Page 6 of Christmas with the Lumberjack

As I approached, she offered me a gentle smile. “Hello, dear,” she said. Her voice was warm and soft, like velvet. “Interested in holiday landscapes?”

I introduced myself. “I’m Cassie Monroe, a reporter from Chicago. I’m writing a piece on Springfield’s Wishing Tree tradition. I’ve heard you do a lot of the landscaping around here?”

Lucille nodded, her eyes twinkling. “I run Winter Wonderlands. We create winter displays, fairy gardens, anything that brings a bit of charm and shows off the wonderous beauty of Mother Nature herself. Juniper McCall works with me—she’s about your age, I think.

I smiled, remembering Juniper’s friendliness and casual confidence. “I met her at Candi Couture yesterday,” I replied. “She mentioned she uses Lawson’s trees in your designs. Seems everyone here is connected somehow.”

Lucille’s laugh was soft. “Springfield is that kind of place. We’re all tied together by traditions and stories.” She paused, adjusting a sprig of holly on a miniature landscape of a snow-covered cottage. “And the Wishing Tree…well, it’s at the heart of many of those stories.”

I tried to sound neutral. “Everyone keeps talking about it as if it’s truly magical.”

Lucille tilted her head, studying me. “You don’t believe in magic, I take it?”

I shrugged, sipping my cider. “I’m just gathering facts. I understand people treasure it, but magic? Seems like a stretch.”

Her smile didn’t waver. “Magic can mean many things. It doesn’t have to be wizards and potions. Sometimes, it’s the feeling you get when people come together to hope for something better. Miracles can happen if we’re open to them.”

“People say miracles, but couldn’t it just be coincidences?” I countered. “Wishes come true sometimes, sure, but not necessarily because of a tree.”

Lucille leaned forward slightly. “You’re right, coincidence plays a part in life. But consider this: Springfield’s Wishing Tree has brought people comfort, faith, and healing for generations, as I’m sure you’ll learn from talking with folks from around here.” Her voice turned gentle, almost motherly. “Isn’t the outcome what matters? Hope and belief can inspire people to take actions they otherwise wouldn’t, to open their hearts.”

I studied her, expecting to see a hint of irony or a practiced sales pitch. Instead, I found sincerity. She looked like Mrs. Claus, and she talked like someone who’d seen the world’s wonders and chosen to believe in their goodness. “You’re saying the Tree’s magic might just be the way it encourages people to believe and connect?”

Lucille nodded. “Exactly. When people believe in something good, they tend to create goodness in their own lives. That might be all the magic we need.”

I thanked her and moved on. Her words circled in my mind as I wandered the square, sipping the last of my cider. This assignment had already become more complicated than I’d expected. I came here to write a fluff piece, maybe even an expose. Instead, I kept meeting people whose heartfelt devotion to this tradition defied an easy dismissal. I didn’t know what to make of it all—yet.

By late afternoon, the sky had begun to change colors, the sun drooping low. I stopped by a quiet corner of the square, looking at a cluster of poinsettias displayed around a manger scene. Snow had started to fall lightly, dusting the rooftops. The sound of carols drifted closer as a quartet sang “Silent Night,” their voices weaving together in delicate harmony.

For a moment, I let myself feel the atmosphere. The sweet taste of those cookies lingered on my tongue, and my fingers still smelled faintly of cinnamon from the cider. I couldn’t remember the last time I slowed down enough to absorb these simple pleasures. Back in Chicago, I always rushed—deadlines, competition, the clamor, and breathlessness of ambition. The holidays there meant frantic shopping and overbooked calendars, not moments of peaceful contemplation.

I shook my head, chiding myself for becoming sentimental. I’d gotten distracted, that was all. I was here on business. Slipping my notebook into my coat pocket, I decided to head back to Lawson’s Tree Farm. If I was going to understand the Wishing Tree story, I needed to see it again—maybe this time without Wyatt breathing down my neck. I wouldn’t disturb him, just observe the tree at dusk, see if the magic Lucille hinted at sparked anything in me.

The drive out of town was quiet. The roads were lit by the gentle glow of streetlamps and Christmas lights. I passed a few houses, nearly every one of them boasting an elaborate display of one sort or other—a giant rendition of Santa and his reindeer on the roof, huge candy canes lighting walkways, and even a street where every house featured an arrangement representing the 12 gifts from the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

The car’s heater hummed softly, and I arrived at Lawson’s Tree Farm as the last band of pink and gold sunset faded behind the tree line.

Stepping out of the car, I tightened my scarf and breathed in the cold, pine-laced air. The Wishing Tree stood near the barn, exactly as I remembered. Its branches were outlined by fairy lights, giving it an ethereal shimmer. Colorful ribbons fluttered gently, tied to paper slips that held secrets and dreams. A wooden box at the base offered spare ribbon and paper, inviting anyone to join this tradition.

I approached slowly. The farm was quiet now. In the distance, I could see the silhouettes of evergreens swaying faintly in the wind, and the barn’s simple wooden structure loomed like a guardian. Slowly, I crouched carefully beside the box and lifted the lid, revealing a neat stack of small papers and a bundle of ribbon. The temptation came out of nowhere—I was supposed to be the reporter who didn’t believe in magic. And yet, something inside me still asked, What if? What would I wish for?

I took a slip of paper. The pen attached to the box felt cool and reassuring between my fingers. What did I want? Success? Approval from my editor? Those were too superficial. I already had them for the most part, anyway, so wishing for them seemed beside the point. A Christmas wish had to be something deeper, more meaningful. I took a deep breath, searching inside my heart.

Finally, I wrote, “I wish to feel something real again,” in small, neat letters. It was honest and vague enough not to embarrass me should anyone read it. Folding the paper, I tied it to a branch with a red ribbon. The slip fluttered quietly among the others. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was just paper and ink. But as I stepped back, I felt a strange tightness in my chest, like I’d admitted something important.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here again so soon.”

I startled, turning to find Wyatt leaning against the barn door. He wore jeans and a flannel under a sturdy coat, as usual. His goatee framed a serious mouth, and his arms were folded across his broad chest. His eyes, dark in the twilight, studied me carefully. I cursed myself for being caught in a vulnerable moment.

“I’m a reporter,” I said, keeping my tone crisp. “It’s my job to gather information.”

He pushed off the barn and strolled over, boots crunching softly on snow. “Gathering information by making a wish?”

My cheeks warmed. “So, I’m curious,” I replied, hating that I sounded defensive. “Everyone here believes in this tree’s magic. I just wanted to see what it feels like to participate.”

He nodded, gaze flicking to the ribbons. “So, what did you wish for?”

I crossed my arms, tilting my chin up. “None of your business.”

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