Chapter One: Nick

The weathered barn stood its ground from the day it was constructed some eighty years earlier, surviving bitter winters, scorching heat, and eventual foreclosure. It was now nothing more than a symbol of a life on the land; a quaint reminder of a simpler time.

I don’t know what drew Melanie to its massive rusty-hinged doors. I sat in the truck, shaking my head as I tabulated the monumental cost of the renovations, knowing she would buy it. Knowing I would fix it. Knowing I would do anything that made her happy.

What neither Melanie nor I would know was that within eighteen months of signing on the dotted line, she would be gone. The flame that glowed within her and lit my heart would be snuffed out by too many white blood cells. 

I did what I could to make the old barn presentable, then eventually useful as a photography studio. What I couldn’t do on my own, I found enough help from within my new home in this part of Ontario called the “Quinte Region”. The acreage I own as a thirty-five-year-old widower spans a beautiful stretch of sideroad in Prince Edward County, which I quickly learned is referred to simply as “The County”.

Working with my hands to restore Melanie’s dream kept her as alive as I could make her. It was her barn. If I brought it back to life, then maybe…

Sorry, I think I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is Nick Barron, and I’m trying to write this down as fast as I can, so I don’t lose the essence of the story. I can remember the facts, and maybe even the feelings of the story, but the…what? The magic? The miracle? 

The sheer impossibility?

Yeah, that’s it. I need to write it down as quickly as I can because, frankly, you won’t believe it. I don’t think I believe it.

But it happened. 

All I can do is write what I know. I’ll leave it up to you whether you believe this kind of stuff happens all the time.

Or only at Christmas.

Chapter Two: Holly

I knew for small business owners, the hours would be long, the work would be hard, and the stress would be exhausting. I love my floral business and laboured to carve out a little niche in my hometown of Belleville, Ontario. It earned its nickname “The Friendly City” in a variety of ways, but nothing drives that home deeper than the holiday season. Light displays, many area parades, and almost daily church socials, craft shows and children’s pageants dotted December’s busy calendar. 

All of that was very good for a successful florist in the busiest month of the year. Which was also a wonderful thing for me personally.

I don’t like December, so I need to stay busy. It’s not the weather or dwindling daylight. It’s because of, well…you know.

Wait, I guess you don’t know. Sorry. I’m having a hard time keeping my head on straight since all this happened.

My name is Holly Gardner. (I know. I was born a florist) I am not very good with words, and I’m really afraid I’ll tell it wrong. That would be a shame, because this story needs to be told properly. Do I tell it from my head, or do I use the words from my heart? 

Yeah, that’s the problem. I’ve lived for so long in my head, and shut down my heart that I don’t trust it will tell the story right. It will probably exaggerate things to make up for lost time. Except, how do you exaggerate a story that is too unbelievable in the first place?

Telling the story from my head is a worse idea. It will try to organize events logically.

Believe me, nothing over the past month has been logical. I would describe these last few weeks as…magical? Miraculous?

Impossible?

Where do I even start? I can’t start at the beginning, because I don’t know when it actually began. Well, that’s not true. I now know when it began.

I just didn’t know it at the time.

Chapter Three: Nick

Four Weeks Ago

I joined the flow of traffic leaving Loyalist College just after 4:00 and headed south down to the Bay of Quinte and the half-hour drive home. It was just another afternoon class I taught at the College on photography. I could make an OK living as a nature photographer moonlighting as a wedding photographer and part-time “professor”. It filled the hours.

I keep a keen eye out for chances to stay busy in December. My mind will run away with me as the day gets closer.

I changed back into some warmer outdoor clothing and headed back into Belleville to snap pictures for a new event called “Trees and Lights”. It was being held in a square of land on the Bay of Quinte called Jane Forrester Park. It was an outdoor display completely free for the public. The walkway was jammed with families trying to corral young children who wanted to rush onto the grass and climb the brightly lit displays.

