Page 1 of Tinsel & Timber
one
. . .
Mara
The first Sunday in December,for as far back as I could remember, my grandfather would gather me on the couch, VHS tapes in hand, and press play on old recordings of Mistletoe Bay’s tree lighting. I sat in awe as the town square twinkled with lights. Carolers shuffled past the gazebo. The massive tree in the center of town, waiting for Santa’s arrival.
No matter how many times I watched, I always gasped in excitement when the tree would burst into light.
“I’ll take you there one day,” he’d whisper, voice full of promise. “You’ll see it in person. The snow, the lights, it’s something else.”
When Papaw Kensington passed away, I vowed to myself that I would make it here.
Live it. Embrace it.
Stand in the snow, breathe in the pine-sweet air, feel the magic. And now, ten years later, after countless remodels, missed holidays, and one too many late nights, I finally am.
I missed the tree lighting thanks to my previous project running over, but I’m here now, and plan to soak in as much of the magic as I possibly can while I restore what was once a family home.
Snow crunches under my tires as I drive up the small hill to Candlewick Lane and the house comes into view.
An old Colonial sits up on a small hill and looks dignified beneath a dusting of snow. Two stories of clapboard siding, a steep gabled roof crowned with a central chimney, symmetrical windows framed in white. The front door, centered and inviting, is flanked by narrow sidelights. A small porch, supported by square pillars, wraps just slightly around the façade, its rail iced with frost.
This house was once my great-grandfather’s and his father’s before him, and so on. It dates back to the 1600’s when they landed in Mistletoe Bay and helped build the town.
According to my late grandfather, one day his parents packed up and left without explanation. Never returned. Never spoke of why.
I step out of the car and into the snow, taking a long breath. The cold bites at my cheeks, but it feels like acleansing fire through my chest. This is the place my grandfather loved. The house that holds decades of unspoken stories. The town he walked away from, yet somehow never forgot.
Every room carries history. The parlor, with its simple mantel, must have hosted countless family gatherings and quiet evenings. The dining room, its wide, worn floorboards speaking of heavy footsteps and hurried breakfasts. Upstairs, bedrooms with narrow windows and faded wallpaper waiting for new life. The kitchen is small but full of potential. Every corner of the house feels alive, like it’s breathing slowly, holding its stories close, just waiting for me to bring them back to their former glory.
“Why didn’t you ever come back?” I whisper, voice trembling.
The house answers only with the soft groan of settling wood and the whistle of winter wind.
I wander through the parlor and brush my hand over the dusty mantle. When I pass the doorway to the library, something in me stills. There—on the shelf built into the wall—is a narrow band of lighter wood where a portrait used to rest. My fingers find a nook and pull at a sliver of yellowed paper wedged behind the molding. A name. A date. A boy’s handwriting that looks a lot like one I know all too well.
My breath catches in my throat. The tiny knot under my sternum tightens. Papaw was here. The idea of himliving in this very house, celebrating Christmases and birthdays, opens me up in a way I hadn't expected. I’m not just here to restore wood. I’m trying—stubbornly, painfully—to touch a place my grandfather loved and that our family left behind.
A door slams behind me.
The sound throws the dust and the quiet into a chaotic stutter.
I spin and find a man in the doorway like a cameo from a very particular fantasy: coat buttoned, boots clean, hair messy like he’s just trekked through a storm. His jaw is taut. His eyes are the kind of green that can make a woman weak in the knees. And he’s holding a clipboard.
“You can’t do that,” he says.
I open my mouth to snap back a witty retort but I stop myself.
He does not sound amused. His voice is surprisingly laced with concern. If that concern is for me, or the house, I’m not quite sure.
“You can’t remove those bookcases,” he adds, nodding at the shelves behind me with the authority of someone who has memorized the list of this house’s most critical features.
I cross my arms. “I haven’t removed anything. I literally just got here.”
“You were eyeballing it like a robber,” he says primly. “Like you intended to tear it out.”
“Maybe I’m admiring it,” I say, though I can’t hide the edge in my voice. “Besides, I’m here to restore this place. I don’t make a habit of tearing things out that don’t need to be. Is that okay with you, Captain Heritage?”
