Chapter 49
SYLVIE
It had been a week since Kent disappeared from my life as suddenly as he’d entered it. I told myself no less than a hundred times a day that it was a good thing he disappeared. No one was talking about the offer. No one was talking about the fact it was our last Christmas at the lodge.
It was much easier to just pretend it wasn’t happening. If we dwelled on the negative, it was going to ruin the present. No one actually said that’s what we were doing, but we all just kind of understood.
I was officially in full-blown party planning mode. The Christmas Eve celebration at Northwood Lodge was always our biggest event of the year, but this time it was more urgent. Like we were throwing one last magnificent party before the curtain came down on everything we’d built.
I refused to think about it that way, though. Today was about silver linings and new beginnings and making this the most magical Christmas Eve anyone had ever experienced.
Even when Emmy and I discovered that mice had made themselves at home in our wreath storage box.
“Oh, Sylvie,” Emmy groaned, holding up what used to be a beautiful evergreen wreath adorned with burgundy velvet ribbon.
Now it looked like it had been through a woodchipper, with bits of greenery scattered across the bottom of the storage container and telltale mouse droppings mixed in with the pine needles. “They’ve destroyed everything.”
I peered into the box, taking inventory of the carnage.
Three years’ worth of carefully crafted wreaths, reduced to nesting material for a family of very industrious rodents.
The logical response would have been frustration, maybe even tears.
We had exactly six hours until guests started arriving for the party, and wreaths were a crucial part of our holiday décor.
Instead, I found myself laughing.
“You know what?” I said, pulling my hair back into a messy bun and rolling up my sleeves. “This is perfect.”
Emmy stared at me like I’d lost my mind. “Perfect? Sylvie, the party starts at six. It takes me that long to make one wreath.”
“New wreaths are a chance for new memories,” I said, already mentally cataloging the supplies we’d need. “These old ones were beautiful, but they were from previous years, previous Christmases. Tonight deserves its own wreaths, made with love specifically for this celebration.”
Emmy held her hand to my forehead like she was checking if I had a fever. “Are you feeling okay? Because this level of optimism is honestly a little concerning. Have you been taste testing the eggnog?”
I was feeling more than okay. For the first time since the disastrous situation with Kent, I felt like myself again. Purpose flowed through my veins like caffeine. My hands itched to create something beautiful.
“I’m feeling like we’re about to make the most gorgeous wreaths Northwood Lodge has ever seen,” I said, already heading toward the supply closet where we kept our crafting materials. “And I’m feeling like this Christmas Eve is going to be absolutely perfect.”
Emmy surveyed the supplies I spread across the long table in the lodge’s main room. “Okay,” she said slowly. “This might actually be doable. But only if we assembly-line it.”
“Even better,” I said, already reaching for the wire wreath forms. “We’ll make it a family affair.”
I had a natural talent for wreath-making that I’d inherited from my grandmother, along with her steady hands and eye for proportion.
Emmy’s attempts tended toward the enthusiastic but lopsided.
Mine came together with an almost effortless grace.
I could see the finished product in my mind before I even started.
I could envision exactly where each element should go to create the most pleasing composition.
If I could get a job just making wreaths, I would absolutely do it.
My first wreath took shape quickly. I finished it with a burgundy velvet bow that I positioned slightly off center, the way my grandmother had taught me.
Emmy watched me work with open admiration. “How do you do that?” she asked, looking down at her own attempt, which resembled a bird’s nest more than a wreath. “It’s like you just think ‘be beautiful’ and the greenery obeys.”
“Practice,” I said, though that wasn’t entirely true. Some people had a gift for music or mathematics. I had a gift for making things beautiful. “Here, let me show you a trick.”
Under my guidance, Emmy’s wreath began to take shape. Her face lit up with pride. “Yeah! I love it!”
I heard them before I saw them. Aspen and Alder. Two little hurricanes that would definitely want to help. I was their age when my grandmother taught me.
“Looks like reinforcements have arrived,” I said, grinning as my niece and nephew walked in.
“What happened?” Alder asked.
“Mice,” Emmy said. “They ate our wreaths.”
“Well, that’s rude,” Aspen said. “Can we help?”
I crouched down to their level and grabbed two smaller wire forms from the supply pile. “Of course you can help. But first, let me show you the secret to making a wreath that looks like it belongs in a fancy magazine.”
Aspen bounced on her toes with excitement while Alder tried to look more mature and interested, though I could see the anticipation in his eyes too.
