Day One – Biltmore at Christmas
Snowflakes were already drifting down when Kelley and Scott turned off the main road and onto the long, winding drive that led to the Biltmore Estate. The rental car’s wipers swished slowly, pushing away powdery flakes that caught the light of the headlamps like tiny falling stars. Pines and bare-branched oaks lined the road, their limbs crusted in white, and every few yards a lamppost glowed with a wreath and a fat red bow.
“Okay,” Scott said, leaning forward over the steering wheel. “If this place isn’t secretly Hogwarts’ southern campus, I’m asking for a refund.”
Kelley grinned, pressing her gloved hand to the window. “Pretty sure Hogwarts doesn’t have a winery gift shop.”
“Then this is clearly the superior school.”
The road curved one last time, and there it was.
The Biltmore rose out of the snowy dark like something out of a storybook—stone turrets and steep roofs, its hundreds of windows glowing warm gold. A massive Christmas tree stood in the front courtyard, its branches layered in white lights and glimmering ornaments that winked even through the falling snow. Smaller trees ringed the big one like loyal soldiers, each one wrapped in lights that reflected on the icy cobblestones.
“Whoa,” Scott said softly, easing the car into a parking spot. “Okay. That’s…a bit extra.”
Kelley laughed. “Says the man who once tried to put synchronized lights on a five-foot apartment tree.”
“That was art. This is…okay, this is also art.” He waved a hand at the mansion. “Just with a much bigger budget.”
They joined the cluster of visitors moving toward the grand entry, boots crunching in the snow. Families bustled past them, kids bundled like colorful marshmallows, one little boy dragging a sled behind him “just in case” the hill near the parking lot turned out to be good. Somewhere off to the side, a horse-drawn carriage jingled by, the horses’ breath puffing in white clouds.
Kelley slipped her arm through Scott’s. The air smelled like cold stone, pine, and the faint scorch of woodsmoke. “This is ridiculous,” she murmured, though her voice was full of delight.
“You love ridiculous,” he said. “You’re with me.”
“Exactly.”
Inside, the warmth hit them in a soft rush, tinged with cinnamon and something buttery that might have been cookies. A massive garland framed the doorway, thick with pinecones, glass ornaments, and golden ribbons that trailed down like comets. They checked in with their timed tour group and were given small audio devices, but Kelley tucked hers into her pocket; she preferred to listen to the creak of floors and the murmur of people instead of the polite recorded narration.
Their group drifted into the first big room—a cavernous hall lined with carved stone and crowned by a ceiling that seemed to hover in the shadows. At one end, an enormous fireplace dominated the wall, its mantle a sculpted parade of figures and vines. Three separate hearths yawned beneath it, each with its own cheerful fire crackling and tossing sparks up the flues. Evergreen garlands draped along the mantle, studded with white lights and glass icicles that caught the flames’ glow.
“Remember when we thought hanging one string of lights across our TV was ‘festive’?” Scott whispered.
Kelley elbowed him gently. “Shh. The Christmas gods can hear you.”
They moved with the group through the hall. Everywhere she looked there was another tree: tall, slender ones flanking doorways, fat ones balancing in corners, a tiny one perched on a carved table, its ornaments no bigger than thimbles. Ribbons streamed from their tops; delicate white doves nestled in the branches. On the polished floor, the reflections of branches and lights shimmered with every footstep.
In the grand dining hall, Kelley actually stopped breathing for a second. The room soared overhead, the barrel-vaulted ceiling ribbed with dark beams. Ropes of garland looped from the beams, thick and lush, dotted with red berries and silver bells. Two enormous chandeliers hung like jeweled wreaths, circles of candle-shaped bulbs tucked with greenery and bows.
Down one side, a long banquet table stretched what felt like half a football field, set with crystal, silver, and little sprays of holly at every place. At the opposite end of the hall, yet another huge fireplace blazed away beneath a carved stone mantle. More trees clustered there—taller than the ones in the entry, their lights glowing against the stone walls.
“Tell me again why we don’t live here?” Scott asked.
