Five Years a Writer

Eight p.m. and the room was ready — as if set for a scene from a Hallmark movie. Every surface was decorated with little touches that reflected the season and its sense of magical wonder. The subtext — well, hardly “sub”text — was peace, love, and joy. Every year, she worked quietly, alone, gladly, with great confidence. This would be the year the evening matched the scene. On the mantle were arranged an even dozen beeswax candles, tapers, in her grandmother’s crystal holders. Their flickering light reflected in the shiny glass to amplify their warm glow. In the spot where once a fire would have been set sat a beautiful wicker basket filled with fresh-cut cedar boughs adorned with small ornaments — silver and gold, and just one red one to stand out for special note. On either side, on handsome brick stands, stood a large flourishing poinsettia — a mix of red and white leaves, some special hybrid variety her local garden centre had recommended as offering exceptional impact. But the fir...