Chapter Three

Cassie

I arrived at Springfield’s town square just after midday, following the faint hum of holiday music and laughter that drifted along the sidewalks. The Hollyhock House had been warm and welcoming that morning—Martha offering me a slice of cranberry bread, Fred nodding his approval of the winter sun—and I’d left with a sense that maybe not everyone in this town was out to stage a Christmas charade. Still, my skeptical mind remained in place. I had a job to do, after all, and I had to remain objective and determined not to let cozy inns and friendly faces distract me from my assignment to uncover the truth.

The market occupied the center of Springfield’s historic square. A large gazebo stood at the heart of it, draped with garlands and tiny white lights that winked like stars against the green. Vendor booths clustered around the edges, their striped awnings providing shelter for craftsmen, bakers, and artisans selling handmade goods. The smell of roasted chestnuts mingled with hot cocoa and peppermint.

I took my time weaving through the crowd. Everyone seemed dressed for the occasion: thick scarves, knitted hats, mittens with reindeer patterns. The mood was buoyant, as if the entire town had decided that Christmas was the ideal time to shine. Carolers strolled between booths, singing softly. One wore jingle bells tied to her wrist, and the gentle chime merrily punctuated every step.

My editor had told me to paint a vivid picture of this place, and I could see why: the Holiday Market was enchanting, even for someone like me. I still believed Springfield was banking on the Wishing Tree’s legend to rake in tourist dollars, but I had to admire their thoroughness. If you wanted a nostalgic holiday experience, they served it up with a bow on top.

A sudden craving for something warm led me to a booth selling hot cider. The vendor, a cheerful man with ruddy cheeks and bulbous red nose that made me think of Rudolph, offered me a paper cup. “Spiced apple cider, miss, with a real cinnamon stick. Perfect for a cold day.”

I took a sip, and my eyebrows shot up. The cider was sweet and tart, and the cinnamon stick infused it with a woody sweetness that complemented the apple perfectly. “This is delicious,” I said, and meant it.

He grinned. “Glad you like it. We press the apples locally.” There it was again—that pride in local tradition. I paid him, thanked him, and moved on.

A booth next to his displayed a basket of something that smelled heavenly: small, intricately shaped cookies dusted with powdered sugar. A woman in an apron embroidered with edelweiss blossoms smiled at me over the display. “Care to try some traditional Christmas cookies, dear? They’re called Zimtsterne—cinnamon stars, a German specialty.”

I hesitated for half a second before curiosity won out. The cookies were star-shaped, covered in a thin glaze that shimmered in the light. I bit into one, and a burst of cinnamon, almond, and sugar spread across my tongue. The texture was soft and slightly chewy, the flavors layered with subtlety. I’d never tasted anything quite like it. “Wow,” I said through a mouthful, “these are incredible.”

Her eyes sparkled. “I learned the recipe from my grandmother. She was Swiss, actually, and she made these every Christmas. Baking them now makes me feel like she’s still with me.”

I nodded, unexpectedly moved. Here again, I found tradition and memory woven into something as simple as a cookie. I finished the Zimtstern and bought a small bag for later. It couldn’t hurt to indulge a little, right?

With my cider in one hand and my cookies tucked under my arm, I wandered deeper into the market. A booth displaying handmade ornaments caught my eye. Tiny glass globes painted with snowy scenes, carved wooden angels, and crocheted snowflakes dangled in neat rows. Each piece looked like it had a story. I chatted with a few locals—an older couple who collected an ornament each year to commemorate their marriage anniversaries, a young mother who chose a special decoration for her baby’s first Christmas. All of them seemed sincere, as if these tokens held genuine meaning.

I made notes in my small reporter’s notebook as I went, jotting down the details of the people I met, the things they said. I wanted to capture both sides: the overwhelming sentiment and the commercial angle. I still suspected Springfield leveraged these traditions for profit, but that didn’t mean the locals didn’t believe sincerely in what they offered. People often buy into marketing because it strikes an emotional chord.

