Page 2 of Christmas with the Lumberjack

I set my mug down and opened my suitcase to unpack a bit. That’s when I noticed the rip in my coat’s left sleeve. Terrific. Probably snagged it on my car door or at one of those run-down gas stations. This was one of my better coats, too—charcoal gray, tailored wool, flattering. Well, I couldn’t go around with a ripped coat sleeve. I’d have to get a replacement. I freshened up, splashing warm water on my face, and then headed back downstairs.

Martha was just rearranging a basket of pinecones by the fireplace when I approached. “Martha, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I just noticed a rip in my coat. Is there somewhere in town I could find a new one?”

Martha brightened. “Of course. You should try Candi Couture. It’s on 3rd and Vine, just a few blocks away across the town square. Candi always has a selection of lovely coats this time of year.”

Candi Couture. The name alone suggested something fancy. I wasn’t expecting high-end fashion in a small town like this, but who knew—maybe I’d be surprised. I thanked Martha and stepped out into the early evening. The sun had almost set, and the lampposts glowed softly. Lights twinkled in shop windows, and I could hear faint Christmas music drifting from somewhere down the street. The sidewalks were relatively clear, and I made my way toward the square, following Martha’s directions.

The town square was charming: a gazebo festooned with ribbons, lights strung overhead, and a handful of people strolling arm-in-arm. On the far side, I spotted Candi Couture—a boutique fronted by large, sparkling windows. Inside, mannequins wore elegant dresses and cozy coats, and a sign near the entrance read:Holiday Sale! Find Your Perfect Winter Wardrobe. Perfect. Maybe I’d luck out and find something decent.

When I entered, a wave of warmth greeted me. The boutique smelled faintly of nutmeg and something floral. Racks of clothes stood in neat rows, and accessories were arranged with exquisite care on glass-topped tables. A tall, blonde woman in a fitted blazer and pencil skirt approached. She looked like she stepped out of a country club advert—perfect hair, flawless makeup, and that air of practiced sophistication. Her smile, though a bit theatrical, was genuine enough.

“Welcome to Candi Couture!” she trilled, extending a manicured hand. “I’m Candi McCall. How can I help you this evening?”

“Hi, I’m Cassie,” I said, shaking her hand briefly. “I’m staying at Hollyhock House, and Martha recommended I come here. I need a new coat. My old one got ripped.”

“Oh dear, we can’t have that now, can we!” Candi said. She guided me toward a rack of coats, the fabrics ranging from classic wool to stylish tweed. “We have a wonderful selection. Are you looking for something warm and classic, or something a bit more…fashion-forward?”

Before I could answer, two other women emerged from behind a curtain that presumably led to a back room. One had curly strawberry-blonde hair tied up in a high messy bun, freckles dancing across her cheeks. She wore jeans, a plaid shirt, and boots—clearly more casual. The other was tall and poised, with thick auburn hair pulled into a sleek low ponytail, her features calm and motherly, and dressed in a neat sweater and slim trousers. They both smiled at me with disarming ease.

“Juniper, Ginger, we have a guest in need of a coat,” Candi said, gesturing to the newcomers. “Cassie, this is my daughter Juniper and my older daughter Ginger.”

Juniper—the one with the messy bun—offered her hand, eyes bright. “Hi, nice to meet you. Don’t mind my outfit—I’m usually out in gardens or greenhouses, so I dress for comfort.” She had a warmth that reminded me of Martha, an easy friendliness.

Ginger gave a gentle nod. “Hello,” she said softly. She had a calm and serene presence, and I wondered if she’d been to finishing school. “Just let us know what you need.”

I explained my coat dilemma, and the three of them conferred among the racks. They pulled out a few options: a sleek navy wool coat with silver buttons, a soft cream one with a faux-fur collar, and a classic camel-hued number. I tried them on while they fussed over fit and color. Normally, I disliked so much input, but something about their dynamic held my interest and I felt comfortable. Despite Candi’s waspy elegance, and Ginger’s prim calm, they didn’t push. Juniper made a quiet comment about how the green coat would bring out my eyes if I wanted to try something bolder. I ended up settling on a plum-colored wool coat with a belted waist. It fit well and felt luxurious without being ostentatious.

As I modeled the coat in the mirror, adjusting the belt, conversation drifted—inevitably—toward the Wishing Tree. These people were nothing if not consistent about their holiday legend.

