Standing in the center of the room, beside the massive walk-in stone fireplace where dry-seasoned hickory logs crackled behind brass spark screens, was a towering, twelve-foot Fraser fir.
The tree had not been there the night before.
It was decorated with hundreds of delicate, hand-blown mercury glass ornaments, dried orange wheels, hand-strung cranberries, and thousands of tiny, incandescent white lights that shimmered against the polished floorboards like fallen stars.
Advertisement
And beneath the tree…
The floor was completely covered in gifts.
There were stacks of boxes wrapped in heavy red-and-gold foil, tied with satin bows: winter coats with thick faux-fur hoods, insulated leather boots lined with sheepskin, boxes of colored pencils, drawing pads, hardbound storybooks, and a wooden dollhouse hand-crafted from Pennsylvania cherry wood with a miniature shingled roof and tiny brass hinges.
Standing by the grand stone hearth, wearing a clean, pressed charcoal wool sweater over a crisp flannel shirt, holding a steaming mug of black coffee, was Arthur Vance.
