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The twelve-foot Fraser fir in the great hall was blazing with thousands of white lights, its branches laden with hundreds of ornaments, and standing beneath the tree was a newly constructed six-foot cherry bookcase holding every volume of historical American architecture ever printed.
At 7:00 PM on Christmas Eve, the dining room table at Hawthorn Ridge had been extended to twelve feet.
The table was set with Caroline’s antique white-and-gold porcelain service, heavy sterling silver flatware polished to mirror-brightness, crystal flutes filled with sparkling cider, and a low centerpiece of fresh hemlock boughs, red winterberries, and three tall white beeswax candles burning in heavy brass holders.
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Sitting in the twenty-two-year-old restored leather armchair by the stone hearth, wearing a cozy burgundy wool sweater and clean trousers, was **Arthur Vance**.
On his lap sat nine-year-old Chloe, wearing a green velvet holiday dress and patent leather shoes, holding a small leather field notebook where she was carefully sketching the stone arches of her father’s bridge with an artist’s pencil.
