Chapter One

Cassie

I first caught sight of Springfield as the late December daylight began to fade, the sun shifting low on the horizon and painting the snowy fields in blush-pink and pale gold. I’d been driving for hours, escaping the sprawl of Chicago and venturing deeper into a part of the country I rarely visited. The landscape changed gradually: tall buildings and concrete gave way to rolling farmland, fence posts capped with ice, and distant clusters of evergreens. Now, nearing my destination, I saw the town nestled in a gentle valley, each small house and storefront haloed by Christmas lights. Even from a distance, Springfield looked as if it had walked right off the front of a holiday postcard.

As I guided my rental car off the main highway, my headlights swept over a sign dusted in snow: Welcome to Springfield: Where Wishes Come True This Christmas! Great. The tagline was everywhere—on the press release my editor had sent me, in the emails from the Chamber of Commerce, even noted by the friendly woman at the gas station a few exits back. The so-called “Wishing Tree” tradition was central to this place’s identity. According to the legend, making a heartfelt Christmas wish and tying it to the tree’s branches could bring miracles. I snorted softly. Magical trees? Miracles at Christmas? Give me a break. It was obviously just another small-town marketing gimmick, a way to lure tourists and their wallets into these old-fashioned shops.

I slowed as I entered the town proper. The streets were lined with lampposts wrapped in evergreen garlands and red bows. Wreaths hung on doors, lights twinkled in window displays, and pine-and-cinnamon scents drifted in the air. It was charming, I’d give them that. But I didn’t buy into the nostalgia. Give people a heartwarming story, slap it onto a website, and watch them come running. I’d seen enough “authentic experiences” turned money-making schemes back in the city to recognize one here. Springfield was just capitalizing on Christmas cheer to boost its economy. The Wishing Tree, to me, sounded like a convenient piece of folklore turned cash cow, and I was determined to put a stop to the runaway train once and for all.

I found the Hollyhock House easily enough. My editor had booked me there because the place was central, and apparently the bigger hotels—if you could call them that—were sold out for the season. Hollyhock House was a large, Victorian-style bed-and-breakfast on a corner lot, its porch festooned with strings of tiny lights. A hand-painted sign depicting pink hollyhock flowers announced its name. I sighed, pulling into the small gravel lot at the side of the house. This definitely wasn’t the Four Seasons, or even a boutique hotel like the kind I’d pick in Chicago. No spa, no room service, no sleek modern décor. Just a quaint old house with holiday trimmings and—if the online description was to be believed—a “cozy, home-away-from-home atmosphere.” Well, at least I’d be warm.

Hauling my suitcase behind me, I trudged up the porch steps. The old wooden boards creaked softly underfoot. I opened the heavy front door and stepped inside, greeted by a rush of warmth. I stood in a small foyer that opened into a parlor where a fire crackled in a stone hearth. The scent of cinnamon, pine, and woodsmoke filled my nose. Antiques and heirloom furniture filled the room—an old grandfather clock in the corner, a pair of armchairs upholstered in floral tapestry, crocheted doilies on the side tables. It was like stepping back a century. A ginger cat, curled on a settee near the hearth, opened one eye, regarded me coolly, then went back to sleep. I tugged at the collar of my wool coat, feeling both intrigued and slightly uncomfortable. This was not my usual style. I was used to minimalist city apartments, gyms on the first floor, and Starbucks on every corner.

“Hello there! You must be Ms. Monroe.”

I turned to see an older woman approaching from behind a small reception desk made of polished wood. She was short and pleasantly plump, with soft gray curls and warm brown eyes. She wore a red cardigan with a tiny Christmas wreath brooch pinned at her collar. A man—tall, lean, with a neatly trimmed beard—followed close behind, smiling kindly. They looked like the grandparents you’d see in a Hallmark movie, with gentle wrinkles and welcoming faces.

“Yes, I’m Cassie,” I said, mustering a polite smile. “Cassie Monroe.”

“Wonderful,” the woman said, clasping her hands together. “I’m Martha Holly, and this is my husband, Fred. Welcome to Hollyhock House.” Her voice had that soothing tone you might expect from a beloved elementary school teacher. “Let’s get you settled, dear.”

Fred inclined his head. “Long drive from the city, I’ll bet.” He didn’t say it with judgment, just a matter-of-fact warmth.

