Chapter One
Every year the town of Noel held a festival called “The Magic of Christmas.” It wasn’t just any festival, but one carried on over the years as a truly magical event.
The festival, which started in 1912, was the first one of its kind to feature a marriage in the town center. Ever since then, one lucky couple got married there each year, never divorcing, always a perfect match. Not until 1940, did the festival change. Couples were handpicked and put together, married in the town square, and accepted their fate.
And every year, the newspaper covered the previous marriages, never finding unhappiness, but only true love matches.
And so the magic of Christmas lived on.
Words like “fate,” “destiny,” and “magic,” were often thrown around, but Mary Ann Simms no longer believed in any of those things. She used to—hell, she even swooned a time or two— years ago. She no longer believed in fate and love—not just for herself, but for those around her as well. She wondered if the ballots were rigged, faked, planned. In fact, she’d stopped entering her own name— stopped dating altogether—and stopped believing in miracles, Christmas or not.
“Mary, I need some help from you on this year’s article,” Sara Jane, her fellow reporter for “The Star” told her one day.
Mary shook her head. “Absolutely not. You know how I feel about that sham,” she said with disgust.
Sara clicked away at her keyboard and frowned. “I really can’t get the article right. This sentence, ‘Christmas is a time of…’”
“Blah, blah,” Mary said. “Why not just copy last year’s article? They’re all the same anyway. Hell, you can go look in the archives and find something—anything—that will do.”
“You know what, Mary?” Sara asked, as she stood up and put her hands on her hips. Their shared cubicle left little room to move around. “You need to get over this…this perception of Christmas. The festival has proven—year after year—to be a success. Just look at the Tomlins, the Jamesons, the McClearys.”
“Coincidence, Sara,” Mary said with feigned boredom. “The McClearys knew each other for years, and Aly and James Tomlin? They are the two most stubborn people I’ve ever met. They’re probably staying together to prove a point. And the Jameson’s—the mayor and his wife? All political! They love the attention—not each other!” Mary yelled, annoyed. It was just like Sara to bring up those couples, but she couldn’t not defend herself. Even if she sounded crazy. Sara’s face turned red, and her eyes looked hard.
“Mary, I need you to write the articles this year. If I have to pull rank with you, I’ll do it.”
“That’s not fair, Sara.”
“You need a reality check, Mary, and if I have to use my husband as that check, then so be it.” Her husband was the editor.
Mary groaned, and then smiled wickedly. “Sure, I’ll do the story this year,” she said.
Sara’s eyes narrowed, “Well, that’s—”
“It’s about time the people of this town know the facts about that damned festival! In fact, I’ll make sure to thank you in the article.”
Sara frowned. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
****
When he heard the song on the radio, James Rochester was with his grandparents, Ava and John. He’d listened to it with fondness over the years, mainly because of them. “Oh Holy Night” was the song played at their wedding. He obviously wasn’t there, but he’d watched the videos, filmed with a glorious old 1940’s Rervere mini-camera. As a movie enthusiast, James was intrigued by the old technology that was top-of-the-line at the time. The video machine didn’t have sound, but he remembered watching it, while his grandmother put on a CD of Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters his mother gave her for Christmas.
With a smile on his face, James watched the couple as they gazed into one another’s eyes. After all these years they were still
Every year the town of Noel held a festival called “The Magic of Christmas.” It wasn’t just any festival, but one carried on over the years as a truly magical event.
The festival, which started in 1912, was the first one of its kind to feature a marriage in the town center. Ever since then, one lucky couple got married there each year, never divorcing, always a perfect match. Not until 1940, did the festival change. Couples were handpicked and put together, married in the town square, and accepted their fate.
And every year, the newspaper covered the previous marriages, never finding unhappiness, but only true love matches.
And so the magic of Christmas lived on.
Words like “fate,” “destiny,” and “magic,” were often thrown around, but Mary Ann Simms no longer believed in any of those things. She used to—hell, she even swooned a time or two— years ago. She no longer believed in fate and love—not just for herself, but for those around her as well. She wondered if the ballots were rigged, faked, planned. In fact, she’d stopped entering her own name— stopped dating altogether—and stopped believing in miracles, Christmas or not.
“Mary, I need some help from you on this year’s article,” Sara Jane, her fellow reporter for “The Star” told her one day.
Mary shook her head. “Absolutely not. You know how I feel about that sham,” she said with disgust.
Sara clicked away at her keyboard and frowned. “I really can’t get the article right. This sentence, ‘Christmas is a time of…’”
“Blah, blah,” Mary said. “Why not just copy last year’s article? They’re all the same anyway. Hell, you can go look in the archives and find something—anything—that will do.”
“You know what, Mary?” Sara asked, as she stood up and put her hands on her hips. Their shared cubicle left little room to move around. “You need to get over this…this perception of Christmas. The festival has proven—year after year—to be a success. Just look at the Tomlins, the Jamesons, the McClearys.”
“Coincidence, Sara,” Mary said with feigned boredom. “The McClearys knew each other for years, and Aly and James Tomlin? They are the two most stubborn people I’ve ever met. They’re probably staying together to prove a point. And the Jameson’s—the mayor and his wife? All political! They love the attention—not each other!” Mary yelled, annoyed. It was just like Sara to bring up those couples, but she couldn’t not defend herself. Even if she sounded crazy. Sara’s face turned red, and her eyes looked hard.
“Mary, I need you to write the articles this year. If I have to pull rank with you, I’ll do it.”
“That’s not fair, Sara.”
“You need a reality check, Mary, and if I have to use my husband as that check, then so be it.” Her husband was the editor.
Mary groaned, and then smiled wickedly. “Sure, I’ll do the story this year,” she said.
Sara’s eyes narrowed, “Well, that’s—”
“It’s about time the people of this town know the facts about that damned festival! In fact, I’ll make sure to thank you in the article.”
Sara frowned. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
****
When he heard the song on the radio, James Rochester was with his grandparents, Ava and John. He’d listened to it with fondness over the years, mainly because of them. “Oh Holy Night” was the song played at their wedding. He obviously wasn’t there, but he’d watched the videos, filmed with a glorious old 1940’s Rervere mini-camera. As a movie enthusiast, James was intrigued by the old technology that was top-of-the-line at the time. The video machine didn’t have sound, but he remembered watching it, while his grandmother put on a CD of Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters his mother gave her for Christmas.
With a smile on his face, James watched the couple as they gazed into one another’s eyes. After all these years they were still
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