Chapter 13
SYLVIE
By the time the sun started setting behind the mountains, I was completely exhausted but riding the kind of satisfied tiredness that came from a genuinely good day’s work.
We’d sold significantly more trees than we had yesterday.
Twenty-three total, which was still nowhere near our old numbers but felt like a victory after the disaster of opening day.
It felt like every dollar was one step closer to saving the farm.
And the best thing about the day that had started with disaster?
There weren’t any other disasters. Ozzo hadn’t broken, knocked over, or accidentally destroyed anything else.
The morning’s tree catastrophe seemed to have scared him into being extra careful for the rest of the day.
He’d actually been helpful with customers instead of his usual well-meaning but chaotic self.
Santa had been in top form too, delighting every child who came to visit him.
I had watched from across the lot as he listened patiently to Christmas wishes, posed for countless photos, and made what I was sure would become core memories for dozens of kids.
One little girl had been so overcome with shyness that she’d hidden behind her mother’s legs for ten minutes before finally working up the courage to whisper her Christmas wish in Santa’s ear.
The look of pure joy on her face when he promised to see what he could do was exactly why we did this.
It had been a day full of small wins, and I was choosing to focus on those instead of the larger picture that still looked pretty bleak.
I wasn’t naive. I knew the whole operation was in trouble. Every year the numbers got progressively worse. Every year we hoped next year would be better. It was pretty clear that was never going to happen. The days of real trees and rustic Christmas vacations were a thing of the past.
The majority of other lodges and farms like ours figured that out five years ago. We were hanging on by our fingernails. It wasn’t going to work. Just like manual transmissions, we were out. No longer what consumers wanted.
I trudged up the hill to the main house, my boots crunching through the fresh snow that had been falling on and off all day. It was weird not to have my dad on the farm. Usually, he was running around talking to everyone and giving his opinion on which tree would look best in their house.
That was just another sign of change. They were really getting out of the game. It was wild to think that was what we had been waiting and hoping for for years. And now that it happened, I could admit I missed them bossing me around.
A little.
I could see the familiar silhouettes of my parents moving around inside the house we had grown up in. It was far enough away from the lodge for privacy but close enough Dad could jump in to handle a problem should it arise.
That was back when we had a full staff and a packed lodge. Those kinds of emergencies were few and far between nowadays. With Brom and Stacy living in the lodge in the private quarters, Brom was the guy to handle things.
I found them both in the living room, settled into their respective evening routines with the comfortable ease of a couple who’d been together for over thirty years.
Mom was in her favorite armchair, bent over what looked like needlework, while Dad was stretched out in his recliner with a crossword puzzle book balanced on his chest.
“Hey, you two,” I said, kicking off my snowy boots by the door and padding into the room in my socks.
“Sylvie, sweetheart!” Mom looked up from her work and smiled, though I could see the fatigue around her eyes that had become more pronounced over the past few months. “How did today go?”
I glanced at what she was working on and felt a tug of emotion in my chest. She was carefully repairing the stitching on one of our old Christmas stockings—Brom’s, from the looks of the faded blue and green pattern I remembered from childhood.
The stockings were so old they couldn’t hold much of anything, or it would fall right out the bottom. But they were cute. And tradition. Maybe that was why I was so reluctant to let go of the farm that I knew was dying. I was so steeped in tradition. It was the way I grew up.
Maybe it was time for a change. Maybe it was time to let the farm die peacefully.
“I’ve been meaning to fix these for years,” Mom said, pulling my attention back from the spiral. “Now that I’m not running around the farm all day, I finally have time to take care of the little things I’ve been putting off.”
There was something wistful in her voice that made my throat tight.
Mom had always been a woman in motion, bustling around the property, managing guests, overseeing the kitchen, and making sure every detail of the lodge operation ran smoothly.
Seeing her relegated to mending old stockings while the business she’d helped build struggled to survive felt wrong.
Even if that was what she wanted. I didn’t like the idea of them getting old. If they stepped back, it meant they were getting old. I was so not ready to deal with that kind of trauma.
“I’ll put on some tea,” she said, setting aside her needlework and getting up from her chair. “You look like you could use something warm.”
Dad set down his crossword puzzle and muted the television, where “It’s a Wonderful Life” was playing for what had to be the hundredth time this season. George Bailey was in the middle of his breakdown, screaming at his family on Christmas Eve. I found the timing uncomfortably appropriate.
“So,” Dad said, giving me his full attention in that deliberate way that meant he was preparing for a serious conversation. “How many trees did we sell today?”
“Twenty-three,” I said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. “That’s a lot better than yesterday. And the customers we did have seemed really happy with their experience.”
Dad nodded slowly, but I could see he was doing the math in his head, comparing today’s numbers to what they should have been.
“Twenty-three trees,” he repeated. “That’s what we used to sell in the first hour on a Saturday during peak season.”
The words stung. Like a needle to a balloon deflating the small sense of accomplishment I’d been carrying. I knew our numbers were bad, but hearing it put in perspective like that made the reality impossible to ignore.
“Today’s good day was the worst sales day of the year ten years ago,” Dad continued, his voice matter of fact but not unkind. “We’re not just struggling, sweetheart. We’re failing.”