“About four hours,” I replied, rubbing my arms as the warmth of the room began to thaw me. The place might not have been my preferred choice, but I had to admit, it felt…comforting. Like a soft blanket wrapped around me after a long day.

Martha stepped out from behind the desk and came to take my suitcase. I tried to protest, but she waved me off. “Oh hush, I’ve got it. Fred’ll bring it up. You just warm up by the fire. Could I get you some tea? Or cocoa?”

I hesitated. Normally I’d refuse—time was money, I had notes to take, calls to make—but something about the glow in her eyes made me say, “Cocoa would be lovely.” Why not? I was here now, might as well enjoy a moment’s comfort.

Martha beamed, pleased as can be. “Have a seat, dear.”

I walked over to the settee where the cat lounged. I hesitated, not wanting cat fur on my black trousers, but as I sat on the edge, the cat stood, stretched, and curled around my ankle, purring softly. I stiffened. I’d never had a pet—my parents had always been too busy, and they hated the mess. Still, something about the gentle vibration of its purring and the way it nuzzled my calf made me melt a tiny bit. I reached down and stroked its head tentatively. The cat rewarded me by pressing its cheek into my palm. Cat fur on my clothes be damned—it was surprisingly nice to have this little creature appreciate me without conditions.

Martha soon returned with a mug of hot cocoa topped with a swirl of whipped cream and dusted with cocoa powder. I sipped it, pleasantly surprised by how good it tasted. Real chocolate, not some cheap powdery mix. “This is really good,” I said, genuinely impressed.

Martha smiled; her cheeks rosy. “Family recipe. Now, what brings you to Springfield for the holidays? Visiting family?”

I paused. The question was innocent enough, but it landed with a pang. “No, I’m here on business,” I said lightly, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m a reporter for an online magazine in Chicago. I’m here to write a piece about the Wishing Tree.”

Fred had taken a seat in one of the armchairs. He looked over, curious. “Working over Christmas? That’s a shame. No family gathering for the holidays?”

I resisted the urge to sigh. People always assumed that Christmas meant big family get-togethers. “My parents are off on business trips of their own,” I said simply. I decided not to mention that they’d been divorced for years, that my childhood had been more about nannies and tutors than gingerbread houses and heartfelt hugs. It wasn’t worth explaining that I’d never really believed in the kind of magic that people attributed to the season. “So, no. This is the best time for me to work. It doesn’t matter much to me anyway.” I tried to sound nonchalant.

Martha exchanged a glance with Fred. “Well, we’re sorry to hear that,” she said gently. “Everyone deserves a little holiday cheer.”

I smiled thinly and changed the subject. I hadn’t come here to discuss my personal life. “As I said, I’m here to cover the Wishing Tree story. The tree has become quite famous, I understand. People say it grants miracles.”

Fred leaned back; his eyes distant with memory. “A miracle indeed,” he said softly. “Oh, Martha, you tell it best.”

Martha settled beside me, her posture prim and proud. “Years ago, Fred and I wanted children desperately. We tried for years, but it never happened.” Her voice was quiet, and I sensed old heartbreak lingering. “As I got older, I gave up hope. One Christmas Eve, I wrote a wish on a slip of paper and tied it to the Wishing Tree out at Lawson’s Tree Farm. I knew it was silly, maybe. But I was so desperate. I told myself it would be my last wish.” She smiled softly. “That next autumn, I found out I was pregnant—at forty-three, if you can believe it. A miracle child. We raised our family in this very house.”

I sipped my cocoa to buy time for a diplomatic response. I’d heard countless “miracle” stories in my line of work, and most had mundane explanations. Maybe they’d finally tried a new fertility treatment, or maybe it was just a coincidence. “That’s quite a story,” I managed, trying to sound appreciative rather than doubtful. “What a happy outcome.”

Martha and Fred beamed as if I had confirmed their truth. I didn’t want to break their hearts by suggesting that correlation didn’t equal causation. “Thank you for sharing,” I added, standing up and straightening my jacket. “I should get settled in. It’s been a long drive.”

“Of course, dear,” Martha said, rising quickly. “Your room is upstairs, third door on the right. I’ve turned the radiator on so it should be nice and warm for you. If you need anything, let us know.”

I carried my mug upstairs, following Martha’s directions. The hallway was lit by sconces and lined with old photographs of the town in different eras—horse-drawn carriages, an old-fashioned storefront with candy canes in the window, a family posing proudly beside a horse-drawn sleigh. My room was small but cozy, with a quilt on the bed and a window that looked out onto a snow-covered garden. Not my usual style—no sleek furnishings, no glossy décor—but it felt oddly comforting in a way I wasn’t familiar with.