Eventually, I came upon a booth adorned with twinkling lights and evergreen garlands. A sign proclaimed: Winter Wonderlands – Landscape Designs by Lucille Winter . At the center stood a woman who looked as if she’d stepped out of a storybook. She had a round, rosy face with kind eyes and wisps of white curls peeking under a knitted red cap. Her coat was forest green, and she wore boots sturdy enough for tramping through gardens. The air around her booth smelled of fresh pine and something floral, perhaps potpourri.

As I approached, she offered me a gentle smile. “Hello, dear,” she said. Her voice was warm and soft, like velvet. “Interested in holiday landscapes?”

I introduced myself. “I’m Cassie Monroe, a reporter from Chicago. I’m writing a piece on Springfield’s Wishing Tree tradition. I’ve heard you do a lot of the landscaping around here?”

Lucille nodded, her eyes twinkling. “I run Winter Wonderlands. We create winter displays, fairy gardens, anything that brings a bit of charm and shows off the wonderous beauty of Mother Nature herself. Juniper McCall works with me—she’s about your age, I think.

I smiled, remembering Juniper’s friendliness and casual confidence. “I met her at Candi Couture yesterday,” I replied. “She mentioned she uses Lawson’s trees in your designs. Seems everyone here is connected somehow.”

Lucille’s laugh was soft. “Springfield is that kind of place. We’re all tied together by traditions and stories.” She paused, adjusting a sprig of holly on a miniature landscape of a snow-covered cottage. “And the Wishing Tree…well, it’s at the heart of many of those stories.”

I tried to sound neutral. “Everyone keeps talking about it as if it’s truly magical.”

Lucille tilted her head, studying me. “You don’t believe in magic, I take it?”

I shrugged, sipping my cider. “I’m just gathering facts. I understand people treasure it, but magic? Seems like a stretch.”

Her smile didn’t waver. “Magic can mean many things. It doesn’t have to be wizards and potions. Sometimes, it’s the feeling you get when people come together to hope for something better. Miracles can happen if we’re open to them.”

“People say miracles, but couldn’t it just be coincidences?” I countered. “Wishes come true sometimes, sure, but not necessarily because of a tree.”

Lucille leaned forward slightly. “You’re right, coincidence plays a part in life. But consider this: Springfield’s Wishing Tree has brought people comfort, faith, and healing for generations, as I’m sure you’ll learn from talking with folks from around here.” Her voice turned gentle, almost motherly. “Isn’t the outcome what matters? Hope and belief can inspire people to take actions they otherwise wouldn’t, to open their hearts.”

I studied her, expecting to see a hint of irony or a practiced sales pitch. Instead, I found sincerity. She looked like Mrs. Claus, and she talked like someone who’d seen the world’s wonders and chosen to believe in their goodness. “You’re saying the Tree’s magic might just be the way it encourages people to believe and connect?”

Lucille nodded. “Exactly. When people believe in something good, they tend to create goodness in their own lives. That might be all the magic we need.”

I thanked her and moved on. Her words circled in my mind as I wandered the square, sipping the last of my cider. This assignment had already become more complicated than I’d expected. I came here to write a fluff piece, maybe even an expose. Instead, I kept meeting people whose heartfelt devotion to this tradition defied an easy dismissal. I didn’t know what to make of it all—yet.

By late afternoon, the sky had begun to change colors, the sun drooping low. I stopped by a quiet corner of the square, looking at a cluster of poinsettias displayed around a manger scene. Snow had started to fall lightly, dusting the rooftops. The sound of carols drifted closer as a quartet sang “Silent Night,” their voices weaving together in delicate harmony.

For a moment, I let myself feel the atmosphere. The sweet taste of those cookies lingered on my tongue, and my fingers still smelled faintly of cinnamon from the cider. I couldn’t remember the last time I slowed down enough to absorb these simple pleasures. Back in Chicago, I always rushed—deadlines, competition, the clamor, and breathlessness of ambition. The holidays there meant frantic shopping and overbooked calendars, not moments of peaceful contemplation.

