Chapter Seven

CASSIE

The evening sky had settled into deep twilight by the time I reached Candi Couture. The boutique’s windows sparkled with fairy lights, garlands of evergreen, and colorful ornaments. The door, framed by a large velvet bow, opened to a tide of music and laughter spilling onto the deserted sidewalk. I pulled my coat tighter, fighting a shiver of apprehension as I stepped inside, unsure if I should be here at all without Wyatt.

The Christmas Eve Gala, I’d been told, was the social highlight of Springfield’s holiday season, and I could hardly believe my eyes seeing how the retail space had been transformed into a glittering festive wonderland. Inside, the air was perfumed with cinnamon and nutmeg, mulled cider and the subtle scents of expensive cologne and perfume. The lighting was low and warm, with candlelit tables tucked into corners, leaving room in the center for mingling guests dressed in their finest holiday attire.

I wasn’t sure what I’d expected. Perhaps a small gathering, given the town’s modest size. But the gala was more elaborate than anything I’d imagined. Strings of fairy lights crisscrossed overhead, reflecting in a huge crystal chandelier. Beneath it, clusters of guests sipped champagne from flute glasses, while a quartet played gentle carols in the background. The entire atmosphere was jubilant and a testament to the town’s earnest embrace of Christmas. Standing there, just inside the door, I realized I’d come alone—of course, alone was the plan. After this morning, there was no chance Wyatt would be at my side, but I was nevertheless disappointed when he didn’t appear.

The memory of our fight stung. All day, I’d played it over in my head: how we’d shared that magical night in his farmhouse, how he’d opened himself to me, how I’d woken up and immediately put my foot in my mouth by mentioning the article right away. In the aftermath, I’d been furious at him for not trusting me, for assuming I’d been using him to dig for information to expose the Wishing Tree legend as a tool used for corporate gain. But as the day wore on, as I’d gotten ready for the gala in my rented room at Hollyhock House, my anger had softened. Now it just felt like an aching emptiness in my chest. He’d been scared—scared I’d hurt him or hurt this place he loved. When that, in fact, had been my very intention when I’d first set foot in Springfield. Not that I wanted to hurt anyone, but that I was determined to prove that there were no such things as miracles or Christmas Magic. When now…well, I still wasn’t sure exactly what I believed, but I was seeing things in a new light because of what I’d learned from the people here—because of Wyatt. Could I really blame him for having doubts about me, when all I kept talking about was work?

I lifted my chin, smoothed the front of my emerald-green cocktail dress—a slim, satin number I’d chosen to project confidence. It flattered my figure, hugging my waist and draping gracefully past my knees. A pair of matching heels sparkled at my feet. I’d pinned my dark hair up, leaving a few strands to frame my face, and dabbed on a subtle perfume. I looked the part of a confident guest, but inside I was rattled. Without Wyatt, this world of twinkling lights and affectionate families felt hollow.

Across the room, I spotted Juniper McCall and her mother, Candi. They were standing together near a small stage where a silent auction display had been arranged—ornaments carved from local wood, hand-knitted scarves, gift baskets of preserves. Ginger, Juniper’s older sister, stood on Candi’s other side, holding her baby in one arm and smiling serenely. Both sisters had their partners at their side: Juniper’s fiancé, Mason, who was tall with kind eyes, and Ginger’s husband, who had a calm, confident demeanor. As I approached, I saw Candi dab at her eyes with a handkerchief, then open her arms to embrace both daughters at once.

The sight touched me—a small tableau of healing and unity. I remembered Candi’s story: how the Wishing Tree had brought Juniper back to Springfield, helping to mend old family wounds. How Ginger had found love after a chance encounter at that same magical tree. The Wishing Tree’s influence spread quietly through this family, weaving them together with threads of hope and reconciliation.

Candi noticed me and waved me over, smiling through her tears. “Cassie, darling!” she called above the gentle hum of conversation. I approached, putting on my best warm smile, though my heart felt heavy.

“You look lovely,” she said, voice still choked with emotion. She wore a shimmering ivory gown that offset her platinum hair and a dramatic necklace of crystal drops. She pressed a hand to her heart. “Forgive my tears. I was just telling Juniper and Ginger how grateful I am. This town, that tree…it’s healed so many rifts in my family.”

Juniper, radiant in a deep red dress that complemented her strawberry-blonde curls, reached out and pulled me into a brief hug. “Merry Christmas, Cassie,” she said, voice soft. She didn’t mention Wyatt. Neither did Candi. Perhaps they sensed it was a sore subject.

Ginger smiled at me, shifting her daughter in her arms so the baby could grab at a sparkly ornament someone had hung on a low branch of a decorative topiary. Mason, along with Ginger’s husband, Brian, greeted me with warm handshakes, kindness shining in their eyes. No one asked me the question I dreaded: Why was I alone, when I’d promised to invite Wyatt to the gala?