“Because the mortgage payment is probably the GDP of a small country,” Kelley replied. “Also, I’d never get any work done. I’d just follow the decorating team around all day.”
They drifted further along, pausing with the group near the grand tree in the corner. A small, white-haired woman in a red coat and fur-lined boots stood nearby, her eyes shining as she looked up at it. Beside her, a stout man in a dark wool overcoat adjusted his glasses and snapped a photo with the kind of reverence some people reserved for cathedrals.
Kelley caught the woman’s eye and smiled. The woman smiled back, her face wrinkling into the friendliest map of lines Kelley had ever seen.
“It is beautiful, yes?” the woman said in accented English.
“It’s incredible,” Kelley replied. “Our little tree at home is officially embarrassed.”
The man chuckled. “It is all right. Trees do not mind. They know this place is…how do you say…” He searched for the word, eyebrows knitting.
“Over the top?” Scott offered.
The man snapped his fingers. “Yes. Over the top. I am Klaus, and this is my wife, Gerda.”
“I’m Kelley, and this is Scott, are you from Germany?”
“Ja, originally we are from the Black Forest,” Gerda said proudly. “We moved to here now and today we come to see this famous house, all the Christmas. In our old village we have much decoration, but never so big.” She spread her arms wide to encompass the room.
“Your village must be gorgeous at Christmas,” Kelley said. “Do they have those little wooden markets?”
“Of course,” Klaus said. “But the best decoration is my wife’s mother’s house. Not far from here. Everyone calls it Grandma’s House. She puts up the lights, the little villages, the trees—ach.” He shook his head, at a loss.
“That sounds amazing,” Scott said. “Like this, but cozier.”
Gerda laughed, her eyes crinkling. “It is chaos. Children everywhere. Small dogs stealing the cookies. And always, always the Egg Nog.”
They moved with the tour into the library, where a fire crackled in an ornate dark fireplace and a tree glowed in the center of the room. Shelves of books soared up the walls, broken by a balcony lined with more garlands and flickering lights. Deep red armchairs were grouped around the hearth, each draped with a tasseled throw. Kelley imagined sinking into one with a book while snow fell outside the tall windows.
She glanced at Klaus and Gerda. “So this Grandma’s House—where is it?”
“In the mountains, not so far from here,” Klaus replied, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “Near a little town you would not know. The people there, they say if you visit at Christmas, you must bring an offering.”
“An offering?” Scott repeated. “Sounds ominous.”
Gerda swatted her husband’s arm lightly. “It is not ominous. It is tradition. We bring Egg Nog. Everyone brings Egg Nog. Then Grandma makes more, and there is always enough for everyone.”
Kelley grinned. “So the sacrifice is dairy-based. That I can handle.”
Scott tilted his head. “Wait, everyone brings Egg Nog?”
“Oh yes,” Gerda said. “Gallons and gallons. The refrigerator is never empty. At the party, there is long tables, and everyone drinks, and talks, and sings. My mother, she loves when new people come. Especially Americans. She says you bring the best stories.”
“You should go,” Klaus said, looking between Kelley and Scott. “You are a couple in love, yes?” He said it matter-of-factly, without teasing.
Kelley felt her cheeks warm. Scott glanced at her with a small smile. “Yes,” he said gently.
“Then you must go,” Klaus declared. “Grandma says young people in love should always drink Egg Nog under her roof at Christmas. It is good luck.”
Gerda nodded solemnly. “But you must not go empty-handed. You must bring Egg Nog. This is the rule.”
Scott put a hand over his heart. “We shall respect the Nog Rule.”
Kelley laughed. “Where exactly is this magical Grandma’s House?”
Klaus dug in his coat pocket and pulled out a folded brochure from a local visitor center. On the back, he scribbled a name—“Grandma’s House”—and the name of a small mountain town. “Ask anyone there,” he said. “They will know.”
Gerda added, “And tell my mother that Klaus and Gerda sent you. She will be very happy. She will give you extra cookies.”
