One card in particular caught her interest. The illustration depicted two red-garbed pixies playing tug-of-war with a candy cane.
“Perfect,” Ivy said, setting the card aside. She dug farther into the trunk, marveling that each layer seemed to reveal another ring representing the life of the former owners of Four Roses Farm.
The department store Santa pictures were treasures in themselves, each showing Santa Bob, photographed through the ages, always beaming at a child. Sometimes the children looked in awe at Santa, other children were laughing, and still others were captured with tear-stained, screaming faces. On the back of each photo was taped a slip of paper with a serial number, and the child’s name, neatly typed.
As she shuffled through the photographs, she came to one that stopped her cold. A little girl was seated on Santa Bob’s lap, tugging solemnly at his beard. Ivy turned the photo over and her breath caught in her throat. “Carlette Jones.”
Ivy studied the photo more closely. Carlette had a large candy cane clutched in her left hand. She was dressed in a red plaid dress with a starched crinoline, white tights, and black patent-leather Mary Janes. Ivy too had once worn similar shoes, which crackled when she walked and pinched her toes.
And was it her imagination? Or did Santa seem to be listening more intently to this child’s fondest wish?
She set Carlette’s photo on top of the file of photographs and decided she would deliver it to Lawrence Jones. And maybe, she thought, the Langley candy company would be interested in displaying these relics of bygone days in their dusty little shop.
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.
“Welcome!” the clerk said, looking up. “We’re just testing a new batch of fudge. Want to try a piece?” She held out a fluted paper cup holding a square of fudge dotted with shards of peppermint candy.
“Oh, uh, well…”
“Go ahead,” one of the other customers urged. “It’s delicious. Everything Nancy makes is wonderful. I’m taking a pound to my bridge club luncheon.”
Ivy gulped and decided to take one for the team. She popped the fudge in her mouth and was surprised by the sensations assaulting her taste buds. Sweet, yes, but with peppery undernotes and something … ineffable.
“It’s delicious,” Ivy blurted out. “And I don’t like candy.”
The clerk laughed. “Oh my. I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like candy.”
One of the old ladies nudged the other. “Imagine that!”
The two women paid for their purchases, gave Ivy a long, puzzled look, then exited the candy shop.
“Now, how can I help you?” the clerk asked, her eyes crinkling with barely suppressed mirth. “I take it you must be here to buy a gift for someone who does like sweets?”
Ivy took a deep breath. “Actually, I’m looking for Nancy Langley Bergstrom. Is she around today?”
“I’m Nancy,” the clerk said. “President, CEO, and chief candymaker. Also, bottle washer, janitor, and head of the shipping department.”
“Okay. Hi, Nancy. I’m Ivy Perkins, and I have a business proposition for you.”
The candymaker’s smile faded. “I’m sorry. If you’re selling something, well, I’m not really in a position to buy anything at this time.” She leaned across the counter and looked straight into Ivy’s eyes. “In fact, I’m afraid we’ll be closing the store right after Christmas.”
“Oh no!” Ivy exclaimed. “How sad.”
“You don’t even know,” Nancy Bergstrom agreed. “I’ve tried everything. New flavors, sale pricing, online offers. But I’m just out of ideas. And energy. This company has been in my family for ninety years. And I’m the one who will be the one to turn off the lights and lock the door and walk away. I feel like such a failure.”
“But you’re not a failure,” Ivy protested. “Not at candy. As I said, I don’t eat sweets, but your Dark Chocolate PepperyMint Patties—they’re like nothing I’ve ever tasted before. In fact, that’s why I came here today. I wanted to talk to you about your marketing. Your packaging, your online presence—forgive me, but they don’t reflect your product. At all.”
“And you’re an expert at those kinds of things?” Nancy asked, one eyebrow raised.