I set my mug down and opened my suitcase to unpack a bit. That’s when I noticed the rip in my coat’s left sleeve. Terrific. Probably snagged it on my car door or at one of those run-down gas stations. This was one of my better coats, too—charcoal gray, tailored wool, flattering. Well, I couldn’t go around with a ripped coat sleeve. I’d have to get a replacement. I freshened up, splashing warm water on my face, and then headed back downstairs.

Martha was just rearranging a basket of pinecones by the fireplace when I approached. “Martha, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I just noticed a rip in my coat. Is there somewhere in town I could find a new one?”

Martha brightened. “Of course. You should try Candi Couture. It’s on 3rd and Vine, just a few blocks away across the town square. Candi always has a selection of lovely coats this time of year.”

Candi Couture. The name alone suggested something fancy. I wasn’t expecting high-end fashion in a small town like this, but who knew—maybe I’d be surprised. I thanked Martha and stepped out into the early evening. The sun had almost set, and the lampposts glowed softly. Lights twinkled in shop windows, and I could hear faint Christmas music drifting from somewhere down the street. The sidewalks were relatively clear, and I made my way toward the square, following Martha’s directions.

The town square was charming: a gazebo festooned with ribbons, lights strung overhead, and a handful of people strolling arm-in-arm. On the far side, I spotted Candi Couture —a boutique fronted by large, sparkling windows. Inside, mannequins wore elegant dresses and cozy coats, and a sign near the entrance read: Holiday Sale! Find Your Perfect Winter Wardrobe . Perfect. Maybe I’d luck out and find something decent.

When I entered, a wave of warmth greeted me. The boutique smelled faintly of nutmeg and something floral. Racks of clothes stood in neat rows, and accessories were arranged with exquisite care on glass-topped tables. A tall, blonde woman in a fitted blazer and pencil skirt approached. She looked like she stepped out of a country club advert—perfect hair, flawless makeup, and that air of practiced sophistication. Her smile, though a bit theatrical, was genuine enough.

“Welcome to Candi Couture!” she trilled, extending a manicured hand. “I’m Candi McCall. How can I help you this evening?”

“Hi, I’m Cassie,” I said, shaking her hand briefly. “I’m staying at Hollyhock House, and Martha recommended I come here. I need a new coat. My old one got ripped.”

“Oh dear, we can’t have that now, can we!” Candi said. She guided me toward a rack of coats, the fabrics ranging from classic wool to stylish tweed. “We have a wonderful selection. Are you looking for something warm and classic, or something a bit more…fashion-forward?”

Before I could answer, two other women emerged from behind a curtain that presumably led to a back room. One had curly strawberry-blonde hair tied up in a high messy bun, freckles dancing across her cheeks. She wore jeans, a plaid shirt, and boots—clearly more casual. The other was tall and poised, with thick auburn hair pulled into a sleek low ponytail, her features calm and motherly, and dressed in a neat sweater and slim trousers. They both smiled at me with disarming ease.

“Juniper, Ginger, we have a guest in need of a coat,” Candi said, gesturing to the newcomers. “Cassie, this is my daughter Juniper and my older daughter Ginger.”

Juniper—the one with the messy bun—offered her hand, eyes bright. “Hi, nice to meet you. Don’t mind my outfit—I’m usually out in gardens or greenhouses, so I dress for comfort.” She had a warmth that reminded me of Martha, an easy friendliness.

Ginger gave a gentle nod. “Hello,” she said softly. She had a calm and serene presence, and I wondered if she’d been to finishing school. “Just let us know what you need.”

I explained my coat dilemma, and the three of them conferred among the racks. They pulled out a few options: a sleek navy wool coat with silver buttons, a soft cream one with a faux-fur collar, and a classic camel-hued number. I tried them on while they fussed over fit and color. Normally, I disliked so much input, but something about their dynamic held my interest and I felt comfortable. Despite Candi’s waspy elegance, and Ginger’s prim calm, they didn’t push. Juniper made a quiet comment about how the green coat would bring out my eyes if I wanted to try something bolder. I ended up settling on a plum-colored wool coat with a belted waist. It fit well and felt luxurious without being ostentatious.

