“He’s adorable,” Nancy said. “It’s too cold for him to be outside. Let’s bring him in. He can hang out in the back room with my dog. Sugar is old and mostly blind, so she won’t mind.”

“There,” Nancy said, after the two dogs were companionably curled beneath a table in the back room. “Now, tell me again what it is you’re trying to sell that I can’t afford?”

Ivy set her laptop on the table and opened the file with the ad campaign she’d designed for Langley Sweets, featuring retro elves, beaming Santas, and wide-eyed children.

“Now, this would just be your seasonal holiday campaign,” Ivy explained. “We’d do other graphics for the rest of the year, but the feel would be the same—retro, fun, sweet. And the slogan would be used year-round.”

Nancy shook her head and bit her lip. “I love it. Truly. But I can’t afford anything like this. And anyway, it’s really too late—”

“You don’t understand. There’s no charge. It’s free.”

Nancy stared. “An advertising campaign like this probably costs thousands of dollars. You don’t even know me. Why would you do this for a stranger?”

Ivy repeated the words Ezra Wheeler had used when she tried to pay him for his handyman services. “I’m not a stranger. I’m actually your neighbor.”

“You live here?”

“I just moved into the Four Roses farmhouse,” Ivy said. “A new friend—do you know Lawrence Jones?—gave me some of your candy, and it was so different, so delicious, I looked up your website.”

“I know Mr. Jones. Such a lovely man. And you’re the new owner of Santa Bob’s house? I didn’t know it had sold. But welcome to Tarburton.”

“About the website?” Ivy prompted.

“Oh that.” Nancy grimaced. “I designed it myself. Pretty sad, huh?”

“Well, yeah, to tell you the truth, it’s abysmal,” Ivy said. “It doesn’t reflect your product at all. Candy should be fun, right? Whimsical. And your candy is unique. I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“My great-grandfather’s recipe,” Nancy said modestly. “He made his own extracts and flavorings. I still use his original recipes.”

“See,” Ivy said excitedly. “That’s what makes your product so unique. You should have that in your advertising.”

“I guess,” Nancy said. “But if I’m closing anyway…”

“Oh. Right. Exactly why are you closing? Did your rent go up?”

“No. I own the building outright. It’s just … I’m single now; my son is grown and gone. It all feels so overwhelming.”

“I get it,” Ivy agreed. “I’m newly single myself.”

She dug into her briefcase and brought out the vintage greeting cards and Santa photos and letters.

“Look,” she said, fanning them out across the tabletop. “Aren’t these great?”

“That’s Santa Bob!” Nancy Bergstrom exclaimed, tapping one of the old photos. “And oh my gosh, that’s Denise Gordon. We were in grade school together. I’d recognize that gap-toothed smile anywhere.” She leafed through more photos. “I’d swear that’s Kenny Zeigler. And this is his sister, MaryAnne.” She looked up at Ivy. “Where did you find these?”