“The first thing is to always work in the same direction. See how I’m laying these pieces? They all point clockwise around the circle.”
“Like this?” Aspen asked, carefully positioning her first bundle of evergreen.
“Perfect! You’re a natural.” I helped her secure it with wire. “Now, the really important part is to step back every few bundles and look at your whole wreath. Sometimes what looks good up close doesn’t work when you see the big picture.”
Alder was more methodical, studying each piece of greenery before committing to placement. “Aunt Sylvie, why do some of these branches have berries and some don’t?”
“Good eye,” I said, impressed by his attention to detail. “The ones with red berries are winterberry holly. We use those as accent pieces. Just a few sprigs scattered around to add color. Too many and it gets overwhelming. Too few and it looks sparse.”
I watched them work, their little faces scrunched up in concentration. Aspen chattered away as she added each piece, narrating her choices.
“This is harder than it looks,” he said after struggling to get a particularly stubborn branch to stay in place.
“Most beautiful things are,” I told him. “But that’s what makes them special. Anyone can buy a wreath from a store. Not everyone can make one with their own hands.”
Emmy appeared beside us with steaming mugs of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and cinnamon. “Fuel for the artists,” she announced.
The kids immediately abandoned their wreaths for the hot chocolate, leaving sticky fingerprints on everything they touched afterward. But somehow that just made the whole project feel more authentic, more joyful.
“Well, would you look at that,” Dad said, his face breaking into the kind of smile I hadn’t seen from him in weeks. “The Christmas elves have taken over my lodge.”
“We’re making new wreaths,” I explained. “The mice got into our storage.”
“Industrious little critters,” Brom said, setting down his firewood and surveying our work. “These look even better than the old ones.”
“Do you want to help, Grandpa?” Aspen asked.
“You know what?” he said, hanging his coat on the back of a chair. “I think I will.”
Brom joined us too. Soon we had six pairs of hands working. The conversation flowed from childhood memories to funny guest stories to the excitement for Christmas. We talked about everything except the one thing that hung over all of us like a shadow, the future of Northwood Lodge.
But in a way, that made the evening even more precious.
As we worked, I found myself memorizing every detail.
The way Dad’s weathered hands carefully arranged holly berries.
The sound of Aspen’s laugh when Brom told the story about the guest who’d insisted that the deer in our woods were actually escaped reindeer from Santa’s workshop.
These were the treasures that couldn’t be appraised or acquired or replicated by some corporate hospitality chain.
The joke was on the Bancroft family. They could raze our homes to the ground, but they couldn’t take away the beauty. We were going to carry that with us. They might cut down every single tree and demolish the lodge, but we had the memories.
By five o’clock, we had completed ten gorgeous wreaths, each one unique but cohesive with the others.
They ranged from traditional evergreen arrangements to more whimsical creations that incorporated pinecones, cinnamon sticks, and dried orange slices.
The scent of fresh greenery filled the entire main room of the lodge, mixing with the wood smoke from the fireplace to create the most perfect Christmas atmosphere imaginable.
“These are incredible,” Dad said, stepping back to admire our handiwork. “Sylvie, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“We all did,” I corrected, looking around at my family with gratitude that made my chest tight. “This is what we do best. We come together and create magic.”
My family carefully put away each wreath, wrapping them in tissue paper like precious artifacts. Nobody said it out loud, but we all knew these might be the last wreaths we’d ever make together in this room. The thought settled in my chest like a stone, but I pushed it down. Not tonight.
“Dinner’s ready,” Mom called from the kitchen, her voice carrying that forced cheerfulness we’d all been wearing like armor this past week.
We took our seats at a table with our guests around us. It had become our ritual since Kent left, eating together every single night like we were trying to store up these moments before they disappeared forever.
Nobody talked about why we were suddenly having family dinners every night when we used to be lucky to manage it twice a week.
Nobody mentioned that we were all clinging to each other a little tighter these days, staying a little longer after each conversation ended.
It was just another one of those unspoken things.
“So,” Brom said after swallowing a bite of food. “Sounds like the party is going to be packed.”
“We’re expecting at least a hundred,” Dad said. I heard the satisfaction in his voice. “That’s more than last year.”
“Word of mouth,” Stacy added, spooning green beans onto Alder’s plate despite his obvious reluctance. “The Hendersons from last weekend told their neighbors, who told their friends. Good news travels fast.”
I smiled, but my stomach twisted. Good news travels fast, but so does bad news. How long before people heard about the Bancroft offer? How long before our guests started asking questions about whether the lodge would still be here next Christmas?