The guests whooped and hollered as they gathered in the main sitting room of Heritage Inn. During supper, the staff had frantically erected the eight-foot artificial tree, stretching its scrunched branches and spreading them wide to model a full-grown pine. They stood it close to the electric fireplace. A simulated fire blazed upward allowing the Christmas scene to take on a warm, wintry atmosphere, without the heat. Boxes lined the game table, holding each stage of the decorating process, the lights, garland, ornaments, tinsel and a can of fake snow to give the impression that the white snows of the North Pole had touched the tree.
On the other side of the room sat the monstrosity of a stone fireplace, reserved for winter. It remained unlit. July was the season to stay cool. The air conditioner ran full-blast, and the imitation would have to suffice for the Christmas in July event at Heritage Inn. But heaven forbid a bare fireplace should remain in the festive room. Unadorned, it lacked the most significant traditional element of holiday decorating. To fill the space, strings of red rope were stretched across the mantle area, and from it hung stockings – one for every person staying at the Inn tonight. Lots of red, green and blue hung proudly, waiting with treasures from this morning’s scavenger hunt, and the crafts the guests had created specifically for the name they’d draw from a hat at the onset of the event. They would know each other after traveling all these miles together, so the unveiling tomorrow morning should be insightful and hopefully fun for the group.
“The Christmas tree stands in wait of your creative talents. I see twelve of you have signed up to trim the tree so get comfy everyone else and let’s watch the transformation. The lights first, please.”
Four people jumped up and the stringing of over five hundred lights between the branches began. Angie flicked off the light switch, and the final check revealed all the twinkles balanced and covered the evergreen entirely. The groups proceeded, and within the hour, they’d positioned the final touches on the pine tree and we stood in awe of the transformation.
A few late contributions found their way into the stockings, until the felt bulged with roughly wrapped yard-sale gifts and creative sheets of glad tidings. The feeling in the air was contagious, like a bunch of children waiting for Christmas morning. Hot chocolate, cider, eggnog, and an assortment of Christmas shaped cookies arrived from the kitchen.
Angie addressed the group while their mouths chewed busily. “I trust you all enjoyed setting up for our Christmas morning celebration of gifts. Tomorrow night we have a treat for you. Heritage Inn is known for the owls that live in our barn. I will personally take you on that tour, but beware you seekers of love – many hearts do not return the same.”
“What’s so special about your owls?” a young man asked.
“Well, it seems this particular family is as old as our Inn, or at least the length of time my family has been here. The first couple came when my great-great-grandfather first settled in these parts. And as each generation passed on, the next stayed behind to populate the barn.”
“How do you know it’s the same family?”
“Same way you know your children, I suppose. We just know,” said Angie. She pointed to the huge painting over the fireplace. “Every Christmas celebration the owls don the Santa hats and love perches on the branches ready to romance their one true mate.”
“Sounds hokey-pokey,” said a young teen. “All that love and mush. It’s just instinct for birds.”
“And have you passed that theory by any of my owls?” Angie asked, giving the boy a generous, playful wink.
“I might do that tomorrow night.”
Angie laughed. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, everyone.”
On her way past Trevor, she beckoned him aside. “Are we still on for the boat ride tomorrow?”
“Looking forward to it. Three at the dock, right?” Trevor confirmed.
“Right,” Angie said. “And I hope to see you at the church service. It’s interdenominational and held at the chapel on the east side of the Inn every Sunday morning.”
“Is the sermon somehow connected to your owls?”
“You peeked at the preacher’s notes.” Angie chuckled.
“No, I just noticed the title of his sermon in the schedule. The gift of owls.”
“Very observant,” said Angie.
“I thought owls were an omen for death or bad luck?”
“Are you superstitious, Mr. Dristoll?” Angie grinned. “It’s true that some tribes in Africa figured if they saw or even heard one cry out a hoot, that someone would surely die.”
“Only in Africa, huh?”
“And I see the belief has spread to America, as well. But I think you’ll discover that the love aspect overrides it all – at least in a spiritual sense.”
“It’ll be interesting to see how death can spread to a gift, and finally love? You must agree, that’s a big stretch?”
“Perhaps after the sermon, you’ll discover the link,” Angie said. “I must leave you now. Got a conference call in ten minutes.”
“Isn’t it late to be doing business?”
“Apparently, not in China. Goodnight Trevor.”
It was midnight when Angie closed the door to her office. She couldn’t wait to crawl under the sheets. As was her custom, she went to check if the guard was on duty.
“Evening, Joe. Quiet out there tonight?” Angie asked when she spotted him close to the front entrance.
“Sure is. You must have worn out your
