Neve spent much of her life holed up in a window, people staring at her as if she was a hamster for sale in a glass container at a pet store.
She didn’t mind that it was her only contact with people. She was thankful her limited interactions came only with strangers, and there was a window separating her imaginary world from their real one.
A little boy tapped on the storefront window. It took all her strength to turn and wave at the child.
It was a grey day. The clouds were now rolling in after a sunny start, and the contrast between her bright world and the real one made her squint.
The little boy continued to wave at her as his mother pulled him down Michigan Avenue, and he reached back toward Neve as if he was taking her heart along with him.
Neve massaged her achy hands and returned to work.
Her newest holiday window design was for La Jeune Mariée, an exclusive bridal boutique. Brides-to-be made appointments months in advance to come to Chicago to try on designer gowns. Christmastime only reinforced the fantasy of a life that would never be anything less than beautiful.
And it is anything but.
Neve stopped and studied her sketches.
Her vision was of a little girl in winter dreaming of her future wedding day. The window was decorated as if a child, back facing the glass, arms raised, was standing outside, in awe of the first snow. There was a miniature forest of trees—all pink, flocked in white—and strands of crystal beads were strung up and led from the little girls’ mittens to the latest wedding gowns. Round, clear, plastic bubbles hung from the ceiling, as if suspended in air—pretend-thought bubbles filled with pink snow and big, glittery words like Joy!
Gift!
Love!
Christmas!
Neve worked alone. She did everything herself: she hammered, sawed, nailed, wired.
All the things I learned from you, Jackson, she thought, when we were fixing up our cottage and couldn’t afford to pay for anything.
When Neve was finished, she dumped faux snow in the window, then raked it to make it look as if it was drifting. Then she stepped out of the window and grabbed the electrical cord.
“Here goes nothing,” she whispered to herself. “The moment of truth.”
She plugged it into the socket on the wall and couldn’t help but smile.
Pink snow began to fall.
Neve packed her things quickly, without a word to anyone working in the boutique, and then—as she always did—stepped onto the street. A crowd had already gathered—people pointing, giggling, taking selfies and videos—and Neve watched them, an anonymous nobody in a sea of holiday spirit she had created.
“Would you take our picture?” a young woman suddenly asked her.
Neve nodded.
The woman grabbed her boyfriend and pulled him in front of the window. The two kissed as Neve took their picture.
“I want that gown,” the woman said, turning to point at a dress. She lifted her hand and waved in front of her boyfriend. “But first I need the ring.”
Neve handed the cell phone back to the woman. All of a sudden, the crowd spontaneously began to sing “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.” Neve edged her way out of the crowd and began to run.
The world spun as she did. Neve didn’t stop. She just ran, leaving behind her car, her decorations and her memories. She sprinted down The Magnificent Mile, zooming by countless windows she had already decorated, for perfumeries and popcorn shops, bakeries and boutiques—all the little worlds from her past—as her life flashed before her eyes.
When she stopped, out of breath, she realized it was snowing.
The first snow of the year.
“No one gets married outside in December, much less in Michigan.”
“That’s why you love me, isn’t it?”
Jackson laughed.
“I always dreamed of getting married at Christmas, outside in the snow,” Neve said. “People all bundled up, and huddled together to stay warm. Isn’t that the meaning of family?” Neve stopped. “I’ve dreamed of this day since I was a little girl.”
“Me, too,” Jackson said.
“You were a little girl?”
Jackson laughed again.
Neve peeked outside the tent.
“I can’t believe this is our wedding. I can’t believe you arranged all this.”
“I have connections.”
“You mean your grandma has connections.”
“Well, she’s Bavarian. She’s related to everyone in town, I think. And she says everyone owes her a favor. I’m glad we decided not to get married at the farm. I would’ve just ended up working all day.”
Neve laughed.
Guests were seated underneath the Holz-Brücke, Michigan’s largest covered bridge, which spanned the Cass River and welcomed visitors to the Bavarian and Christmas village of Frankenmuth. The beautiful wooden bridge was lined on both sides by stunning lattice, with votive candles attached to the railing, and the roof was covered with thousands of cedar shingles. On both ends of the bridge, Fraser fir—Neve’s favorite tree—twinkled with white lights.
In the distance, Neve could hear the music start and the crowd hush.