Candi touched my shoulder lightly. “You know, the Wishing Tree helped bring Juniper back to Springfield,” she said, her voice growing softer, more earnest. “She moved away for a time, and the family had…well, we had our differences. I was afraid we’d lost that closeness we once had.” Her voicewavered slightly, and I saw tears glistening in her eyes. “One Christmas, I tied a wish to the tree, asking that my daughter would come home and that our family could heal. Soon after, Juniper returned. We’ve all been closer since.”

Juniper glanced at her mother, her freckled cheeks warming with emotion. They embraced, a brief but poignant hug. I stood there, observing this moment of sincerity. I tried to remember my own mother hugging me like that. Nothing came to mind. She’d pat me on the shoulder occasionally, sure, or smile proudly at an academic award, but a heartfelt mother-daughter hug wasn’t something I’d grown up with.

Ginger chimed in, “I met my husband at the Wishing Tree,” she said with a small, nostalgic smile. “We literally bumped into each other one year during college break. I hadn’t intended to be there, but I was curious about the wishes people left. Brian was reading some of them, and we ended up talking for hours. It was love at first sight.”

Of course, I thought. Another love story spun around this magical tree. I managed a polite smile and nodded. “That’s very sweet,” I said, trying not to sound too skeptical. They genuinely believed in this magic, and who was I to stomp all over their cherished memories?

Juniper adjusted my coat’s collar, meeting my gaze. “Have you gone to Lawson’s Tree Farm yet, to see the Wishing Tree yourself?”

“Not yet,” I said. “It’s on my list. I’m planning to interview Wyatt Lawson, the owner.” I noticed Juniper’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly at Wyatt’s name.

“Oh, Wyatt.” She grinned mischievously. “You’ll have to tell me what you think of him. I get some of my trees from his farm for my landscaping projects. He’s…well, let’s just say he’squite the character.” Her tone clearly suggested more than that, and I felt a spark of curiosity. Just who was this Wyatt Lawson?

I studied Juniper. She was so different from me—comfortable in casual clothes, happier with dirt under her nails than designer polish. Yet I found myself liking her. There was no judgment in her eyes, just friendliness. She pulled out her phone and handed it to me. “If you have time, I can show you around. Springfield’s small, but there are little corners of it that are quite beautiful. My fiancé, Mason, and I were both born and raised here. We know all the good spots.” We exchanged numbers, and I felt a surprising flicker of warmth. Maybe making a friend here wouldn’t be so bad, even if we came from vastly different worlds.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’d appreciate that. I’m just here for this story, but maybe seeing the town through a local’s eyes will help me understand it better.”

Juniper nodded. “Anytime.”

By the time I stepped outside with my new coat, dusk had truly fallen, and I was grateful for the snug warmth of the wool. It wasn’t a designer label, but it suited the environment—simple, well-made, and warmer than my old one. The town square was quiet under the soft glow of festive lights. I glanced at my watch. I still had enough time before full dark to visit Lawson’s Tree Farm and see this famed Wishing Tree. Best to get an initial impression sooner rather than later.

I followed the directions I’d memorized from my notes, driving a short distance out of the center of town. The road became narrower, lined by tall, dark pines and dusted with fresh snow. When I arrived at Lawson’s Tree Farm, I parked in a gravel lot and climbed out, my heels sinking slightly. Brilliant idea—next time, wear more practical boots. The farm spread out before me: rows of evergreens silhouetted against a twilight sky, a large barn adorned with soft, twinkling lights, and in front ofit, the Wishing Tree. I recognized it immediately: taller and older than the rest, its branches decorated with ribbons and slips of paper fluttering gently in the evening breeze.

I walked closer, the crunch of snow under my boots loud in the hush. The Wishing Tree glowed under a string of white lights, and the handwritten wishes—scraps of paper tied with twine or ribbon—rustled softly. People really put their faith in this? They pinned their deepest desires on a tree branch and believed it would deliver miracles? It seemed so…naïve. And yet, I couldn’t deny a strange hush settling over me, a sense of standing before something that meant a great deal to many people.

“Can I help you?”

The voice startled me. I turned to see a man emerging from behind the barn’s corner. He was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt under a heavy canvas jacket. His beard—more like a trimmed goatee—framed a strong jawline, and he looked very much like the lumberjack caricature I’d half-expected. Muscular arms crossed over his chest; he regarded me with wary eyes. I felt his suspicion from ten feet away.

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