“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.
