Page 1 of Christmas with the Lumberjack

Chapter One

Cassie

I first caught sight of Springfield as the late December daylight began to fade, the sun shifting low on the horizon and painting the snowy fields in blush-pink and pale gold. I’d been driving for hours, escaping the sprawl of Chicago and venturing deeper into a part of the country I rarely visited. The landscape changed gradually: tall buildings and concrete gave way to rolling farmland, fence posts capped with ice, and distant clusters of evergreens. Now, nearing my destination, I saw the town nestled in a gentle valley, each small house and storefront haloed by Christmas lights. Even from a distance, Springfield looked as if it had walked right off the front of a holiday postcard.

As I guided my rental car off the main highway, my headlights swept over a sign dusted in snow:Welcome to Springfield: Where Wishes Come True This Christmas!Great. The tagline was everywhere—on the press release my editor had sent me, in the emails from the Chamber of Commerce, even noted by the friendly woman at the gas station a few exits back. The so-called “Wishing Tree” tradition was central to this place’s identity. According to the legend, making a heartfelt Christmas wish and tying it to the tree’s branches could bring miracles. I snorted softly. Magical trees? Miracles at Christmas? Give me a break. It was obviously just another small-town marketing gimmick, a way to lure tourists and their wallets into these old-fashioned shops.

I slowed as I entered the town proper. The streets were lined with lampposts wrapped in evergreen garlands and red bows. Wreaths hung on doors, lights twinkled in window displays, and pine-and-cinnamon scents drifted in the air. It was charming, I’d give them that. But I didn’t buy into the nostalgia. Give people a heartwarming story, slap it onto a website, and watch them come running. I’d seen enough “authentic experiences” turned money-making schemes back in the city to recognize one here. Springfield was just capitalizing on Christmas cheer to boost its economy. The Wishing Tree, to me, sounded like a convenient piece of folklore turned cash cow, and I was determined to put a stop to the runaway train once and for all.

I found the Hollyhock House easily enough. My editor had booked me there because the place was central, and apparently the bigger hotels—if you could call them that—were sold out for the season. Hollyhock House was a large, Victorian-style bed-and-breakfast on a corner lot, its porch festooned with strings of tiny lights. A hand-painted sign depicting pink hollyhock flowersannounced its name. I sighed, pulling into the small gravel lot at the side of the house. This definitely wasn’t the Four Seasons, or even a boutique hotel like the kind I’d pick in Chicago. No spa, no room service, no sleek modern décor. Just a quaint old house with holiday trimmings and—if the online description was to be believed—a “cozy, home-away-from-home atmosphere.” Well, at least I’d be warm.

Hauling my suitcase behind me, I trudged up the porch steps. The old wooden boards creaked softly underfoot. I opened the heavy front door and stepped inside, greeted by a rush of warmth. I stood in a small foyer that opened into a parlor where a fire crackled in a stone hearth. The scent of cinnamon, pine, and woodsmoke filled my nose. Antiques and heirloom furniture filled the room—an old grandfather clock in the corner, a pair of armchairs upholstered in floral tapestry, crocheted doilies on the side tables. It was like stepping back a century. A ginger cat, curled on a settee near the hearth, opened one eye, regarded me coolly, then went back to sleep. I tugged at the collar of my wool coat, feeling both intrigued and slightly uncomfortable. This was not my usual style. I was used to minimalist city apartments, gyms on the first floor, and Starbucks on every corner.

“Hello there! You must be Ms. Monroe.”

I turned to see an older woman approaching from behind a small reception desk made of polished wood. She was short and pleasantly plump, with soft gray curls and warm brown eyes. She wore a red cardigan with a tiny Christmas wreath brooch pinned at her collar. A man—tall, lean, with a neatly trimmed beard—followed close behind, smiling kindly. They looked like the grandparents you’d see in a Hallmark movie, with gentle wrinkles and welcoming faces.

“Yes, I’m Cassie,” I said, mustering a polite smile. “Cassie Monroe.”

“Wonderful,” the woman said, clasping her hands together. “I’m Martha Holly, and this is my husband, Fred. Welcome to Hollyhock House.” Her voice had that soothing tone you might expect from a beloved elementary school teacher. “Let’s get you settled, dear.”

Fred inclined his head. “Long drive from the city, I’ll bet.” He didn’t say it with judgment, just a matter-of-fact warmth.

“About four hours,” I replied, rubbing my arms as the warmth of the room began to thaw me. The place might not have been my preferred choice, but I had to admit, it felt…comforting. Like a soft blanket wrapped around me after a long day.

