Christmas in Tinsel Tree Village Read online

  Praise for the novels of Viola Shipman

  THE CLOVER GIRLS

  “Like a true friendship, The Clover Girls is a novel you will forever savor and treasure.”

  —Mary Alice Monroe, New York Times bestselling author

  “Shipman’s evocative novel is a love letter to Michigan summers, past and present, and to the value of lifelong friendships. A blissful summer read sure to please the author’s many fans, and fans of writers like Elin Hilderbrand or Kristin Hannah.”

  —Library Journal on The Clover Girls

  “Viola Shipman has written a love song to long-lost friends, an ode to the summers that make us who we are. The minute I finished The Clover Girls, I ordered copies for all my friends. It’s that good.”

  —Kristy Woodson Harvey, USA TODAY bestselling author of Feels Like Falling

  “Oh, the joy! The Clover Girls may be [Shipman’s] best yet, taking readers on a heartwarming trip down memory lane... Ideal for summer, Shipman has written a redemptive tale, celebrating the power of friendship while focusing on what matters most. Perfect for the beach!”

  —New York Journal of Books

  THE HEIRLOOM GARDEN

  “The emotional scars left by war unite two women, generations apart, in Shipman’s sentimental family saga... Shipman’s tale successfully captures these women’s resilience and their hopeful desire for new beginnings.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Shipman patiently and gently unearths the deeply flawed characters’ sorrows and reveals the delicate buds of happiness that eventually blossom.”

  —BookPage

  THE SUMMER COTTAGE

  “Every now and then a new voice in fiction arrives to completely charm, entertain and remind us what matters. Viola Shipman is that voice and The Summer Cottage is that absolutely irresistible and necessary novel.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Dorothea Benton Frank

  Christmas in Tinsel Tree Village

  Viola Shipman

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  One

  Neve Ford snuggled into the window seat with her mug of coffee and looked out at the city.

  She preferred the way Chicago looked from her apartment, eighteen stories above the world.

  So tiny and shiny, Neve thought.

  The sun was rising over the city, and the horizon was Day-Glo orange. Lake Michigan sparkled on this early November morning. It had yet to freeze over, and when Neve squinted, she could see the waves splash over seawalls and roll onto the beach. It would soon be winter. It would soon be Christmas.

  Time doesn’t stop, no matter how much we will it to happen, Neve thought.

  She sipped her coffee and stared at the coming day.

  To Neve, everything was backward now: a sunrise over Lake Michigan, rather than a sunset; a sleek high-rise instead of a knotty-pine cottage; a city versus a small town.

  Alone instead of...

  Neve felt her heart rise into her throat, so she did the only thing she could to manage her grief. She squinted her eyes and held a hand in front of her face. Neve focused on a nearby park and the massive tree inside it—already lit for Christmas and big enough to see even this high up—and pinched her fingers together to make all the trees look even smaller.

  Life seems more manageable this small.

  Then Neve shut her eyes. In her imagination, she magically flocked the trees in pink and gold and tiny glass beads. She arranged them into a hidden forest in her mind, where snow was falling and smoke was drifting from a chimney, and she felt safer and happier than she ever had. Christmas—her whole life—was waiting just around the corner.

  A tear squeezed from the corner of her eye. Neve tried to flick it aside, along with her memories, but the image of miniature trees still danced in her mind.

  * * *

  “Grandma gave us a surprise! You are going to freak!”

  Neve laughed as her husband, Jackson, carried a big cardboard box into the living room, snow falling from his boots as he trudged across the old pine floors.

  “The only way you’re this excited is if that box is filled with her Christmas cookies,” Neve said.

  “Actually, this is a surprise for you, not me,” Jackson said. “And if this were a box of cookies, it wouldn’t have even made it into the house.”

  Neve moved toward the box, which Jackson deposited on the island in the middle of the kitchen. “Not yet. Come on. There’s tons more.”

  Neve pulled on her boots. “What in the world?”

  Six boxes later, Neve opened the first one and released a happy yelp when she looked inside: an entire forest of tiny trees was sitting inside.

  She opened another. A rainbow of colors danced before her eyes: pink, aqua, gold, white.

  And another, this one filled with flocked green trees that had miniature, multicolored balls attached to their soft branches.

  “It’s like a Smurf Christmas!” Neve said. “What are these? And where did she get them?”

  Jackson smiled and pulled off his stocking cap. His golden hair stuck straight into the air, as if God was holding a giant magnet.

  My man still looks like such a cute, little boy, she thought.

  “Here you go,” Jackson said, producing an envelope from his coat pocket. “She wanted you to have this.”

  “First, her piecrust recipe and now this.”

  “You’re an easy woman to please.”

  “You haven’t seen my Christmas list yet!”

  Neve opened the envelope and pulled out the handwritten letter. Madge Ford’s handwriting looked just like the big, elaborate letters her grade-school teacher used to scrawl on the chalkboard to teach kids how to write cursive. The round letters were as curly as Madge’s hair on Easter morning.

