Beneath the letters, cards, and photographs in the trunk, Ivy found a large cardboard box. She lifted it out and brushed the dust from the top. Opening it, she found a glittering wonderland of vintage Shiny Brite glass Christmas tree ornaments, each resting in a nest of crumpled tissue paper.

Ivy removed each ornament from the box and marveled over the jewel-like colors, some dusted with glass glitter, others indented, or hand-painted. She stopped counting at fifty.

Ivy peered down into the trunk, which seemed to her to be more treasure chest than footlocker. On the very bottom of the trunk she found another cardboard box, this one full of Christmas tree lights. But these were not ordinary lights; they were red, green, and yellow bubble lights.

Her nana had lights like these on her Christmas tree. Ivy could remember sitting beneath the tree, looking up at the bubbling fluid in the candle-shaped bulbs with a sense of childlike wonder.

Punkin wandered into the room and sniffed the contents of the box, wagging his tail as if in approval.

“I agree, Punkin. These are too magical to hide away again,” Ivy said. She stood and dusted her hands on the seat of her jeans, then began carrying the boxes of lights and ornaments into the living room.

She held her breath as she plugged in the first string of bubble lights, praying she wouldn’t start an electrical fire in her new home. But the lights blinked on and immediately began to glow.

“Okay,” she said, looking down at the setter. “You’re right. Just because we don’t have a tree, or any furniture, come to think of it, that doesn’t mean we can’t have lights.”

She swagged the lights across the fireplace mantel, then stepped back to admire the effect. Yup. Magical.

In a kitchen cupboard, she found a large green Pyrex mixing bowl. Carrying it into the living room, she heaped a dozen of the showiest ornaments into the bowl and set it on the mantel. She scattered the rest of the ornaments across the top of the mantel and smiled ruefully. Christmas hadn’t just arrived at Four Roses Farm. It had been here all along, waiting for her to discover it.

In the morning, she dressed for success for the first time since arriving in Tarburton: a silk blouse, woolen slacks, and her favorite tweed blazer. She packed her briefcase with her laptop, an assortment of the Santa photos and letters, and the vintage greeting cards, including the one that had inspired the previous night’s burst of creativity.

Punkin followed her to the front door, wagging his tail, anticipating a romp in the woods or a walk to town. She leaned down and scratched his ears. “Sorry, pal. I’ve got work to do.”

He wagged his tail harder and licked her hand. “All right,” she relented. “But you can’t go inside the candy store. No dogs allowed!”

Bells jingled as she pushed through the door into Langley Sweets. A middle-aged woman dressed in a red-and-white-striped apron stood behind the candy counter waiting on two elderly customers who were taste-testing different varieties of fudge.