“Sold,” Scott said. “We will do anything for extra cookies.”
Their tour continued through more rooms—bedrooms dressed with garlands and glowing bedside trees, corridors scented with pine and wax, staircases wrapped in ribbons. In one sitting room, a cluster of children pressed their noses to a window that overlooked the snowy grounds where a few braver souls were making snow angels. A squirrel hopped nervously along the edge of the terrace, flicking snow off his paws and looking mildly offended by the whole concept of winter.
By the time they stepped back out into the night, the snow had thickened, floating down in soft sheets that muffled the sounds of traffic and chatter. The big tree in the courtyard glowed even brighter against the dark sky. Somewhere nearby a group of carolers had started singing; their voices drifted across the snow like music in a snow globe.
Kelley pulled her scarf higher around her neck. “So,” she said, looking at Scott over the top of it, “how serious are you about following the Nog Rule?”
Scott brushed flakes from her hair with a gloved finger. “On a scale from one to ‘absolutely driving into the mountains to find a stranger’s grandmother,’ I’m at about an eleven.”
She laughed, her breath puffing white. “We don’t even know if this place is real. For all we know, Klaus and Gerda just send tourists into the woods for fun.”
“Then we’ll get lost in a Hallmark movie and have to run an inn until New Year’s,” he said. “Could be worse.”
They walked back toward the car, passing a family trying to wrangle their kids into a photo in front of the tree. One little girl refused to stand still, too busy catching snowflakes on her tongue. A small dog in a tiny sweater spun in circles at the end of a red leash, barking at each new flake like it was a personal insult.
Kelley glanced back at the Biltmore, at its glowing windows and the huge wreath over the entrance. “You know,” she said softly, “I thought this would be the peak Christmas moment of the trip.”
“And now?” Scott asked.
“Now I’m weirdly invested in meeting a grandma I’ve never met in a house I’ve never seen to drink suspiciously large quantities of Egg Nog.”
He slung an arm around her shoulders as they reached the car. “Welcome to An Asheville Christmas: Side Quest Edition.”
As they drove away, the estate shrinking in the rearview mirror, Kelley looked at the folded brochure on her lap, at the scrawled directions to a place that might or might not exist. Outside the windows, snow fell in a steady, gentle curtain, turning the world into soft white shapes.
“Tomorrow,” she said, tapping the paper, “we find Egg Nog.”
Scott nodded solemnly. “And then, my dear, we go see Grandma.”
Day Two – The Great Egg Nog Hunt
Snow fell all night. By morning, Asheville was covered in a thick, fluffy blanket that made the world outside Kelley look like a Christmas card that had come to life.
Kelley stood by the window, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of hotel coffee. Down in the parking lot, someone’s SUV was a smooth white lump with mirrors sticking out like ears. A kid waddled through the snow in a puffy red snowsuit, absolutely determined to sled down the microscopic slope next to the sidewalk.
Behind her, Scott groaned dramatically from the bed. “Tell me it stopped snowing. Tell me the roads are clear. Tell me civilization still exists.”
She sipped her coffee. “Civilization exists. The roads… resemble frosted cake.”
“Perfect. Great. Excellent.” Scott flopped onto his back. “We’re going to die on a quest for Egg Nog. This is how it ends.”
Kelley grinned. “If we die, it’ll be with honor.”
“On the tombstone: Fell in the Line of Christmas Duty.”
“Better than Trampled at a Black Friday Sale.”
Scott sat up, rubbing his face. “Well. If Klaus and Gerda said we need Egg Nog, then by God, we need Egg Nog. You ready?”
Kelley nodded. “Let’s begin.”
And thus began the Great Egg Nog Hunt.
⸻
Stop #1: Ingles Grocery – The First Blow
They trudged through slushy snow in the parking lot, blowing into their hands. Inside the store, the heater was cranked so high that Kelley’s glasses fogged instantly. Christmas music played overhead—It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas, which felt a bit taunting, considering their mission.
Scott led the way to the dairy section like a general stalking toward battle.
And then they saw it.