“It’s time,” Neve said.
“Finally,” Jackson said. “Ready?”
She nodded, and he kissed her.
“Hey?” he asked. “How come I got to see you before the wedding? I thought that went against tradition.”
“With my parents gone, I just couldn’t imagine anyone else walking me down the aisle other than you. Is that okay?”
Jackson hugged Neve. “It is. It’s important to honor old traditions and start new ones.” He stared at her for the longest time. “And you look absolutely beautiful. Your mom and dad would be so proud of you.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I know they would love you as much as I do.”
The two sneaked outside and stepped into a horse-drawn carriage.
“You are pure winter magic,” Jackson said. “I love you more than anything.”
The carriage took off, the horse’s hooves clomping, and Neve put her head on her husband-to-be’s shoulder and closed her eyes.
I may have lost my family, but I found another, Neve thought. Simply by believing.
As if on cue, it began to snow when she opened her eyes.
The first snow of the season, she thought.
Neve hated getting the mail.
It’s the surprise I can’t control, she thought. I can ignore a call on my cell, I can delete messages, but the mail…it finds you. Like death and taxes.
When it came to the mail, Neve felt akin to the squirrels she enjoyed watching in the park, a spot she felt the most at peace. They would find an acorn and rush off at warp speed to get it home without stopping for anyone.
Neve kicked off her shoes, hung up her coat and dropped her keys and the mail into a bowl by the door. She walked over and turned on her gas fireplace, then stood in front of it until her fingers began to warm again. She thought briefly about grabbing the mail and tossing it into the fireplace, but she stopped.
Nothing is real anymore, she thought. Not this fake fire. Not the holidays. Not even my life. I miss the way things were.
In the city, especially during the holidays, people liked to pretend as though they were creating an old-fashioned Christmas, but—like Neve’s window designs—it was all pretend.
They turn on gas fireplaces, order from Amazon and have their gifts delivered directly to their front door, or stroll through shopping centers and have their gifts wrapped for them, Neve thought. They pick out a tree that’s already been cut and have someone load it onto the top of their car, they hire firms to decorate their homes and they order a prepared turkey or honey-baked ham, as well as a pie from their favorite bakery.
The true beauty comes from all the effort.
Neve strolled to the window and looked at the city. Dusk was falling, and Chicago shimmered as if she’d bedecked it with little lights. She curled up in the window seat, as she had this morning, and pulled a blanket over her lap.
The holidays were the hardest and the loneliest. Everyone had someone. Everyone had somewhere to go. The pain was amplified.
Who wants to make a Christmas dinner for one?
Who wants to decorate a tree that no one will see?
And every holiday decoration had a memory associated with it, a memory so real that she could actually see the person, hear their laughter, smell their perfume. Every ornament, every snow globe, every tree skirt, every candle, every bell, every toy soldier…
In a high-rise across the way, someone arrived home, and the lights in the condo brightened the space, followed by the colored lights on a Christmas tree in the window.
Every tree has a memory.
Neve’s hands began to shake. She went to the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of wine. She took a big sip to steel herself and then walked over to retrieve the mail.
She started to rifle through it: car insurance, health-care enrollment notification, an HOA holiday party invitation.
Neve sighed.
But then she saw it, an envelope still sitting in the bowl. She knew the looping cursive on the envelope immediately. Her heart raced, and she looked at the tree across the way.
How did she find me again? Every holiday.
My dear Neve,
My, you’re a hard little elf to track down. How many times have you moved in the last few years? I send letters, and they’re returned. I mail cards, and they reappear in my mailbox. I call apartment managers, and they say you’ve just moved. I call you, and you don’t call back, or your number has magically changed yet again.
I miss you. The entire family does.
Jackson’s death has been hard on all of us. I can only imagine the heartbreak you endure every day. And I know that will never end. I miss my Elmer every second. But that doesn’t change what happened, my dear. You can run all you want, but you’ll never be fast enough to escape all the pain and memories. And you shouldn’t. You and Jackson had a wonderful—albeit much too brief—life together. But it was still beautiful. It was still magical. And it was real.
I understand why you left Frankenmuth. But I don’t understand why you left us. We are your family, too. You are our family. And we love you just as much as my beloved grandson did.
