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Chapter 1
Chapter One: The Assignment
Elise Cartwright read the subject line twice: “Evergreen Hill – holiday feature.” Her eyes were dry from too many late nights, too many sirens and courtroom steps and interviews with people who had stopped believing in anything. Monday’s headlines had blended into Tuesday’s. Thursday was a string of quotes that didn’t feel real. She set her coffee down and watched the surface tremble in the newsroom’s constant hum.
Monica Reed leaned over the divider. “Take the Vermont piece,” her editor said, voice even but tired. “You need a softer assignment.”
“I write hard news,” Elise said, though the edge in it sounded weary. She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince.
Monica’s smile did not reach her eyes. “Then write this hard enough to believe in it. Family farm. Christmas trees. They’re days from foreclosure—at least that’s what the pitch says. Do it human, Elise. No cynicism. See if you can find your tone again.”
Elise’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked at the photo in the email: rows of snow-brushed evergreens rising into gray sky, a red farmhouse with a neat porch, a white sign in front that read Evergreen Hill Farm. There were lanterns strung along a path. The picture looked like a card someone might tuck into a gift.
“I’ll go,” she said.
She packed a duffel with her warmest coat and the wool hat she’d bought on a downtown street from a vendor who called everyone “darlin’.” She took the early train north, then rented a car with a stubborn heater. As she crossed into Vermont, the landscape softened into white fields bordered by stone walls, barns with wreaths over their doors, and roadside stands selling maple syrup even in December.
By the time she turned up the long, rutted drive toward Evergreen Hill, afternoon light had gone silver. Tree after tree rose in neat lines, each one bound in its own scent of resin and fresh air. Elise rolled down the window and took a breath. It surprised her how clean it tasted.
She parked and stepped out, boots sinking in a crust of snow. The farmhouse was simple and square, with smoke curling from the chimney. A bell hung by the door of a small gift shop with a gingerbread trim and a green-painted sign.
“Can I help you?” a man’s voice called from somewhere behind her.
She turned. He was carrying a tree on one shoulder like it weighed nothing: tall, broad-shouldered, in a worn canvas jacket, eyes steady and skeptical behind a wool cap pulled low. He set the tree on the rack and wiped his hands on his jeans.
“Elise Cartwright,” she said, lifting her press badge out of habit. “From the Ledger. I’m here to—”
“I know why you’re here,” he said. His jaw ticked. “Rowan Blake. I own the place.”
Own. Elise tucked that word away. “I appreciate you taking the time.”
“I didn’t take the time.” He reached for a twine spool and cut a length with a knife whose blade shone bright from use. “I said you could walk around. No cameras in my face. No pity pieces.”
“I’m not here for pity,” she said, too quickly. “Just… the truth.”
Rowan’s eyes flicked to her and away. “Truth is, people want cheerful this time of year.”
“I can do cheerful,” she said, and heard how false it sounded. “And honest.”
He grunted, then nodded toward the gift shop. “My aunt’s inside. She talks enough for both of us.”
“I’ll start there,” she said. He was already lifting another tree.
Elise pushed open the gift shop door. A bell tinkled. Warmth and cinnamon rolled over her. The shop was filled with handmade wreaths and ornaments that looked like they had seen other Decembers on other trees—little wooden sleds, felted cardinals, tiny gold stars.
“Well, hello, dear,” said the woman behind the counter. Her hair was white and soft, her eyes bright as berries. “I’m Marjorie. Rowan’s aunt. You must be the reporter.”
“Elise. It’s nice to meet you.”
Marjorie squeezed her hands as if they were already friends. “Let me make you some hot cider. You look like you’ve been breathing city air for too long.”
Elise laughed despite herself. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to people who’ve done it,” Marjorie said, pouring cider into a chipped mug. “Sit. You can tell me what you think you’re here to write, and I’ll tell you what this place really is.”
Outside the window, Rowan lifted another tree, the lines of his shoulders running smooth beneath his coat. Snow began again, fine and steady.
