered combat boots that she claimed were “energetically grounding.” Several silver rings glittered on her fingers while candles flickered around the room beside bowls of dried oranges, cinnamon sticks, and evergreen clippings collected for what she vaguely referred to as “seasonal intentions.”
“You’re home late.” Her eyebrows lifted.
“I was skating.”
“With the tragic winter florist.”
That landed harder than it should have.
She made a thoughtful humming sound into her tea. "You look for him."
I couldn't even argue.
"That's different."
“Belle.” She gestured toward my face. “You look exactly the way your grandfather did before he proposed. God help us all.”
"I hate it here."
Nana smiled into her tea. "No, sweetheart. You hate being seen."
In that, she was correct.
I grabbed her mug and retreated toward the kitchen before she could continue emotionally terrorizing me, while Mistletoe followed behind, screaming for attention.
Outside, the carousel’s tune drifted beneath the storm-dark sky. Wrong. Not wrong exactly. Just… different.
The kettle hissed to life as Nana Iris called from the living room. “The old music’s restless tonight.”
Nana Iris sat beside the fireplace, turning over tarot cards, candlelight flickering across her weathered hands.
“What does that mean?”
She lifted one shoulder. “Means the snow is listening.”
“That is not remotely a real answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Which sounded irritatingly plausible coming from Nana Iris.
I carried two mugs of tea back into the living room and curled into the opposite end of the sofa. Mistletoe immediately abandoned Nana Iris in favor of sprawling in drama queen fashion across my legs.
“Faithless creature,” Nana Iris informed the cat.
Mistletoe blinked without remorse.
The house settled around us, snow brushing against the windows. Nana Iris said nothing while she rearranged her tarot cards beside bowls of polished stones and drying cedar branches.
After a long moment… “Did he kiss you?”
I nearly dropped my mug. “No!”
“Hm.”
“That is not a comforting response.”
Nana Iris studied me over the rim of her mug. “Did he want to?”
The question sat there with uncomfortable accuracy. That was the problem. I didn't wonder whether he wanted to kiss me. I wondered why he hadn't. Hudson stood beneath the porch light, snow drifting through his dark hair, his hand lifting toward my face. The way his eyes had dropped toward my mouth before something in his expression changed. Then he'd stepped back. Leaving me standing on my own porch, trying very hard not to feel disappointed.
Nana Iris’s expression softened. “Oh,” she murmured.
I frowned into my tea. “What?”
“That boy carries loneliness around like a second coat.”
The certainty in her voice startled me. Once she'd said it, I couldn't unsee it. The irritating part was that I knew exactly what she meant.
“You barely know him.” I met her gaze.
“I know sad eyes when I see them.”
The carousel music shifted again. This time Nana Iris’s fingers stilled against the tarot deck.
I set my mug on the coffee table. “You hear it too.”
“Mm.” She reached for her tea, her gaze drifting toward the darkened windows overlooking the street. “That’s probably not ideal.”
“That’s deeply concerning, Nana.”
“It’s December.” She waved one hand in the air. “The magic always gets dramatic around Christmas.”
I stared at her. “You cannot keep saying things like that casually.”
“Of course I can. I’m old.”
“Hmm.” I laughed.
While the little house creaked around us and candlelight flickered across the walls, Mistletoe purred against my legs, and Nana Iris resumed turning tarot cards beside the fire like discussing magical carousel music at midnight was entirely ordinary behavior.
“You work too hard.” Nana Iris looked up, gathering the cards slowly into a velvet pouch.
“Occupational hazard.”
“No.” Her gaze met mine. “Survival habit.”
“No. I have a job. Responsibilities.”
“You spent too many years believing love had to be earned through usefulness,” she said in a quiet voice.
I stared into my tea. “That’s very therapy-speak for a woman who keeps rosemary under her mattress.”
“Protection herb.”
“Against what?”
“Men mostly.”
Given recent events, I couldn't entirely dismiss the possibility. I tucked my hair behind my ear.
Nana Iris’s expression softened. “Your parents taught you how to perform perfection. Not how to rest inside affection.”
Glass penthouses. Charity galas. My mother correcting the way I held a champagne glass before I was old enough to drink from it. My father remembering appearances but forgetting birthdays. By the time the lawyers finished dividing houses, investment portfolios, and carefully curated reputations, neither of them seemed quite sure what to do with me.
Nana Iris had simply opened the front door one summer and said, "You can stay as long as you like, sweetheart."
So I had.
Forest Falls had stitched me back together with snowfall and bakery mornings and Christmas lights and people who still made eye contact when they spoke to you. Not perfectly. Then again, neither was anyone worth knowing.
I suddenly became very interested in my tea.
Nana Iris reached over and squeezed my hand gently. “You don’t always have to be useful to deserve being loved.”
I looked down quickly before Nana Iris noticed. Unfortunately, she noticed everything.
“Well,” she rose with a soft groan while gathering her tarot cards against her chest. “I’m going to bed before the universe becomes any more emotionally inconvenient.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yes, but lovingly.” She leaned down to kiss the top of my head before disappearing toward the staircase. Halfway up the stairs, she paused. Without turning around, she said quietly, “Don’t wait too long to choose joy, sweetheart.” Then she continued upstairs while the old house creaked beneath her.
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