I opened my mouth to argue, to point out all the positive aspects of the day, but the words died in my throat.
He was right, and we both knew it. Twenty-three trees might feel like progress compared to yesterday’s disaster, but it was nowhere near sustainable for a two-hundred-acre operation with the overhead costs we were carrying.
I sat down heavily on the couch, suddenly feeling every ache and pain from the day’s physical labor. “I know,” I said quietly. “I just don’t know what else to do.”
Mom returned with a tea tray, and the familiar ritual of pouring and serving gave us all something to focus on that wasn’t the slow-motion collapse of our family business. She settled back into her chair with her own cup and picked up the conversation where we’d left off.
“Well, we can’t solve everything tonight,” she said with forced cheer. “Speaking of which, are you planning to go to the Christmas market in town? I know Stacy and the kids are excited about it.”
I welcomed the change of subject, even though the Christmas market was another reminder of how much our community had shrunk over the years.
What used to be a major event that drew visitors from surrounding towns was now mostly a gathering for locals trying to maintain traditions that fewer and fewer people seemed to care about.
“Yeah, I think so,” I said. “Brom’s going to stay back and keep an eye on the lodge.
Stacy wants to take Alder and Aspen into town so they can play with their friends.
I figured I’d go along to help wrangle them.
I was going to put up a few flyers as well.
Just in case people forgot we were out here. ”
“That sounds nice,” Mom said. “It’ll be good for you to get off the property for a while, spend some time with people your own age. You have been on this farm far too long. I blame us for that. We should have done better.”
“Mom, you make me sound like a hermit,” I said. “I’ve been off the farm plenty. I like it here.”
“I just worry we might have held you back.”
I knew why she was going down this road. She was thinking about the demise of our way of life. She was probably thinking I couldn’t make it in the real world.
I knew I could.
Mom launched into a spiel about her latest obsession, knitting. She set down her teacup and her whole face lit up.
“Oh, that reminds me! I joined the knitting circle at the community center,” she said, practically bouncing in her chair. “We’re making baby blankets for the new mothers at the hospital in Albany. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Dad and I exchanged a glance. Mom had never been much of a crafts person. She had always been too busy running the lodge to sit still long enough for needlework. But apparently retirement was changing that.
“That’s great, Mom,” I said, trying to match her enthusiasm. “How’s it going?”
She grimaced. “Well, that’s the problem.
Everyone else in the group has been knitting for years.
Decades, some of them. And here I am, fumbling around with these needles like I’ve never seen yarn before.
” She picked up the Christmas stocking she’d been mending and held it up as evidence.
“Look at these stitches! They’re so uneven.
Mrs. Wickman—you remember her from the post office—she can knit an entire row in the time it takes me to do three stitches.
And don’t even get me started on Pearl. That woman’s fingers move so fast it’s like watching magic. ”
I could hear the frustration creeping into her voice. Mom had always been competent at everything she touched. Seeing her doubt herself over something as simple as knitting felt wrong.
“I’m worried I’m going to ruin the whole project,” she said with a sigh. “These blankets are going to new mothers, Sylvie. They should be perfect. What if my section unravels? What if it’s so obviously amateur that it ruins the whole thing?”
“Mom,” I said gently, “I’m sure your knitting is fine. And even if it’s not perfect, the thought behind it is what matters. Those new mothers aren’t going to care if your stitches are a little uneven.”
“You should see what the other ladies are producing. Beautiful, intricate patterns that look like they belong in a boutique. And then there’s my contribution, looking like a kindergartner’s art project.”
Dad cleared his throat from his recliner. “Gigi, you’ve been at this for what, two weeks? Cut yourself some slack.”
“Three weeks,” she corrected. “And I should be better by now. I used to pick things up so quickly. Remember when I taught myself to use that new reservation system for the lodge in one afternoon?
I did remember. Mom had always been the type of person who could master anything she set her mind to, usually faster than anyone expected. It was one of the things that made her such an amazing mom.
As she spoke, I found myself thinking about Kent.
Would he want to come to the Christmas market?
The thought of showing him around town, introducing him to more of our community, was surprisingly appealing.
Maybe seeing Northwood at its most festive and charming would help him understand what made this place special, what made it worth investing in.
I didn’t mention him to my parents, though.
The possibility that Kent’s family might be interested in some kind of business partnership or investment was too fragile, too uncertain to share yet.
I learned the hard way not to get my hopes up too quickly or let myself believe in solutions that might turn out to be mirages.
But I couldn’t help the flutter of excitement in my chest when I thought about what his presence here might mean.
He seemed genuinely interested in the property today, asking thoughtful questions and even helping out with the tree disaster.
And when he mentioned that his family was always looking for investment opportunities?
I pushed the thought away before it could fully form. I needed to be smart about this. Get to know him better, understand what he was really looking for, before I started counting on anything.
“The market should be lovely this year,” Mom was saying. “I heard they have some new vendors coming in from Albany.”
“Mmm,” I murmured, only half listening as I mentally debated whether to ask Kent to join us. What was the worst that could happen? He would say no, and I’d go to the market with Stacy and the kids like originally planned.
Or he’d say yes, and I would get to see whether Kent Bancroft could appreciate small-town Christmas magic when it wasn’t attached to a business opportunity.