Carrigan’s Christmasland was the velvet Elvis version of a Thomas Kinkade painting. They entered through giant double wrought iron gates, in curling filigree C’s. Miriam had hoped every inch would be draped in greenery and winking colored lights (Aunt Cass was of the immovable opinion that tiny white lights were for suckers and the only correct Christmas lights were the giant colored glass bulbs). But instead there was a dark, empty lawn, like the whole farm was wearing mourning colors. The Christmas Festival started in two weeks, and they hadn’t decorated yet.

Miriam dragged her feet, walking up the front porch. Dilapidated and rumored to be haunted, the original Victorian mansion had been on the property when Cass bought it in the 1950s. Cass had lovingly restored the turrets and balconies and white cake trim while adding large, rambling wings for guests. It wasn’t massive, not a true hotel. There were twenty-five guest rooms, staff quarters, a top floor where Cass lived, and an attic full of strange treasures. Behind the house sat a barn that was mostly for housing hay, reindeer, and tractors, save for the occasional dance. Next to it were stables for the horses, a carriage house, a couple of small guest cottages, and a work “shed” the size of a three-bedroom house.

Miriam hadn’t been inside the inn for a decade. Standing before the front door, she steeled herself against the onslaught of emotions she’d organized her life around running from. Until now, she couldn’t be anywhere that reminded her of her father, even this place that should have been a haven. She brushed her fingers over the mezuzah for strength, expecting any moment to freeze in terror.

But the terror didn’t come. Just grief and the feeling of coming home she’d always experienced standing on these steps.

The front door opened into a hallway that, in any other year, would be draped in garlands. To one side was a massive kitchen, to the other, the great room they used as an event space. From there rose a curving staircase. The ceilings soared up to the second floor, and a fireplace stood in the center of one wall, topped by a massive carved mantel. Carrigan’s wasn’t ready for the Christmas Festival, and it made everything feel so much more real. Cass’s absence hung over every empty spot that used to hold a stocking.

The staircase led to the guest rooms, which surrounded a central landing that had been made into an entertainment area, with comfortable couches and a flatscreen TV. Down the stairs sauntered a tortoiseshell cat the size of a pony with ear tufts as wide as a human hand. It wound its way around Cole’s legs.

“Kringle!” Miriam exclaimed.

“Hello, pretty girl.” Cole knelt down to rub the cat, whispering absurdities about its glorious size and fluffiness.