A completely empty shelf labeled EGG NOG – SEASONAL.
Kelley stared. “No. No no no. This can’t be right.”
A stock boy pushing a cart full of yogurts glanced at their devastated faces.
“Excuse me,” Scott said, “do you have any Egg Nog in the back?”
The kid winced. “Oh. Uh… we sold out yesterday. All of it.”
“All of it?” Kelley echoed. “How… all of it?”
The boy shrugged helplessly. “Holiday rush? Dunno. Some lady bought like ten gallons. Said it was for a party up in the mountains.”
Kelley and Scott exchanged a slow, comically widening look.
“Grandma,” Scott whispered.
“Grandma,” Kelley confirmed.
The kid blinked. “Uh… should I be worried?”
“No,” Kelley said solemnly. “But we should.”
⸻
Stop #2: A gas station convenience store
The gas station was warm and smelled like coffee that had been sitting since June. Scott bee-lined to the refrigerated section.
“Okay, okay—maybe they have cartons. Little ones. Even a pint.”
There were sodas, energy drinks, something unidentifiable that claimed to be “Holiday Custard Beverage,” but no Egg Nog.
Scott looked offended. “Holiday Custard Beverage? This is a crime.”
Kelley leaned toward the clerk. “Any Egg Nog?”
The clerk, a woman with a Santa hat and zero patience, shook her head. “Sold out.”
“Everyone?” Kelley asked.
“Oh yeah,” the clerk said. “Some mountain folks have been buying it up for a week. It’s like a Nog Apocalypse.”
Scott whispered to Kelley, “Grandma’s House is hoarding all the Egg Nog in western North Carolina.”
Kelley whispered back, “What if she’s building a giant subterranean dairy bunker?”
The clerk interrupted, “You want Swiss Miss? We have Swiss Miss.”
They left in defeat.
⸻
Stop #3: A boutique organic market
This place sold things like oat-milk nog infused with turmeric and moonlight, but even their shelves were bare.
“We have hemp nog,” the cashier said brightly.
Scott put a hand up. “Absolutely not.”
⸻
Stop #4: Dollar General, two towns over
A hopeful cart of holiday leftovers sat near the door—wrapping paper, off-brand candy canes, and a lone Rudolph plush with a wonky eye.
They found the dairy case.
Empty.
Kelley sighed. “Okay. Are we being pranked? Did Klaus and Gerda send us on a magical Nog wild goose chase?”
“Do you hear a narrator somewhere?” Scott asked. “Like… And thus, Kelley and Scott searched in vain as destiny laughed…”
She elbowed him. “Stop.”
But she was laughing too.
⸻
The Desperation Grows
Over the next couple of hours, they checked:
• A CVS
• A Walgreens
• A small-town general store with a cat sleeping on the counter
• A roadside bakery that claimed to make Egg Nog muffins (but was out of Nog)
• A Christmas tree lot with a sign that read “Free Cocoa!” and yet had zero cocoa
Everywhere:
NO NOG.
Children sledded on hills beside the roads. Dogs leapt through snowbanks. A raccoon waddled across a driveway carrying what looked like someone’s gingerbread man. The world was brimming with Christmas magic.
Just… not Egg Nog.
Scott sat in the car, forehead against the steering wheel. “Okay. It’s official. Grandma controls the region’s dairy supply. She’s a benevolent overlord, but an overlord nonetheless.”
Kelley pulled up the list of places on her phone. She sighed. “There’s one more small town about twenty minutes from here. Marshall. There’s supposedly a tiny family-owned store.”
Scott lifted his head. “This is it. The Final Nog Frontier.”
She smiled. “Let’s ride.”
⸻
Marshall, North Carolina – The Miracle
Marshall was adorable in the way only tiny mountain towns can be—old brick storefronts, lampposts wrapped in garland, a little river running behind the Main Street stretch. Snow dusted everything. Kids chased each other in boots and mittens. A dog proudly pulled a sled containing an outraged-looking tabby cat.
