“Home sweet home,” I murmured to myself.
It wasn’t the Ritz. It wasn’t even the nice, cozy room in the lodge, but at least I wasn’t sleeping in the cold SUV. And it wasweird, but I was happy to at least be near Sylvie even if she didn’t want anything to do with me.
Yet.
I was hoping to wear her down. I could be charming. I knew I was fighting an uphill battle with the whole family thinking I was the biggest piece of shit, but Santa had told me not to lose hope. I was choosing to follow that advice.
I was unpacking my duffel bag when I noticed a door I had missed earlier. It was partly hidden behind a particularly enthusiastic display of plastic poinsettias and pretty angels. It led to a lean-to addition that looked like it had been built as an afterthought decades ago.
Inside, I discovered what could only be described as a Christmas light graveyard.
Boxes and boxes of old Christmas lights were stacked from floor to ceiling, each one labeled with masking tape in faded handwriting. “Front Porch 1987.” “Tree Farm Display 1994.” “Main Lodge Windows 2001.” Some of the boxes looked like they hadn’t been opened in years.
These weren’t the neat, efficient LED strings that had taken over the market in recent years. These were the real deal. Big, chunky bulbs in primary colors. They were the kind that got hot enough to warm your hands and drew enough power to dim the lights in neighboring counties.
But they were so authentic. So nostalgic.
And I happened to know someone who really liked nostalgia.
I pulled out a random strand, half expecting it to crumble in my hands. Instead, I found myself holding what looked like a string of oversized gumdrops, each bulb the size of a walnut and heavy enough to make the whole strand sag under its own weight.
On impulse, I carried the strand back into the main cabin and plugged it into the wall outlet. Half the bulbs flickered to life.The light was different from modern LEDs with a slight flicker that made everything look like it was moving.
I spent the next hour testing strand after strand, sorting the working lights from the broken ones. Most of them had at least some functional bulbs, and even the “broken” ones usually just needed a bulb or two replaced from the collection of spares I found in several smaller boxes.
I started taking the good bulbs from the fried strands and completed full strands.
As I worked, an idea began to form in my mind. A crazy, probably stupid idea that would require hours of work in freezing temperatures and had about a fifty-fifty chance of resulting in electrocution.
But if I could pull it off, if I could create something truly magical with these forgotten treasures, maybe I could show Sylvie that I understood what this place meant to her. Maybe I could prove that I wasn’t just another corporate shark trying to exploit her family’s legacy.
Maybe I could create a Christmas miracle of my own.
By the time I’d sorted through all the usable lights, it was full dark outside and the temperature had dropped to the kind of bitter cold that had the snot freezing in my nose.
It was the perfect weather for standing outside stringing Christmas lights for hours.
I loaded up the first batch of light strands and headed for the tree farm, my boots crunching through snow that had developed a thin crust of ice on top. The moon was bright enough to see by, which was good since I’d forgotten to bring a flashlight. I was completely winging it.
The plan was simple in concept, if not in execution. I was going to weave the vintage lights through the entire Christmas tree farm, creating a wonderland that would be visible from the lodge and provide the perfect backdrop for the remaining days ofthe holiday season. There were lights strung crisscrossed above the trees, but I was going to take it to the next level. Clearly, too much was the idea around the place.
In practice, it turned out to be one of the most challenging projects I had ever undertaken.
The first problem was the sheer scale of the tree farm. What had looked like a manageable area during my previous visits turned out to cover a lot of ground when you were trying to string lights through every tree. The second problem was that vintage Christmas lights were heavy and draping them properly through pine branches required reaching into spaces that were definitely not designed for human hands. I just hoped there wasn’t a rabid squirrel waiting to take a bite out of my fingers.
The third problem was the power supply.
I’d been working for about an hour, successfully lighting up the first section of trees, when I made the mistake of grabbing an extension cord that had developed a small break in its insulation. The shock that ran through my body was like being kicked by a particularly vindictive mule.
“Son of a—” I bit off the curse, dancing around in the snow and shaking my hand like that would somehow undo the electrical assault I just got.
That could have ended badly. But despite the setbacks and the cold that was rapidly turning my fingers into useless appendages, I kept working. I wasn’t even letting myself think about how foolish it was.
Because every time I stepped back to survey my progress, every time I saw another section of trees come to life with colorful light, I could picture Sylvie’s face when she saw it. I could imagine the way her eyes would light up and the way she’d press her hands to her mouth in surprise and delight.
At least that’s what I was hoping I would see. That mental image was worth every frozen finger and electrical shock.
The night got colder as it wore on but I just pushed through. My hands were so numb I could barely feel the light strands I was working with. I had long since lost feeling in my toes.
