“Maybe you could have dinner after the Santa Claus thing? That way you could meet Cody at the clock tower at five, tell him how sick I am, and how I’m deadly contagious. And then you go sell candy with Nancy, and whisper sweet nothings over dinner to Ezra.”

“You’re utterly shameless,” Ivy repeated. “Someone should have warned me about getting mixed up with somebody like you—such a terrible influence.”

“One more thing,” Phoebe said, turning as she walked out the door. “Wear that Mrs. Santa dress tomorrow night. That thing is magical.”

Ivy stepped onto the porch and watched Phoebe pull down the driveway. The lights blanketing the trees and the house blinked on, and she stood, for just a moment, enjoying the spectacle. They’d placed Phoebe’s tree to the right of the front door, and when Ivy plugged it in, the bright lights cast their reflection on the worn wooden porch floor. Looking down the sloped drive, she saw cars slow, then stop on the county road to get a better look at the lit-up farmhouse. She found herself waving and smiling at the occupants of a minivan, whose driver got out and was taking photos with his cell phone.

Then a sudden, strong gust of frigid wind drove her back inside the farmhouse.

Earlier in the afternoon, at Phoebe’s suggestion, they’d tromped around the property, clipping boughs of cypress, magnolia, and red-berried holly and white tallow berries and then dragged them inside.

Now Ivy draped the evergreens and magnolia sprays on the mantel, tucking in sprigs of holly and waxy, white tallow berries among the greenery. Candles would add a nice touch, Ivy thought. She experienced a brief pang of regret, remembering the collection of sterling candlesticks she’d inherited and collected over the years. Would they be among the items salvaged from the wrecked moving van?

No wallowing in self-pity, she thought sternly, standing up and dusting off her hands as though to banish that unwelcome emotion.

She didn’t need sterling silver to enjoy her new home and this moment.

There were dozens of old jelly jars in the bottom of the kitchen’s Hoosier cabinet, along with a box of thick, white utility candles. She placed the candles in jars, lit them and tucked them among the greenery on the mantel, lit the fire she’d laid earlier, then sat on the sofa with a glass of wine to admire her handiwork. When Punkin jumped up to curl up alongside her, she didn’t bother to shoo him off the furniture.

Ivy sipped her wine and stared at her phone again. No word from Ezra. She thought about their clinch—and that smoldering kiss they’d exchanged, much earlier in the day. He’d promised to be back later, after his client meeting. But ten hours had passed since then. Should she dash off a breezy text message—just checking in? Absolutely not. She would not play the needy female who needed rescuing.

Reheated soup and some cheese and crackers became dinner, eaten in front of the fire. Despite her earlier resolve, she found her mood darkening, found herself brooding about the past, about faithless men and their meaningless promises.