The small store was wedged between a post office and a bakery. Its sign read: HENDERSON’S MARKET – SINCE 1948.
Inside, it smelled like old wood and peppermint candy. A tiny bell jingled when they walked in.
An older man with suspenders stood behind the counter reading a newspaper. “Mornin’. Roads treatin’ y’all alright?”
“Yes,” Kelley said. “And we’re on a mission.”
Scott pointed dramatically. “Do you… by any chance… have Egg Nog?”
The man looked at them with the serene calm of someone who has seen many puzzling tourists and survived every one.
“Egg Nog,” he repeated.
“Yes,” Kelley said, hoping, praying. “Even just a small carton.”
He scratched his chin. “Well, now. Most folks’ve come through already. Bought up the whole lot.”
Scott slumped.
“But…” The man held up one finger. “I might have one left.”
Both Kelley and Scott froze.
The man shuffled slowly—painfully slowly—to a small refrigerator near the counter. He reached in.
And like a heavenly beam from above, he held up a single pint of Egg Nog.
Kelley gasped. Scott put a hand to his heart.
“It’s beautiful,” he whispered.
The man shrugged. “Some lady meant to come back for it but never did. You folks can have it.”
Kelley grabbed Scott’s hand in Christmas triumph. “YES. Oh my God. Yes.”
Scott beamed. “Sir, you are the savior of our holiday.”
The man looked mildly alarmed by the intensity of their gratitude but accepted their money anyway.
As they walked outside, Egg Nog in hand, snowflakes drifted gently from the gray sky.
Scott lifted the pint like it was the Holy Grail. “We have done the impossible.”
Kelley laughed. “We found Nog in the wild.”
“Now,” he said, tucking the pint safely under his arm, “we need to keep it safe until tomorrow.”
“Oh yes,” Kelley said dramatically. “This is no ordinary dairy product. This is the Key to Grandma’s House.”
“Do we need to build a shrine for it in the hotel room?”
“Maybe.”
They headed toward the car, boots crunching softly. Kelley glanced back toward the little store, the snow drifting down around the lampposts.
“Tomorrow,” she said softly, “we go to see Grandma.”
“And present the Sacred Nog,” Scott added.
“And hopefully not get eaten by mountain wolves.”
Scott shrugged. “If wolves want Egg Nog, I’m ready to fight for it.”
Kelley slipped her arm through his. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love ridiculous.”
“I really, really do.”
As they drove back toward Asheville, the pint of Egg Nog sat in the cup holder like a gleaming trophy. Snow fell thick and dreamy around them, the mountains rising like white-laced silhouettes in the distance.
They exchanged a look.
Tomorrow would be an adventure.
Day Three – Grandma’s House
Snow was still falling the next morning—soft, steady, and glittering in the pale light as Kelley and Scott packed up the car. The pint of Egg Nog sat in the cup holder, buckled securely into a seatbelt, because Scott insisted “you don’t drive into the mountains with unrestrained Nog.”
Kelley laughed. “If anyone sees this, they’re going to call the authorities.”
Scott tapped the pint affectionately. “The authorities will thank us for our service.”
⸻
The Drive into the Mountains
The road north twisted up through the hills, the snow growing deeper as the elevation climbed. Pines bowed under the weight of white. Every now and then, they passed a scenic overlook where bundled families were taking photos, their dogs zooming through the drifts like buttered bullets. A couple of kids had set up a small sledding path that ended in a snowbank and joyful shrieking.
Scott lowered the window slightly, letting in a crisp breath of air. The world smelled of fresh snow, bark, and winter magic.
On Kelley’s lap, the folded brochure with Klaus and Gerda’s handwritten directions fluttered as the heater blew warm air across it.
“So,” Kelley said, “according to this, we should reach a covered wooden bridge before Grandma’s place.”
“I’m excited. Covered bridges always feel like portals.”
“Hopefully not to another dimension.” Scott said.
“Unless the other dimension has snacks.”
“Fair.”
The road leveled out, and suddenly there it was.
