Excitement courses through me as I grab my notebook and rush down the back stairs, nearly tripping over my own feet in my haste. As I pass through the shop, because the front door is closer to the Inn located on the Town Square, I’m hit with the scent of cranberries and white chocolate.
Mrs. Pennington looks up from where she’s arranging treats in the glass display case. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”
“The Holly Inn,” I call back, already halfway out the door. “I’ve been invited to participate in their Christmas decorating competition.” I stop and just grin. It is not just anyone who makes it to this stage; I feel special.
“Oh, how wonderful,” she exclaims, her face lighting up. “You’ll do brilliantly, I’m sure of it.”
Her words warm my heart, but I quickly put the lid on that feeling as I push through the door. It’s one thing to share the news with a trusted friend and another to leave myself open as I walk out the door. I can’t afford to let my guard down, not when there’s so much at stake.
The crisp air nips at my cheeks as I cross the town square, and the sound of carols drifting from nearby shops adds to the festive atmosphere. Casa Rameriz and Hank’s Department Store windows are expertly designed. I’ve stopped to admire the view each time they’re changed out. Someone inside is a genius.
I cut diagonally across the square, passing the clock tower that rings on the hour. It’s old-fashioned, but I love it. There are grassy areas, now covered in snow, where children of different sizes have made snow angels. Inside, I’m smiling at the whimsy of the moment that brought about those snow angels. On the outside, I keep my face set.
The Historic Holly Inn looms before me, its red brick exterior and white columns exuding an air of timeless elegance. I pause for a moment, taking in the towering oak trees surrounding the property, their bare branches dusted with a light coating of snow. Christmas lights wrap around the trunk and up the branches. It’s a beautiful sight once the sun goes down—which shouldn’t be long.
The sidewalk in front of the grand entry is ice-free, and the door handles are polished to a shine. No one touches them because they open automatically—therefore, no fingerprints. The owners love this place; it’s evident in the care they take to keep it orderly and presentable. Parking is in the rear, but I don’t know why anyone would enter that direction when they could come through the doors like visiting royalty.
I take off my stocking hat before I enter, tucking it into my coat and running my hands through my hair to make sure it’s presentable.
As I enter the grand foyer, the plush crimson carpet muffles my footsteps. The scent of spiced cider fills the air, and I can hear the faint crackling of a fire from one of the nearby sitting rooms. My eyes are drawn to the antique paintings and gilded mirrors adorning the walls, each one telling the story of the Inn’s rich history.
I make my way to the ballroom, where the contest is held. I’ll have my own station in here and, if I win, get to decorate the whole room for Christmas. The high school hosts their Winter Formal Dance here, and the owners use the space to celebrate with their families. I’ve heard rumors that several wealthy families and famous people, including one football player-girlfriend-pop-star, also booked it this year for their Christmas party, although it’s all very hush-hush.
Can you imagine the exposure if my designs were seen—dare I say appreciated—by someone of that caliber? Her taste is known the world over. If she likes what I do, the whole world will like what I do.
I think I’m going to hyperventilate.
The instinct to run away and decline the opportunity is strong.
No. This is something I wanted when I believed in myself. Just because I’m struggling now doesn’t mean it was a bad idea. I trust the old me more than I trust the current me. I’m staying.
I push open the heavy wooden doors. The space is even more magnificent than I imagined from the pictures. Crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, their light dancing across the polished oak floors. Velvet drapes frame tall windows that offer glimpses of the snow-covered gardens outside.
For just a moment, I’m overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all. It’s spectacular, but also a blank canvas. I turn slowly, taking it all in. Then I breathe. Just breathe.
And … finally … I feel it—that spark of creativity igniting within me. I can see it so clearly: garlands of silver and gold draped along the walls, twinkling lights woven through elaborate centerpieces, and a majestic Christmas tree as the focal point, adorned with ornaments that catch and reflect the light in a dazzling display of hot pink, sky blue, red, lime green and plum. The more color, the better. This room is like vanilla ice cream, which everyone knows is the foundation for other flavors to layer on top to make something delicious.
I settle myself in the middle of the floor with my notebook open on my lap as I begin to sketch. The world around me fades away as I lose myself in the act of creation, my pencil flying across the page as I capture the vision in my mind.
I’m so engrossed in my work that I’m startled when a cheerful voice breaks through my concentration. “Oh my, that looks simply wonderful.”
I look up from the page to see a woman sitting next to me, our legs almost touching. She smells like honey. Her golden curls swing across her cheek, blocking her face from my view as she leaned in to get a better look at my sketch.
I’m taken aback by her proximity and apparent lack of personal boundaries. I lean away from her. “Thank you,” I reply a bit hesitantly. I’m not used to sharing my work, especially not in its early stages. It feels rude to yank my book to my chest and scoot across the floor. Instead, I tip the book and say purposefully, “I’m Bailey. Are you here for the competition too?” I don’t need my competition stealing my ideas. Been there and done that; I should make and sell the T-shirts.
The woman’s smile grows even brighter. “Oh no, I’m Gladys. I’m your guardian angel, and I’m here to help you.”
I blink, unsure how to respond to such an unexpected statement. “My... what now?”
Gladys nods enthusiastically. “Your guardian angel. Well, let me pause there for a moment and clarify. I’m a guardian angel in training, and I’m here to help you out this Christmas.” She pulled my hand down so she could see the sketch again. “Although I can’t see that you’ll need my help—you’re clearly talented.” She looks at me and squints, as if trying to see me more clearly. “Perhaps it’s not about winning this thing.Hmm. How’s your relationship with the Lord?”
Wow. That’s getting right to the point. “That’s... very kind of you to say about my work,” I say carefully. I fold the book closed and put my pencils back in their protective case. “And as for the other thing, Jesus has my heart, so I feel like we’re good there.”
Gladys beams at me. “That’s good to hear. He loves you so much.” She’s about to say something else when the ballroom doors open with a whoosh that I feel all the way through my being. Wait, did Gladys come in? How come I didn’t hear the doors open then?
Logan Brown, with his chiseled jawline and perfectly styled chestnut hair, exudes confidence with every step into the ballroom. My mind flashes back to the past three years of winners posted on the Inn’s webpage. Logan has won every year.
He’s my biggest competition.