Our home and our hearts are always open to you, not only at Christmas, but all year long. We miss you so, so much, Neve. And we just want you home again, if and when you’re ever ready.
By the way, I’ve been following your career. That’s how I was able to put on my Nancy Drew shoes and track you down this time. Chicago. You’re quite the big deal there now, aren’t you? I’m so proud of the new Neve. But, I know, deep inside of you, the old Neve is still there, too—all shiny and bright. I can see it in all your beautiful designs, the way you make the world feel good, even in the midst of all your pain.
Who knew that you could make all my little trees such a big deal!
I did!
And that’s what you need to do with your own heart, my dear. It may feel so little and so boxed away right now, but with a new start and a lot of love, it can grow into something amazing once again.
Maybe you just need to take one of those little bottlebrush trees and give your soul a good scrubbing, so you can see how shiny it can become again. I mean, that’s what those brushes were meant for, right?
I know I’m the last person you want to hear from, especially at the holidays, but I don’t have many years left, and though I understand your pain, I don’t understand why you left your family behind when we needed you the most, too.
I love you, my sweet Neve. We all do. Frankenmuth—the entire state of Michigan—just doesn’t have the same Christmas spirit since you left.
Merry Christmas, my wounded angel. I hope one day you can see the light again…and maybe even decorate your home with little trees and your heart with big love.
Grandma Madge
Neve wept so hard that her teardrops made the ink on the letter run.
She stood to get a tissue and looked around: her new condo was as devoid of personality and holiday decor as her heart.
Neve’s own holiday decorations were all hidden away in boxes in a storage unit somewhere off the interstate. She couldn’t even locate them unless she gave her car directions.
And that’s how she liked to feel on the holidays.
Lost.
Not found.
Neve’s cell rang, and she jumped at the sound in her silent condo. She set down Madge’s letter and retrieved her phone.
“Hello?”
“Neve Ford?”
“Speaking.”
“It’s Trent Wilkes.”
“Who?”
“Trent Wilkes.”
“I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.”
Neve lowered her cell, and then she heard the man respond. “Your boss.”
Wilkes International. The international conglomerate that owned every single store for which she had done window designs every holiday season the last couple of years.
“Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry,” Neve spluttered. “Long day.”
“I can imagine,” Trent said. “We keep you busy.”
Trent’s voice was deep, calm and empathetic—not at all what she imagined a man of such power might sound like at all.
“Listen,” he continued. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was hoping you might have some free time tomorrow to stop by my office to talk.”
You pay my salary. Your contracts helped me buy this condo. You literally gave me a new start. What do I say? “No, I don’t have time. Thank you. Have a nice evening.”
“Of course. It would be an honor.”
“The honor’s all mine,” he said. “It’s rather personal.” Trent stopped. “But I’ll talk to you all about that tomorrow. Say, ten o’clock?”
“Now I won’t sleep,” Neve said.
Trent laughed. “I thought you probably slept better than anyone in the world, dreaming of lollipops and twinkling lights.”
You don’t know me very well, Neve thought. I haven’t well slept in years. And the only thing I dream of is…
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Neve said. “I look forward to it. And, Mr. Wilkes? Thank you for your belief in me and my work. It means the world.”
“I should be thanking you,” he said. “Our sales are up anytime you touch a window. And…” He paused, then continued. “Anyway, I will see you tomorrow. Good night, Neve.”
“Good night, Mr. Wilkes.”
“Trent, please.”
“Good night, Trent.”
Neve hung up. She had never spoken in person to him, only his minions. She never imagined he’d actually seen her work much less knew she existed.
I can’t believe he called me personally, Neve thought, rather than have his assistant email or call to set an appointment. And what could he want to discuss with me? And why did he sound like he had a secret to share?
Neve immediately googled him.
The first photo she pulled up made her legs feel like the Jell-O molds her mom used to serve at the holidays.
She returned to the window seat to steady herself and stared at the photo.
Trent Wilkes was standing in front of the window she had just completed today, just like the strangers from whom she’d run. Snow swirled in the window behind him, and he looked as if he was dreaming.
He was handsome, yes, but it was more than that. His blue eyes, his blond hair, the dimples, the snow… Neve stopped and clenched a hand over her mouth.
He looked just like Jackson the very last time she saw him alive.