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“Does anyone know how many reindeer Santa has?” she asks. She holds up her hands and ticks them off on her fingers as she names them. “There’s Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen. Comet and Cupid and Donner and…”

“Blitzen,” finish a few of the more enthusiastic kids.

One of the reindeer paws the ground and snorts. Paisley reaches out and gives the reindeer a comforting pat on the back. “Easy, there,” she says.

“What about Rudolph?” pipes up one of the kids.

“We can’t forget about Rudolph,” she agrees.

I’m not sure which of the kids starts it, but soon the whole group is singing about reindeer games. Their enthusiasm is contagious and makes me want to join in. I can’t remember the last time I sang a Christmas carol. It’s impossible to miss the pained expression on Paisley’s face and the way her fingers curl into the thick fur of the reindeer standing next to her. Her smile is tight and she swallows hard when they finish with the line about being part of history.

When she speaks again, her tone is overly bright. “These two reindeer are sisters. This reindeer here is Dunder. And this one is Blixem. Their names are the Dutch words for thunder and lightning.”

Paisley’s gaze sweeps over the group as she speaks. Our eyes lock for an instant, but her attention doesn’t linger. I’m hit once again with a sense of recognition. I’m sure I’ve seen her before. I just wish I could remember where.

Paisley’s obviously busy, so I wander around the farm for a while. Rows and rows of Christmas trees ripple over the soft rolling hills. I can picture myself sitting out here on a blanket, strumming my guitar. Maybe Barry was onto something when he shipped me out here to work on the demo.

The sun warms my skin, and by the time I make my way to the large red barn, I’m parched. A car pulls into the gravel parking lot across the road, and a group of women my mom’s age emerges from the car. “Just wait until you see the gift shop,” one of them says. “The spiced cider is to die for.”

Spiced cider sounds good right about now.

I wait a beat and then follow them down a short hedge-lined redbrick path that leads to a giant courtyard. Across the way is a large single-story building that looks like a gingerbread house. A sign on the door says Hidden Treasures Gift Shop, Open Halloween to Christmas Eve. The women head inside, but I take a few minutes to survey my surroundings. I feel like I’ve wandered onto an empty set for a holiday movie, minus the snow.

On the left side of the courtyard, nestled between two hulking Christmas trees, is a hot cocoa stand with a walk-up counter and a peaked roof. A blackboard sign hangs down from the rafters with Closed artfully written across it in white chalk. A few black wrought iron café tables and matching chairs are spaced out nearby.

To the right of the gift shop is a rustic stall with a sign that says Festive & Free. It reminds me of the roadside farm stands that pop up with seasonal harvests, but instead of tomatoes or apples or sweet corn, the bins of this one are filled with pine cones, round slices of wood with the bark still on them, and a jumble of green, orange, and white gourds.

Granny would have loved it here.

I force down the feeling of grief that threatens to surface and head to the gift shop. The thick scent of cinnamon hits me smack in the face as soon as I open the door and step inside. The walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with holiday decor, and wide tables down the middle display bins of Christmas tree decorations. There’s a scented candle and essential oil display near the counter that seems to be the focus of everyone’s attention.

“I’m sorry,” sobs a little girl as giant tears roll down her face. “I didn’t mean to.”

At her feet are the shards of a broken glass bottle, and a translucent brown liquid oozes across the scuffed wooden floorboards. She clings to her mother and hides her face as her shoulders shake.

“I told you not to touch it,” the mom says, but her voice isn’t without sympathy. She wraps her arm around the girl and sighs.

The woman behind the cash register gives her a knowing smile. “Accidents happen.”

There’s a red velvet curtain hanging on the wall behind the counter that must lead to a storeroom. From within comes a series of thuds and bangs followed by “Found it.”

Paisley steps through the curtain with a container of kitty litter and a dustpan and brush. She’s no longer wearing a hat and her dark hair is pulled up into a ponytail. I realize I’m staring and force myself to look away before it gets weird.

Most of the shoppers go back to their browsing, but one of the women from the car keeps looking over at Paisley, too. “Does she look familiar to you?” she asks her friend in a loud whisper.

The other woman peers at Paisley through glasses with thick lenses. “A little, I guess.”

“I know her from somewhere,” the first woman says, shaking her head as if it’ll knock the memory loose. “I’m sure of it.”

“Maybe she just has one of those faces,” the other woman suggests.

Paisley sweeps the kitty litter and broken glass into the dustpan. She gives a momentary wary glance at the two whispering women before surveying the other customers. “All set.”

When she turns, I quickly look away so she doesn’t catch me staring. I’m not sure what it is about her, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen her somewhere before.

But maybe the woman is right.

Maybe she just has one of those faces.