⸻
The Covered Bridge
A brilliant red wooden bridge stretched across a narrow rocky stream, snow piling high on its peaked roof. It looked old but sturdy, its planks weathered and darkened by years of winters. The rails were dusted white, icicles hanging like crystal knives along the edges.
Kelley said. “It’s beautiful.” As Scott slowed the car.
“It looks like something from Little House on the Dairy Prairie,” Scott said. “The gateway to Egg Nog Heaven.”
They rolled across the bridge, tires crunching on the wooden deck. Inside, the light dimmed to a soft red glow through the slats. Little snowflakes drifted down between the boards, landing on the windshield like glitter.
Scott whispered, “This is the beginning of a legend. Two travelers cross the ancient bridge, bearing the Sacred Milk of the Mountain Realm.”
Kelley snorted. “Stop before you summon a goat deity.”
“I’m not summoning anything that isn’t housebroken.”
When they emerged from the other side, the land opened up—and there she was.
⸻
Grandma’s House
It was enormous.
Absolutely enormous.
Not mansion-big, but tall and wide and cozy-looking in the way of a sprawling farmhouse that had been added onto over decades. Every inch of it was alive with Christmas.
Lights in every color twinkled from the rooflines, dripping down like glowing icicles. Four separate Christmas trees stood on the wraparound porch, each with a different theme—one silver, one woodland animals, one candy cane stripes, and one covered in antique glass ornaments that glowed softly like captured sunsets.
The yard itself?
A wonderland.
Snow blanketed a massive miniature Christmas village spanning nearly the entire front lawn: dozens of hand-painted houses, tiny sledders, tiny horses pulling tiny wagons. Model trains wound through elaborate tunnels of sparkling garland. A miniature ski lift carried tiny skiers up a Styrofoam mountain. Fake snow drifted from hidden machines.
“This…” Kelley whispered. “This is insane.”
“This,” Scott said reverently, “is our destiny.”
Kids were running around the outer edge of the display, their boots crunching, while two golden retrievers wearing jingle-bell collars bounded through the snow, chasing each other and occasionally attempting to steal plastic reindeer.
A group of adults stood near the porch, cups of something steaming in their hands, talking and laughing.
And then someone waved.
“Kelley!” a voice called. “Scott!”
Klaus and Gerda bustled down the porch steps, wrapped in huge coats and scarves. Gerda’s cheeks were rosy from the cold; Klaus’s hat had a pom-pom that bobbed cheerfully.
“You came!” Gerda exclaimed.
“We brought the offering,” Scott said, holding up the pint like Simba from The Lion King.
Gerda clapped her hands. “Wonderful! My mother will be delighted!”
“Where is she?” Kelley asked.
“Inside,” Klaus said, motioning toward the door. “But first, we must put your Egg Nog with the others.”
“Others?” Scott repeated.
Klaus ushered them to the side of the house. A massive barn loomed behind the farmhouse, draped in garland and warm golden lights. The sound of music and laughter drifted through the winter air.
A sliding barn door rolled open.
Inside was a gigantic walk-in cooler.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves.
Entire rows of Egg Nog bottles.
Gallons.
Pints.
Cartons.
Glass jugs.
Kegs.
(Yes—kegs.)
Scott’s jaw fell open. “This is enough Nog to drown an elf village.”
Kelley whispered, “This is how the world ends.”
Gerda beamed like a proud daughter. “Every visitor brings some. It is tradition.”
Kelley and Scott ceremonially placed their single humble pint among the towering offerings.
Gerda clapped again. “Now come! My mother wants to meet you!”
⸻
Meeting Grandma
Inside the house, the heat hit them like a cozy wall of gingerbread-scented air. Every inch of the interior was decorated. Every room had a tree—some tiny, some enormous. Tinsel dripped from chandeliers. Garlands lined every banister. The miniature villages were everywhere—on tables, shelves, ottomans, windowsills—each larger and more detailed than the last.
But it was the living room village that took Kelley’s breath away.
It was enormous.