  My dear Neve,

  Merry early Christmas! Oh, how I’ve waited for this day! I finally have a girl in the family who loves Christmas as much as we all do! It seems like it was always meant to be! I mean, even your name, which is Gaelic for bright and snowy.

  Considering you’re such a talented interior designer, I thought you could do so much more with these than I ever could. And, between my six decorated trees, snow globe and toy-soldier collections, pine boughs, wreaths and...well, you get the picture... I didn’t have room for any more of my collections.

  These are vintage bottlebrush Christmas trees. My mom collected them and got me hooked. Aren’t they just the most adorable minicreations you’ve ever seen?

  And do you know what they’re made of? Well, get ready: you’ll never look at a toilet-bowl brush in the same way again!

  According to my research, the Addis Brush Company, an American manufacturer of toilet-bowl brushes, began dyeing bristles green in the 1930s and assembling them into artificial Christmas trees. These new artificial trees were especially popular in Britain, which had lost many of its evergreen trees during World War I.

  I love them all, but the most desirable bottlebrush decorations are flocked, or have small glass beads and little wreaths attached. And the colors are magical, aren’t they?

  When I was a little girl, my entire room at Christmas was decorated with bottlebrush villages. I made holiday forests for my dolls. I created rainbow villages on my windowsills. Remember the Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer special that runs every Christmas? My bedroom made me feel like I was living in the middle of that wonderf
ul animated cartoon.

  Now this may sound sappy—pun intended!—but it seems as if my whole life and God led me to a man who owned a Christmas tree farm. And now you!

  Our boys may have gotten the big trees, but we got the bigger imaginations, didn’t we?

  I bet your head is already spinning with ideas! I can’t wait for you to invite me over and show me your adorable little cottage when you’re done—I’ll bring the box of wine!

  I love you to the North Pole and back!

  Grandma Madge

  Neve stared at the trees, her mind whirling at the endless design possibilities. She could picture the bottlebrush trees sitting atop freshly cut slices of wood, wrapped in papier-mâché pots, or nestled right here in her kitchen, in the corner of the pine countertops in a blizzard of faux snow, or...

  “Wait!” Neve said.

  She raced to her cupboard and retrieved a vintage, white gravy boat, teacup and saucer. Neve placed a dark green bottlebrush tree, flocked white and bejeweled with colorful balls, into the gravy boat, then put a pink bottlebrush tree into the teacup.

  “Isn’t that adorable?” Neve asked.

  “I think Grandma knew what she was doing,” Jackson said. “And so do you.”

  “I feel so inspired! I’m going to set up a half-dozen different scenes, photograph them for Instagram and then reach out to some local businesses to see if they might like me to do some holiday displays. I mean, Frankenmuth, Michigan, is the Christmas capital of the world! The holidays go year-round here. We need the money, and it would be a great way to expand my little design business. I might even become the queen of Christmas. Can you imagine? Making it big with these little trees?”

  “I get the big ones, you get the little ones. I can’t wait to see what you’ve done by the time I get home. Walk me to the truck? I better get back to work. What time are you coming?” Jackson hesitated. “You are coming, right?”

  “Do I have a choice?” Neve asked with a laugh, before rubbing her husband’s back. “Just kidding. The Ford family Christmas-tree winter-fest is my favorite day of the holidays. Has been since I was a girl. Besides Christmas, of course.” Neve giggled. “Horse-drawn sleigh rides, helping families select the perfect tree, crafts, cider, wreaths—”

  Jackson interrupted, “Screaming children, tired parents, me wandering around the farm with persnickety, perfectionist resorters who can’t ever find the perfect tree... ‘Oh, this one’s too short. No, that one’s got a hole in the back. Does this tree keep its needles? Are the branches sturdy enough to hold my vintage ornaments?’ Everyone has an opinion on what makes the perfect tree.”

  “Bah humbug, Scrooge,” Neve said, finally cutting him off. “It’s tradition.”

  Neve followed her husband outside, the screen door banging behind them. “Have a good afternoon. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  Jackson leaned in and kissed Neve, and her world fell away.

  “You look like a little snow angel,” Jackson said. He blew a skiff of snow off the top of Neve’s head and then ran his hand through her blond hair. “We had a terrier growing up who used to love the snow. She’d just stare at the snow and let it gather on the top of her head.”

  “Are you saying I look like a dog?”

  “No, I’m saying you’re the most adorable creature I’ve ever seen in my life.” He kissed her again and then hopped into his truck. “Love you.”

  “Love you more,” Neve said. “Boy, do the Fords have a way with words.”

  She watched Jackson’s truck bounce its way down their long, snowy drive, watching as it became smaller and smaller, until, at the very last minute, he stuck his hand out the window and waved.

  “Goodbye!” Neve called.

  She didn’t know it would be forever.

  * * *

  Neve shook her head, hard, and the tiny trees disappeared.

  But there were more waiting, she thought. Ready to be unearthed and brought to life.

  She looked at the clock and downed her coffee, then rushed to the bathroom to get ready.

  The world awaited.

  The real one and the imaginary one, Neve thought.

  At least I can still create a miniature version of Christmas perfection for those who believe that dreams actually come true.

  Two

  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 b
efore 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?”