The quartet in the corner segued into a gentle version of “O Holy Night,” and I took a moment to sip a flute of sparkling cider and tried to gather my thoughts.

I’d thought I’d be okay tonight. All day, I’d clung to anger at Wyatt, telling myself I didn’t need him, that he’d insulted me, and I was justified in cutting him out of my evening. But as I watched Candi’s family laugh together, saw Juniper lean into Mason’s shoulder, and glimpsed Ginger exchanging a gentle look with Brian, my anger dissolved completely. In its place rose loneliness, an ache that made the festive lights blur for a moment.

I could have been here with Wyatt, introducing him to my world, or rather letting him guide me through his. He would have worn something simple—a suit jacket, maybe feeling out of place, tugging at the collar of his shirt—but he would have done it for me. And I…I would have told him how I truly felt about Springfield and the Wishing Tree. About us.

Instead, I stood apart, a mere observer in the celebration going on around me. I tried to mingle, drifting between groups, complimenting someone’s vintage brooch, admiring the candy cane martinis at the bar, chuckling politely at a joke one of the vendors made. But everything felt hollow, like I was just playing a part. My mind kept replaying Wyatt’s face—his guarded eyes and the hurt in his voice when he accused me of using him. He’d been wrong, but not entirely unreasonable. Had I given him enough reason to trust me? Probably not.

After an hour of circulating, nibbling at a canape here, sipping water there, and nodding at stories I could barely follow, I realized I wasn’t enjoying this one bit. The gala was beautiful, yes, and the people kind. Still, I felt out of place—my heart was elsewhere, back at the farmhouse where we’d cooked dinner and laughed over spaghetti. Back to the Wishing Tree, whose quiet presence I’d scoffed at but now felt in the marrow of my bones. Back to Wyatt, who embodied this tradition more deeply than he knew.

My heels clicked softly on the boutique’s polished floor as I slipped toward the exit. No one stopped me from leaving. Candi was busy comforting someone who’d lost a loved one that year; Juniper and Ginger were laughing with old friends, their partners by their sides. I didn’t want to spoil their holiday by appearing sullen or lost. I quietly stepped through the door.

Cold air greeted me, and the night sky stretched overhead, scattered with stars. I pulled my coat tight and hurried down the street. The Christmas decorations on Springfield’s main square glowed with gentle radiance, and carols drifted from somewhere distant, as if the town itself was humming a lullaby. I turned the corner, heading back to Hollyhock House. I’d planned to write my article earlier, but after the fight with Wyatt, I’d been too churned up to focus. Now, I knew exactly what I needed to say. No more delaying. If I wanted to show Wyatt and this town that I meant no harm—that I believed in them—then I’d have to put it into words. Honest, heartfelt words that told the truth of what I’d found here.

Hollyhock House stood warmly lit at the end of the block, wreaths hanging in the windows, smoke curling from the chimney. Inside, Fred and Martha Holly were probably sitting by the fire, enjoying a quiet Christmas Eve. I’d told Martha I’d be late tonight, so I wasn’t surprised when the front parlor was empty and the cat, Marmalade, slept soundly in a basket near the hearth. I climbed the stairs to my room, flicking on the bedside lamp, and took a moment to unpin my hair.

Slipping out of my gala dress, I folded it carefully over the back of a chair, then pulled on flannel pajamas—soft and warm against my skin. I brewed a cup of peppermint tea from the small assortment provided by the inn, inhaling its comforting scent as I opened my laptop. The clock on my screen read 11:05 pm. I cracked my knuckles, took a sip of tea, and began to type.

When I finally hit “Print” on my portable mini-printer, the clock read 11:58 pm. My tea had gone cold, and I sat silently, listening to the soft whir as the pages emerged, warm and smelling faintly of toner. I set the printed article on the small writing desk and closed my laptop. Exhausted emotionally and physically, I slipped under the quilted bedspread. The inn was quiet, only the soft ticking of a distant clock and the hush of winter night beyond the window. I imagined the orange cat downstairs dozing by the fire and the Hollies already asleep, waiting for Christmas morning’s peaceful dawn.

As I drifted toward sleep, the faint outline of the article’s words lingered behind my closed eyelids. I pictured the Wishing Tree at Lawson’s farm, branches heavy with paper wishes. If I were to write a wish right now, I’d simply say: “I wish Wyatt would read my heart.”

With that silent wish pulsing in my mind, I surrendered to the darkness, hoping I wouldn’t be too late. Hoping that by tomorrow, the magic I’d once doubted would guide me toward a second chance.