Stretching wall to wall, raised on platforms like terraced hills, covered in snow and glitter and hundreds of tiny lights. Ceramic houses with glowing windows. Toy trains winding through tunnels. Tiny townspeople mid–ice skate, mid–snowball fight, mid–carol singing.
Scott looked at it with reverent horror. “This is the Biltmore of miniature villages.”
Kelley nodded. “I think the Biltmore is jealous.”
And then a tiny old woman toddled into the room.
“Ah!” she cried. “You must be the new children!”
Kelley smiled. “We’re Kelley and Scott.”
The woman grabbed their hands with surprising strength. “I am Grandma. Welcome! You have brought the Egg Nog?”
“Yes,” Scott said, still stunned. “We’ve seen…the storage.”
Grandma winked. “A party cannot run on cheer alone. It needs help.”
Kelley leaned closer. “And does that help come in gallon jugs?”
Grandma cackled. “But of course!”
She led them through the kitchen—stacked with trays of cookies, pies, gingerbread houses, and something bubbling in a Dutch oven that smelled suspiciously like holiday heaven—and out the back door to the barn.
⸻
The Christmas Barn Party
The barn was massive, its high rafters wrapped in greenery, ribbons, and strings of lights. Lanterns hung from beams, casting amber glows on long wooden tables arranged in rows like a great hall feast.
People filled the barn—over a hundred, maybe more. Kids ran around playing tag between tables. A group of grandpas stirred a giant cauldron of Egg Nog in the corner, each arguing about “the right way” to do it. Women in Christmas sweaters chatted around a table loaded with desserts.
The air buzzed with warmth, laughter, and the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg.
A bluegrass band played near the front, instruments twanging cheerfully. One kid danced with a dog. Another was trying to teach a goat to hop onto a hay bale. A toddler in a puffy reindeer onesie waddled by carrying a cookie the size of her head.
Kelley clutched Scott’s arm. “This is the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Scott nodded. “We’ve found the North Carolina North Pole.”
Klaus and Gerda swept in like proud social butterflies, introducing Kelley and Scott to everyone within reach.
“This is the couple we told you about!” Gerda announced. “They have brought Egg Nog!”
Someone cheered.
Someone else yelled, “Bless them!”
A mug was pressed into Scott’s hand. Another into Kelley’s. Both were full of warm, creamy Egg Nog dusted with nutmeg.
Scott sniffed it. “If this knocks me out, tell my family I went peacefully.”
Kelley took a sip—and sighed. “Good Lord.”
Grandma pushed between them, hands on her hips. “Is it good?”
“It’s amazing,” Kelley said.
“Of course it is,” Grandma said. “We use the finest ingredients. And the joy of the people! You must drink more.”
And she refilled their mugs.
⸻
Romance in the Snow
Hours passed in a blur of music, dancing, Nog-drinking, cookie-sampling, and laughing until their cheeks hurt.
Later, Kelley and Scott stepped outside for some air. Snow had begun falling again—big, soft flakes drifting lazily from the sky.
The barn glowed behind them, warm light spilling across the snow. Music thumped faintly through the walls. A couple of kids were sledding down a nearby hill, their parents cheering them on.
Kelley looked up at Scott, flakes catching in her eyelashes.
“This…might be the best Christmas moment of my life,” she said softly.
Scott brushed a snowflake from her hair. “Mine too.”
She stepped closer, breath fogging between them.
“You know,” she whispered, “I think Klaus was right.”
“About what?”
“That Egg Nog is good luck…for couples in love.”
Scott cupped her cheek with one cold hand. “Kelley?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t need luck.”
She smiled—and kissed him under the falling snow.
⸻
The Last Toast
Back inside the barn, Grandma raised a mug.
“TO OUR NEW CHILDREN!” she shouted.
Everyone cheered.
Kelley and Scott clinked their mugs, laughing.
Snow swirled outside. The band played louder. The dogs barked. The trains in the miniature village chugged along.
It was chaos.
It was magic.
It was Christmas.
And Kelley leaned her head on Scott’s shoulder and whispered,
“I think we’re coming back next year.”