I shook my head, chiding myself for becoming sentimental. I’d gotten distracted, that was all. I was here on business. Slipping my notebook into my coat pocket, I decided to head back to Lawson’s Tree Farm. If I was going to understand the Wishing Tree story, I needed to see it again—maybe this time without Wyatt breathing down my neck. I wouldn’t disturb him, just observe the tree at dusk, see if the magic Lucille hinted at sparked anything in me.

The drive out of town was quiet. The roads were lit by the gentle glow of streetlamps and Christmas lights. I passed a few houses, nearly every one of them boasting an elaborate display of one sort or other—a giant rendition of Santa and his reindeer on the roof, huge candy canes lighting walkways, and even a street where every house featured an arrangement representing the 12 gifts from the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

The car’s heater hummed softly, and I arrived at Lawson’s Tree Farm as the last band of pink and gold sunset faded behind the tree line.

Stepping out of the car, I tightened my scarf and breathed in the cold, pine-laced air. The Wishing Tree stood near the barn, exactly as I remembered. Its branches were outlined by fairy lights, giving it an ethereal shimmer. Colorful ribbons fluttered gently, tied to paper slips that held secrets and dreams. A wooden box at the base offered spare ribbon and paper, inviting anyone to join this tradition.

I approached slowly. The farm was quiet now. In the distance, I could see the silhouettes of evergreens swaying faintly in the wind, and the barn’s simple wooden structure loomed like a guardian. Slowly, I crouched carefully beside the box and lifted the lid, revealing a neat stack of small papers and a bundle of ribbon. The temptation came out of nowhere—I was supposed to be the reporter who didn’t believe in magic. And yet, something inside me still asked, What if? What would I wish for?

I took a slip of paper. The pen attached to the box felt cool and reassuring between my fingers. What did I want? Success? Approval from my editor? Those were too superficial. I already had them for the most part, anyway, so wishing for them seemed beside the point. A Christmas wish had to be something deeper, more meaningful. I took a deep breath, searching inside my heart.

Finally, I wrote, “I wish to feel something real again,” in small, neat letters. It was honest and vague enough not to embarrass me should anyone read it. Folding the paper, I tied it to a branch with a red ribbon. The slip fluttered quietly among the others. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was just paper and ink. But as I stepped back, I felt a strange tightness in my chest, like I’d admitted something important.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here again so soon.”

I startled, turning to find Wyatt leaning against the barn door. He wore jeans and a flannel under a sturdy coat, as usual. His goatee framed a serious mouth, and his arms were folded across his broad chest. His eyes, dark in the twilight, studied me carefully. I cursed myself for being caught in a vulnerable moment.

“I’m a reporter,” I said, keeping my tone crisp. “It’s my job to gather information.”

He pushed off the barn and strolled over, boots crunching softly on snow. “Gathering information by making a wish?”

My cheeks warmed. “So, I’m curious,” I replied, hating that I sounded defensive. “Everyone here believes in this tree’s magic. I just wanted to see what it feels like to participate.”

He nodded, gaze flicking to the ribbons. “So, what did you wish for?”

I crossed my arms, tilting my chin up. “None of your business.”

A hint of a smirk played on his lips. “Fair enough.” We stood in silence for a moment, the tension between us crackling. I remembered how guarded he was at the Market, how suspicious of my intentions. Now, he seemed calmer, but still watchful.

“I talked to Lucille today,” I said, trying to steer the conversation. “She believes the Wishing Tree’s magic is in how it inspires people.”

“That sounds like Lucille,” he said fondly. “She’s been at this a long time, designing landscapes that bring out the best in every season. She was a friend of my parents’ and I’ve known her practically my whole life. She knows a thing or two about cultivating beauty. Beauty, of course, comes in many forms.”

I studied him in the gentle glow of the lights. He was rugged, yes, and his skepticism toward me felt like a prickly shield. But there was more, wasn’t there? A respect for the land, for the people here. Maybe he just wanted to protect what mattered to them.

“Some people might say you’re all overly sentimental,” I ventured. “Clinging to a tradition that can’t be proven.”