As I modeled the coat in the mirror, adjusting the belt, conversation drifted—inevitably—toward the Wishing Tree. These people were nothing if not consistent about their holiday legend.

Candi touched my shoulder lightly. “You know, the Wishing Tree helped bring Juniper back to Springfield,” she said, her voice growing softer, more earnest. “She moved away for a time, and the family had…well, we had our differences. I was afraid we’d lost that closeness we once had.” Her voice wavered slightly, and I saw tears glistening in her eyes. “One Christmas, I tied a wish to the tree, asking that my daughter would come home and that our family could heal. Soon after, Juniper returned. We’ve all been closer since.”

Juniper glanced at her mother, her freckled cheeks warming with emotion. They embraced, a brief but poignant hug. I stood there, observing this moment of sincerity. I tried to remember my own mother hugging me like that. Nothing came to mind. She’d pat me on the shoulder occasionally, sure, or smile proudly at an academic award, but a heartfelt mother-daughter hug wasn’t something I’d grown up with.

Ginger chimed in, “I met my husband at the Wishing Tree,” she said with a small, nostalgic smile. “We literally bumped into each other one year during college break. I hadn’t intended to be there, but I was curious about the wishes people left. Brian was reading some of them, and we ended up talking for hours. It was love at first sight.”

Of course, I thought. Another love story spun around this magical tree. I managed a polite smile and nodded. “That’s very sweet,” I said, trying not to sound too skeptical. They genuinely believed in this magic, and who was I to stomp all over their cherished memories?

Juniper adjusted my coat’s collar, meeting my gaze. “Have you gone to Lawson’s Tree Farm yet, to see the Wishing Tree yourself?”

“Not yet,” I said. “It’s on my list. I’m planning to interview Wyatt Lawson, the owner.” I noticed Juniper’s eyebrows lift ever so slightly at Wyatt’s name.

“Oh, Wyatt.” She grinned mischievously. “You’ll have to tell me what you think of him. I get some of my trees from his farm for my landscaping projects. He’s…well, let’s just say he’s quite the character.” Her tone clearly suggested more than that, and I felt a spark of curiosity. Just who was this Wyatt Lawson?

I studied Juniper. She was so different from me—comfortable in casual clothes, happier with dirt under her nails than designer polish. Yet I found myself liking her. There was no judgment in her eyes, just friendliness. She pulled out her phone and handed it to me. “If you have time, I can show you around. Springfield’s small, but there are little corners of it that are quite beautiful. My fiancé, Mason, and I were both born and raised here. We know all the good spots.” We exchanged numbers, and I felt a surprising flicker of warmth. Maybe making a friend here wouldn’t be so bad, even if we came from vastly different worlds.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’d appreciate that. I’m just here for this story, but maybe seeing the town through a local’s eyes will help me understand it better.”

Juniper nodded. “Anytime.”

By the time I stepped outside with my new coat, dusk had truly fallen, and I was grateful for the snug warmth of the wool. It wasn’t a designer label, but it suited the environment—simple, well-made, and warmer than my old one. The town square was quiet under the soft glow of festive lights. I glanced at my watch. I still had enough time before full dark to visit Lawson’s Tree Farm and see this famed Wishing Tree. Best to get an initial impression sooner rather than later.

I followed the directions I’d memorized from my notes, driving a short distance out of the center of town. The road became narrower, lined by tall, dark pines and dusted with fresh snow. When I arrived at Lawson’s Tree Farm, I parked in a gravel lot and climbed out, my heels sinking slightly. Brilliant idea—next time, wear more practical boots. The farm spread out before me: rows of evergreens silhouetted against a twilight sky, a large barn adorned with soft, twinkling lights, and in front of it, the Wishing Tree. I recognized it immediately: taller and older than the rest, its branches decorated with ribbons and slips of paper fluttering gently in the evening breeze.

I walked closer, the crunch of snow under my boots loud in the hush. The Wishing Tree glowed under a string of white lights, and the handwritten wishes—scraps of paper tied with twine or ribbon—rustled softly. People really put their faith in this? They pinned their deepest desires on a tree branch and believed it would deliver miracles? It seemed so…na?ve. And yet, I couldn’t deny a strange hush settling over me, a sense of standing before something that meant a great deal to many people.

“Can I help you?”