Martha stepped out from behind the desk and came to take my suitcase. I tried to protest, but she waved me off. “Oh hush, I’ve got it. Fred’ll bring it up. You just warm up by the fire. Could I get you some tea? Or cocoa?”

I hesitated. Normally I’d refuse—time was money, I had notes to take, calls to make—but something about the glow in her eyes made me say, “Cocoa would be lovely.” Why not? I was here now, might as well enjoy a moment’s comfort.

Martha beamed, pleased as can be. “Have a seat, dear.”

I walked over to the settee where the cat lounged. I hesitated, not wanting cat fur on my black trousers, but as I sat on the edge, the cat stood, stretched, and curled around my ankle, purring softly. I stiffened. I’d never had a pet—my parents had always been too busy, and they hated the mess. Still, something about the gentle vibration of its purring and the way it nuzzled my calf made me melt a tiny bit. I reached down and stroked its head tentatively. The cat rewarded me by pressing its cheek into my palm. Cat fur on my clothes be damned—it was surprisingly nice to have this little creature appreciate me without conditions.

Martha soon returned with a mug of hot cocoa topped with a swirl of whipped cream and dusted with cocoa powder. I sipped it, pleasantly surprised by how good it tasted. Real chocolate, not some cheap powdery mix. “This is really good,” I said, genuinely impressed.

Martha smiled; her cheeks rosy. “Family recipe. Now, what brings you to Springfield for the holidays? Visiting family?”

I paused. The question was innocent enough, but it landed with a pang. “No, I’m here on business,” I said lightly, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m a reporter for an online magazine in Chicago. I’m here to write a piece about the Wishing Tree.”

Fred had taken a seat in one of the armchairs. He looked over, curious. “Working over Christmas? That’s a shame. No family gathering for the holidays?”

I resisted the urge to sigh. People always assumed that Christmas meant big family get-togethers. “My parents are off on business trips of their own,” I said simply. I decided not to mention that they’d been divorced for years, that my childhood had been more about nannies and tutors than gingerbread houses and heartfelt hugs. It wasn’t worth explaining that I’d never really believed in the kind of magic that people attributed to the season. “So, no. This is the best time for me to work. It doesn’t matter much to me anyway.” I tried to sound nonchalant.

Martha exchanged a glance with Fred. “Well, we’re sorry to hear that,” she said gently. “Everyone deserves a little holiday cheer.”

I smiled thinly and changed the subject. I hadn’t come here to discuss my personal life. “As I said, I’m here to cover the Wishing Tree story. The tree has become quite famous, I understand. People say it grants miracles.”

Fred leaned back; his eyes distant with memory. “A miracle indeed,” he said softly. “Oh, Martha, you tell it best.”

Martha settled beside me, her posture prim and proud. “Years ago, Fred and I wanted children desperately. We tried for years, but it never happened.” Her voice was quiet, and I sensed old heartbreak lingering. “As I got older, I gave up hope. One Christmas Eve, I wrote a wish on a slip of paper and tied it to the Wishing Tree out at Lawson’s Tree Farm. I knew it was silly, maybe. But I was so desperate. I told myself it would be my last wish.” She smiled softly. “That next autumn, I found out I was pregnant—at forty-three, if you can believe it. A miracle child. We raised our family in this very house.”

I sipped my cocoa to buy time for a diplomatic response. I’d heard countless “miracle” stories in my line of work, and most had mundane explanations. Maybe they’d finally tried a new fertility treatment, or maybe it was just a coincidence. “That’s quite a story,” I managed, trying to sound appreciative rather than doubtful. “What a happy outcome.”

Martha and Fred beamed as if I had confirmed their truth. I didn’t want to break their hearts by suggesting that correlation didn’t equal causation. “Thank you for sharing,” I added, standing up and straightening my jacket. “I should get settled in. It’s been a long drive.”

“Of course, dear,” Martha said, rising quickly. “Your room is upstairs, third door on the right. I’ve turned the radiator on so it should be nice and warm for you. If you need anything, let us know.”

I carried my mug upstairs, following Martha’s directions. The hallway was lit by sconces and lined with old photographs of the town in different eras—horse-drawn carriages, an old-fashioned storefront with candy canes in the window, a family posing proudly beside a horse-drawn sleigh. My room was smallbut cozy, with a quilt on the bed and a window that looked out onto a snow-covered garden. Not my usual style—no sleek furnishings, no glossy décor—but it felt oddly comforting in a way I wasn’t familiar with.

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