Wyatt shrugged. “What’s proof?”

I opened my mouth to argue but couldn’t come up with a decent retort. Instead, I looked back at the tree. The soft hush of the evening settled around us. “It’s strange,” I admitted softly, “I expected to come here and find a silly tourist trap. But everyone seems so…genuine.”

He nodded, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Springfield’s small. We rely on each other.”

I turned to face him fully. “You don’t believe the tree’s magic, though. Do you?”

He cocked his head to the side as he gazed at me quizzically. “It’s true—I’ve always been more practical. But I know it means something important to the people I care about, and that’s good enough for me.”

I found myself liking that answer. Before I could say anything more, he shifted his stance and said, “I’ve got some free time now. If you want, I can show you around the farm. Give you the grand tour.”

Surprised, I hesitated. “It’s getting dark.” The idea of climbing around a farm in these boots wasn’t appealing, but a guided tour with Wyatt Lawson… That might give me insight into the man behind the stubborn facade. And I had to admit, the farm’s silhouettes were intriguing—long rows of evergreens, old fences, a distant pond reflecting the last threads of light.

He pointed toward a tractor parked near the barn. “We can ride my tractor through some of the fields. I’ll grab a blanket, so you don’t freeze. It’s a bit bumpy, but I’ll take it slow.”

I smirked. “You think I can’t handle a little bumpiness?”

His grin was matched by a wicked gleam in his eyes that immediately sent a rush of heat through my veins. I gulped.

“You handle yourself just fine,” he continued. “But these shoes…not so much.” He nodded at my heeled boots.

I rolled my eyes but smiled despite myself. “I didn’t come prepared for country life.”

“No kidding.” He sounded almost amused now. “Let me grab that blanket. Wait here.”

As he stepped into the barn, I exhaled slowly. A few days ago, I never would have imagined myself following a lumberjack farmer on a tractor ride to learn about a Christmas tradition I’d thought was bogus. Yet here I was, feeling a tug of curiosity—and something else. Something about Wyatt’s self-assuredness and the sincerity I’d encountered all day was wearing down my defenses.

Wyatt emerged from the barn a few minutes later carrying a thick woolen blanket. The light caught his features, and for a moment, I understood why Juniper had given me that knowing look at the boutique. He had undeniable sex appeal in a rugged, what-you-see-is-what-you-get way, in sharp contrast to the sleek men I’d dated in the city who wore suits like armor and smiled with calculated charm. Wyatt’s no-nonsense masculinity, on the other hand, was front and center.

“Ready?” he asked, voice low.

I nodded, stepping toward him. He guided me toward the tractor—an old, sturdy machine with a small trailer attached. I could ride on the trailer’s wooden seat, bundled in the blanket, while he took the driver’s seat. The idea felt oddly intimate, as if we were stepping out of the roles of reporter and reluctant source and entering some other territory. But I didn’t resist. I climbed up, settled myself, and pulled the blanket tight around my shoulders.

As he climbed onto the tractor and started the engine, the rumble vibrated through the wood planks. He looked back at me over his shoulder. “I’ll take it slow, show you how we grow and harvest the trees. Maybe then you’ll see that what we do here isn’t a gimmick.”

I inhaled the cold air, let it fill my lungs. “I’m willing to see,” I said softly, and to my surprise, I meant it. For the first time since arriving, I felt genuinely open. Maybe I wouldn’t believe in miracles and magic by the end of the night, but at least I’d let myself witness this world as it was, not as I assumed it must be.

The tractor rolled forward, creaking, and jostling gently. The stars overhead seemed brighter now that the last light of day had slipped away. The Wishing Tree disappeared behind us, but I knew my wish lingered there, tied securely among countless others. As we ventured into the quiet fields, I held the blanket tight and let Wyatt’s presence, the hush of the farm, and the distant scent of evergreens guide me forward into the unknown. I didn’t know what I’d find out here, but maybe I was ready to discover it. And with that silent resolution, I settled in for the ride.