Ivy felt herself blush. “Uh, no. That’s actually my real estate agent. I offered to let him borrow the Santa suit for tonight.”

“So you’re a single gal? Aren’t you afraid, living all alone in that broken-down old farmhouse way out in the country like that?”

“I’m in the process of renovating it,” she said, her feelings a little hurt at this stranger’s characterization of her farmhouse. “And it’s not really broken down. It just needs a little love.”

“Maybe Santa will bring you some power tools,” Steinmetz said. “And a husband to use them.”

Before she could reply, Lawrence was tugging on her arm. “Ivy, didn’t you promise me some hot cocoa?”

Gordon Steinmetz wished them a Merry Christmas and walked away.

“Don’t mind that old poop,” Lawrence said, squeezing her arm. “Seems to me you’re doing just fine on your own. I admire your spunk, moving here without knowing a soul, fixing up the farmhouse, and making new friends right away. What do you need with a husband?”

“I’ve already had a husband,” Ivy agreed. “And he couldn’t even change a lightbulb, let alone caulk a window. Besides, anything I need to learn how to do I can figure out from watching a YouTube tutorial.”

“That’s the spirit,” Lawrence said.

Several other people stopped the couple as they made their way across the square. Ivy met the neighbor who helped Lawrence with grocery shopping, and his pastor’s wife, and a petite white-haired woman named Cora, who, Lawrence confided “is a widow lady who likes to drop by with casseroles.”

“Your lady friend?” Ivy asked, her tone teasing.

“Well … she’s a lady, and she’s friendly,” he said, thinking it over. “But I try not to encourage her because she’s way too young for me, don’t you think?”

“Age is a state of mind,” Ivy replied. “But just how old is she?”

He gave it some thought. “I believe she’s pushing eighty. But she still drives, and she owns her own home.”

Ivy laughed and gave him a gentle nudge in the ribs. “Then I say go for it.”

Ivy and Lawrence strolled slowly in the direction of the Methodist Church booth, stopping to linger and listen to a barbershop quartet’s version of “White Christmas” at the bandstand. The old man tapped his foot in time to the four-part harmony, nodding his appreciation.

“Ever do any singing?” he asked Ivy.

“Only in the shower,” she said. “I’m afraid I have a tin ear.”

“My wife had a beautiful voice, and she played the piano too. Everett took after her,” he said wistfully. “He sang baritone in the church choir. Had what they called perfect pitch. What I wouldn’t give to hear them singing together right now.”

Ivy detected a tremble in the old man’s voice, and she squeezed his arm again. “Who knows? Maybe they’re up in heaven right now, singing “Silent Night.”

“Maybe so,” he said, his face brightening.

By the time they arrived at their destination, only a handful of customers stood around, sipping cocoa. The stand was manned by the same two women who’d been working earlier. One was busily counting the cash from a cigar box while the other bagged cookies for a customer.