Outside, it was crisp and cold, no snow falling. He crunched across new snow as he crossed the parking lot between the back side of the inn and the front stoop leading to the coffee shop. As he stepped through the doorway, he heard the tinkling of the bell overhead. Skirting a few occupied tables where parents and children were eating, deep into their iPads or phones, or sipping coffee, he walked to the counter, where he ordered a cup of coffee and donut to go, as he had done since he’d established the café.

The quick breakfast would go onto his running tab, so he was free to eat and leave. With the clatter of silverware, the hum of conversation, and notes of “All I Want for Christmas” chasing after him, he walked under an archway leading through the Christmas shop, where one could purchase everything from hazelnuts to tabletop crèches, peppermint-flavored candy corn to Santa hats, glass ornaments to toy soldiers, angel tree-toppers to reindeer night-lights.

Everything Christmas and then some.

Offered for sale by James Cahill.

Why did it suddenly feel so crass? So commercialized?

The selling of Christmas, he thought, stepping around a six-year-old fascinated by the miniature train that encircled the displays.

What had Cissy once told him, on a particularly bleak, rain-soaked San Francisco Christmas Eve?

“You can’t sell Christmas, James.”

Well, he’d damned well tried. Though he’d known that expensive presents weren’t the heart and soul of the holidays, he’d convinced himself in the past few years that he actually was selling joy, that all the shiny toys and ornaments gave people pleasure.

He glanced around. For the first time since creating this holiday bazaar of a store, he felt as if he was commercializing something that should be held sacred, making a profit on the holiday. Since he’d never been particularly religious, the thought surprised him and burrowed deep, bothering him.

With Ralph padding behind, James sidestepped a blond four-year-old boy swatting at a glass rocking-horse ornament displayed on a flocked tree. His mother, a baby strapped to her in one of those front packs, was ignoring him and James did too. Let the kid break the ornament. Who cared?

Walking briskly through the back door of the shop, he stepped into the lot, a wide covered area where pre-cut trees were displayed. Here, customers could pick out their Christmas trees if they preferred not trudging through the surrounding acres of mud and snow with axes and saws, where they could actually cut down their own tree—all part of the Cahill experience brought to them by yours truly, James Cahill.