The voice startled me. I turned to see a man emerging from behind the barn’s corner. He was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt under a heavy canvas jacket. His beard—more like a trimmed goatee—framed a strong jawline, and he looked very much like the lumberjack caricature I’d half-expected. Muscular arms crossed over his chest; he regarded me with wary eyes. I felt his suspicion from ten feet away.

“Hello,” I began, smoothing my dark hair. “I’m Cassie Monroe, a reporter from Chicago. I’m here to write a piece on the Wishing Tree. You must be Wyatt Lawson?”

He nodded curtly, but didn’t offer a hand. “That’s me.” His voice was low and steady, without the practiced friendliness I’d received elsewhere. “I wasn’t expecting any reporter today.”

I forced a smile. “I’m just doing a preliminary visit, getting a feel for the place. If you have a moment, maybe you could tell me about the tree’s history?”

Wyatt’s expression hardened. “The Wishing Tree’s history isn’t for cheap exploitation,” he said bluntly. “It’s part of this town’s tradition—something people here believe in. I don’t want to see it twisted into some city article mocking us.”

I blinked, taken aback by his immediate defensiveness. “I’m not here to mock anyone,” I said, struggling to keep my tone even. Okay, maybe I was a bit skeptical, but he didn’t have to know that. “I just want to get the facts.”

“Facts?” He snorted softly. “Facts are that people come here, make a wish, and sometimes miracles happen. Don’t know what else you want to hear.”

His suspicion annoyed me. I met his gaze steadily. “Maybe about the origins of the tradition, the kind of wishes people make, whether you’ve seen it bring more tourism in recent years…”

Wyatt’s jaw tightened. “Tourism. Right. That’s what you’re after. More proof it’s just a money-maker.”

I folded my arms, my patience wearing thin. “Look, I’m doing my job. Maybe I came at a bad time. If you’re not interested in talking right now, I can come back tomorrow. But I’ll find out what I need to know, with or without your help.”

A tense silence fell between us. The distant sound of wind ruffled the tree’s branches. Finally, Wyatt shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just don’t go poking around without permission. This is private property.”

“Noted,” I said crisply. I cast one last glance at the Wishing Tree, noting how the papers and ribbons caught the light. Part of me wanted to inspect the wishes, see what people actually wrote. But with Wyatt’s glare boring into me, I turned and headed back to my car.

As I drove off, my heart thumped faster than I cared to admit. His attitude had rubbed me the wrong way, and yet a rush of something electric ran through me. He was rugged, sure, and good-looking in a rough-edged way. And his protectiveness over the tradition, while irritating, hinted at a deep connection to this place. Still, I was here to do a job, not be charmed by a lumberjack with trust issues—even if I liked a good challenge.

Back in town, I swung by a little café that seemed to offer takeout—some kind of hearty soup and bread would do nicely. I carried my dinner back to Hollyhock House and climbed the stairs to my room. My plan: eat, take notes, maybe a hot bath, and then sleep. Tomorrow I’d start fresh, interview some residents in a more official capacity, and find a way to present the Wishing Tree story in a clear-eyed, realistic manner. Magic? Hah. More likely, it was a combination of coincidence, community closeness, and the placebo effect of hope.

Yet as I sat at the small writing desk, typing up my initial thoughts, a niggling doubt crept in. The Holly’s story about finally having a child. Candi’s tears when she spoke of Juniper returning home. Ginger’s love-at-first-sight encounter. Could they all just be coincidences and sentimentality? Probably. But the sincerity I’d witnessed today chipped away at my armor. Just a crack, barely noticeable, but I knew it was there all the same.

I shook my head. No, I wouldn’t let these folks get under my skin. I had a job to do. Debunk the myth or at least present it in a sensible light, earn my editor’s approval, and head back to the city. End of story.

After finishing my notes, I slipped into the bathroom. The hot water soothed the day’s tensions from my shoulders. When I finally climbed into bed, the thick quilt tucked around me, I stared at the shadows on the ceiling and thought of Wyatt Lawson’s scowl, of Juniper’s friendly smile, and that small moment of genuine mother-daughter affection I’d witnessed. It had been a long time since I’d seen anything like that firsthand.

Outside, the wind sighed against the window, and the faint scent of woodsmoke drifted up from the fireplace below. Springfield might believe in Christmas magic and wishing trees, but I was immune. Still, as I closed my eyes, a tiny voice whispered that maybe, just maybe, I was exactly where I needed to be this Christmas—even if I didn’t believe it yet.