Was the tree lighting in Havenford a success?

Welcome back to “The Havenford Mysteries” series by local author R.A. Coscia. Installment four of “The Holiday Heirloom” is called “The Tree Lighting.” A new chapter will be published each week in The Beacon.

Christmastime in a small town stands in stark contrast to Christmas in New York City. I was raised in the nonstop bustle of sidewalks filled with locals and tourists alike, all in a rush, their patience worn thin. Christmas in the city is loud and bright, unrelenting. But Christmastime in a small town is quiet, as if the snow itself has muffled all unnecessary sound. Lights strung around town twinkle and glow, giving everything a magical feel. The pace slows, and people take time to savor the rest that winter brings. Christmastime in a small town is the most magical, and in Havenford, it is no different.

I stand at the newly replaced window of Aunt Mae’s coffee shop and look out onto the quiet town square. Everything is dusted with a fresh 2 inches of snow, the buildings resembling a perfect Christmas postcard. My eyes are drawn to the center of the square. There, in front of the courthouse, stands the town’s Christmas tree. It is dressed brightly, a Havenford tradition that each graduating class commissions a painted ornament representing their unique essence. The tree will remain unlit until the ceremony held the Saturday before Christmas, which just happens to be in two days.

Last week the mayor stopped by to speak in hushed tones with Aunt Mae. Still, no official announcement has been made about a replacement for the Founder’s Light.

“I don’t want to say anything until I’m standing on the podium in front of that tree,” the mayor said as he walked toward the door. “You know how the town likes to gossip, and I don’t want to give them a reason.” The bell clipped sharply as he hustled out.

I am brought back to the present when Eleanor Whitcombe walks past the window and into the shop. She pushes the door hard, rattling the bell and sending it swaying.

“Well, hello, friend,” Aunt Mae mumbles from behind the counter. She has become distant and quiet since Thanksgiving, lost in her own thoughts and worry over the missing Founder’s Light.

“Friend?” Eleanor scoffs. “Small towns and their quaint ways.”

“Everyone who comes into my shop to do business is a friend of mine,” Aunt Mae replies, her gaze steady. “Remember Eleanor, our bloodlines hold history, and it is a history of friendship.”

“I hold no loyalty to the friends of my ancestors,” Eleanor retorts, stone-faced. “A large black coffee, please.”

I stepped behind the counter to pour the coffee and move the transaction along, but Aunt Mae does not budge.

“Loyalty to the friends of our ancestors keeps a small town’s heart beating. You believe quaintness is a flaw, but you will find it is our soul.”

The two women glare at one another. After what feels like forever, Eleanor grabs her coffee, spins on her heel and marches toward the door. Her exaggerated stride draws my eyes to the large canvas bag draped over her shoulder and what appears to be the base of a candlestick peeping out from the top.

“Aunt Mae?” I whisper. “What are the directions to the old Whitcombe homestead?”

Two hours and two lattes later, I finally work up the courage to drive down Eleanor’s family lane. It is long and winding, concealing what waits at the end. Built by Edward Whitcombe in the late 1800s, the Italianate mansion stands in full grandeur surrounded by flat pastures and framed by rolling hills.

The brick home rises three stories, square and balanced. Tall, narrow windows stretch upward in even rows, their glass faintly wavy, catching the light in ways that make the interior impossible to read from the outside. In another season the house might feel spooky, haunted. But today, blanketed in fresh snow, a small wreath hangs on each window, a single candle glowing on every sill. It is Christmas perfection.

I approach slowly, making fresh tracks in the snow, suddenly unsure of my decision. A porch wraps across the front, its stone steps worn shallow from generations of feet. Two tall wooden doors meet at the center, each thick and solid, each carved with a large honeycomb. I take a breath and knock.

Eleanor is instantly at the door. She throws open one-half of the paired doors, sucking in her breath when she sees me.

“Eleanor,” I say quickly. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“That is obvious,” she states flatly. “What is it you want to discuss? How your family has lost one of my family’s heirlooms?”

“I just … I … ” I fumble, crossing my arms and rubbing them slightly to create a buffer against the cold.

“Oh my goodness, come in,” Eleanor says suddenly. “We can talk inside; I can’t let you freeze.” She steps, ushering me in and quietly closing the heavy wood behind her.

Inside, I am surrounded by a meticulously kept period home filled with displayed heirlooms. Eleanor leads me down the front hall into a formal front sitting room and gestures for me to sit on an upholstered, carved wooden chair. I can’t help but notice the honeycomb engraved into the arm. I trace it lightly with my finger.

“It is a calling card of our family,” Eleanor explains. “We’ve always kept hundreds of hives, and we’ve always tried to sneak a honeycomb into everything.” She unconsciously touches the honeycomb tattoo on her own skin.

“Take this, for instance.” She reaches into her canvas bag and pulls out a silver candlestick: dainty and thin, a honeycomb at its base. It is clearly not the Founder’s Light. “I found it last week in an old shed and had it restored. They believe it is from the early 1900s.”

I feel horrible. I had come here prepared to accuse her of theft, my worry clouding my judgment. I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes and instead look at the framed letter above her head.

In what I now know is Margaret Whitcombe’s handwriting, it reads: "The hive is a community that works as one. We strive for the same."

Eleanor follows my gaze and reads the note. She sighs, her shoulders slumping.

“Listen, Eleanor, I want to … ”

 “No,” she interrupts gently. “Let me. I’ve been so focused on reclaiming my family’s history that I lost sight of the bigger picture. Margaret wanted to share the light, not keep it hidden. What your Aunt Mae said today was right. Small towns are built on friendship, and I need to embrace that.”

She stands up and hands me the silver candlestick. “What if we use this on Saturday to light the tree? It is not the same, but sometimes traditions change. Maybe you and I could light the tree together, as a symbol? A Whitcombe and a Wren, lighting the tree together again. A new symbol of Christmas hope for the modern times.”

I smile, take the candlestick, and embrace her.

Two days later Eleanor and I stand side by side, both holding the silver candlestick.

“Tonight, our tree will be lit by two newcomers to our town. And while they may be new, the blood that runs through them is well-known to all those who call Havenford home.”

I beamed down at Aunt Mae, who is smiling for the first time in weeks.

The mayor lights one candle in the crowd, which lights another, and then another, until the entire square glows with candlelight. The newly crowned Christmastime queen steps forward and lifts her candle to light ours. Eleanor and I stretch our arms out together, igniting the single candle perched at the center of the tree.

The crowd begins to sing “Silent Night” as snowflakes drift down, and Christmas feels close. As the final note fades, the tree burst into brilliant light as the true electric bulbs flicker on. Cheers and applause erupt. The tradition has changed, but it has not been lost. The crowd lingers, singing carols and warming one another with Christmas joy.

It is late when people begin to disperse. I head back to the shop to lock up and find Aunt Mae inside, cleaning. Beans sleeps in her favorite spot by the fire. I notice the basement light is still on.

“I’ll be right back, Aunt Mae,” I say. “I’m going down to turn off the light.”

I descend the stairs, which creak beneath my weight. The basement is distinctly colder, untouched by the warmth of the fire and furnace above. As I scan the room, something on the far back shelf catches my eye. I approach slowly, trying to remember if I’ve seen it there before. A drop cloth has been wrapped tightly around something. I lift it from the shelf, feeling two distinct shapes beneath the fabric.

I open the cloth, my eyes widening in disbelief.

Then a creak.

I spin around and come face to face with Aunt Mae.

“Aunt Mae,” I whisper, “what is this?”