Privacy issues dictated I couldn’t take pictures of people without their permission, so I tried to avoid background revellers as I walked the perimeter. It was an impressive collection of designs, patterns, and musical displays. I took several pictures of the entrance, adorned by a beautiful Christmas wreath.

After about thirty minutes, I’d headed back to my car when a slight movement on the knoll caught my eye. All guests were to stay on the path, so I thought some parent must be in search of a wandering child. 

Except this woman now stood rock still, hands in her coat pockets.

She had her back to me, staring out at the Bay of Quinte rather than the parking lot. She was more silhouette, a human screen for the passing glittering lights. It made a striking photo. I snapped off a half dozen and quickly cropped the last couple to zoom in on her.

It was a remarkable photograph.

I waited for her to head back my way so I could get her permission to use the photograph to highlight the evening. After all, it would be impossible to identify her from so far away, so she shouldn’t mind, but it was only right to ask. I disconnected the lens from the camera and closed up my case, turning to look at the crest of the hill.

She was gone.

Chapter Four: Holly

“I have no intention of going tonight,” I said. “Opening night is for families and lovers, and since I have neither, I will swing by another time.”

My best friend and employee at my flower shop, “Hearts and Roses”, is named Martha Treewater. You, literally, cannot make this stuff up. What makes her such an outstanding employee is her robust knowledge of flowers and customers. What makes her such a great friend is her never-ending need to meddle in my non-existent love life. 

The city was flipping the switch on a new nightly display on the Bay of Quinte. They called it “Trees and Lights” in Jane Forrester Park. The location makes total sense. It is directly on the bay with ample parking.

But Jane Forrester Park and I have a history, and not a good one.

“I’m just saying that as a Quinte Business Achievement Award winner this fall, you should make an appearance. All the bigwigs will be there tonight, and you are now a Big Wig.” Martha said. 

Martha had a point, but going back there would open up some wounds that I just wasn’t ready to let bleed again. There are enough self-help articles that state that time is the only medicine, so why haven’t four years been enough?

“I’ll tell you what,” Martha offered. “Let’s put together a Christmas wreath you can offer to Mayor Ellis as a goodwill gesture to the city for the gates of the display. That way, you can be seen as a big wig and a good corporate citizen.”

There was no stopping Martha on a mission, so I relented and drove down to the park, careful not to damage the huge wreath Martha had constructed. Lord knows how much this goodwill offering was costing me.

I strolled up to the dignitaries with my heart in my throat. I wasn’t an actual sponsor of the event, and I don’t think I was actually that well know. But here was an opportunity to toot my horn, so why not? 

Mayor Ellis noted my arrival and broke into a grin when he saw the wreath. “Wow, Holly, what a beautiful idea. It never occurred to me to have a wreath. This is so generous of you. Thank you,” he said with a grateful smile. He introduced me to several people around the entrance, some I knew and others I’d only heard of. 

The wreath was placed to the right of the entrance gate, impossible to miss as Mayor Ellis began the opening ceremony that would culminate in the switching of the lights. It was timed for 5:00 as dusk stole what daylight remained.

It was truly an exceptional display.

Children cried out, pointing at stars, flying reindeer and jolly Santas.

I stood, rooted in my spot, trying to capture their magic. Their gleeful giggles were fading from my ears. I told myself not to look. Don’t look.

Look anywhere but the crest of the hill.

I politely said my goodbyes and walked around the displays to my car, hastily parked on South Front Street. As I got to the corner, a strange feeling stopped me. 

I just couldn’t, but I knew I had to. The only way was to confront it. 

I convinced myself four years was enough time wasted, and before I knew it, I’d slipped behind a walled display and snuck up on the hill. 

Here was the very spot. I stared out at the Bay of Quinte as I had four years earlier, disbelieving what I was hearing. The words again rang out in my ears. 

“Someone else.”

“Over.”

“Sorry.”

“For the best.”

I let the sorrow wash over me before turning back to my car, grateful that at least no one had seen me.