The festive air that enveloped Avonlea as Christmas approached seemed to bypass Thomas's home, where his father's attention remained tethered to the realms of work and necessity, leaving little room for holiday cheer.
The day before Christmas, Thomas, yearning for some semblance of the holiday spirit they once shared, broached the subject of a Christmas tree.
His father's response - a silent gesture towards the small hatchet beside the hearth. His father loved to convey his thoughts to his son in a non verbal manner, leaving Thomas to interpret and act accordingly. It was a tacit permission, or perhaps a challenge, to take the initiative if Thomas so desired.
With a resigned sigh, Thomas understood the message. Dressing warmly against the winter chill, he ventured to the workshop to retrieve an axe from the workshop, more suited for chopping than the worn hatchet. The woods near their home, a familiar landscape in all seasons, now held the promise of bringing a piece of the Christmas spirit into their home, if only in the form of a pine tree that Thomas could decorate.
As Thomas ventured deep into the snow-blanketed forest in search of the perfect Christmas tree, the stillness of the woods was broken by distant voices. Intrigued and cautious, he moved closer, using the trees as cover to remain unseen. From his hidden spot, he soon recognized the figures as Anne and Jerry, also on a quest for their own Christmas tree.
"Come on Anne, we've been searching for hours," Jerry complained, his voice carrying a blend of fatigue and impatience.
"You are so impatient, Jerry. The tree has to be perfect - its branches reaching out like the welcoming arms of a long-lost friend," Anne retorted, her words painting a picture of the ideal tree she envisioned. Thomas smirked, amused. Only Anne would describe a tree that way.
Jerry sighed, a clear sign that he knew there was no rushing Anne in this matter. Yet, unable to help himself, he ventured another question that immediately felt misplaced.
"Do you think Mr. and Ms. Cuthbert got you a lot of presents?" he inquired, a question born of curiosity but lacking in sensitivity.
A brief silence followed, then Anne responded, her voice laced with a mix of sadness and frustration.
"Obviously not, Jerry. I'll be lucky to get any presents at all, if you had forgotten about our situation," she said, her reply serving as a stark reminder of the hardships her family was facing. "Not that it matters, all I want is for Matthew to get better."
"Oui, sorry," Jerry quickly apologized.
Their search resumed in silence until, at last, Anne selected a tree that seemed to meet her high standards. With practiced movements, Jerry cut it down, and together, they began the slow trudge back towards Green Gables, dragging the tree behind them.
Left alone, Thomas watched them disappear, Anne's words echoing in his mind. She had been through so much, and her voice had held the kind of determined hope that he rarely saw in others. A thought began to form in his mind - a small way he might bring her a moment of cheer amid her worries.
After returning home with the tree, Thomas took to setting it up in the parlour, transforming the space with a touch of festive spirit. Luckily the house's previous occupants had left behind some decorations, which Thomas used to adorn the tree, instilling a sense of Christmas warmth in their otherwise undecorated home.
Just as he placed the final decoration, his father wandered in, coffee in hand. He gave the tree a brief, indifferent glance, nodded once at Thomas, and shuffled back to his work.
With the Christmas tree now fully decorated, Thomas's thoughts turned to a more personal mission. He climbed upstairs to a small room that was a library of sorts, filled with books on a variety of subjects. Among these, he sought out a specific one, and finally found it - Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.
With the book in hand he retreated to his room. Sitting down with a piece of paper, Thomas pondered what to write. After a moment of thought, he wrote a brief note:
"To Anne,
I hope that you find this book interesting. It reminds me of you.
Happy Christmas."
He chose to leave the note unsigned. He carefully placed the note atop the book, wrapping it neatly to preserve the surprise. He quickly scribbled "For Anne" on the package.
The book, a tale of curiosity, adventure, and the surreal, seemed a fitting choice for Anne, whose spirit and imagination often mirrored the novel's whimsical journey.
Dressed warmly again, Thomas saddled up his horse, Luna, and tucked the small package securely under his coat. The ride to Green Gables was brisk and silent, the snow beneath Luna's hooves muffling their journey. When he reached the gates, he dismounted, deciding to walk the rest of the way to keep a low profile. The sight of Green Gables nestled in the snow under the cold, clear night sky made him pause. He imagined the warmth within, the small family gathered around the hearth, likely unaware of his presence.
Steeling himself, Thomas climbed the steps, carefully placing the gift by the front door. He didn't want to give it to Anne in person; he worried she might feel pressured to reciprocate, and he wanted this to be something simple—just a gesture, without expectations. After setting the book down, he glanced around, self-conscious.
As he retreated back to Luna, in an attempt to hide his visit, he dragged his feet through the snow, obscuring the footprints he left behind earlier. He mounted up and with a final look towards Green Gables, he set off back towards his home. On his ride back, Thomas wondered how Anne would react upon discovering the gift. He hoped she would like it.
As Thomas returned home, he led Luna carefully into the stable, patting her neck with quiet gratitude for their journey together. When he stepped back out, a strange scent drifted through the cold winter air. Food? Cooking? He stood in the snowy yard, puzzled, trying to recall the last time he'd smelled anything so inviting. Intrigued, he headed into the house.
Inside, Thomas froze, astonished. His father stood in the kitchen, hunched over the stove, focused on something in a pan. The kitchen, usually so still, was alive with the sounds and smells of cooking, the sizzle of food meeting hot oil and the warm, earthy aroma of roasted vegetables filling the air. It was as if he'd stepped into someone else's home.
His father noticed his shocked expression and smirked. "What?" he asked, stirring the pan without missing a beat. "We deserve something better than your terrible cooking for Christmas. Now, come help me." There was a lightness in his voice that Thomas hadn't heard in years.
Dumbfounded, Thomas discarded his coat in the parlour, his gaze catching a package nestled under the Christmas tree - a sizable package.
With no time to ponder the gift, he joined his father in the kitchen, embarking on a rare collaborative effort. They prepared the meal together, exchanging the occasional comment but mostly working in comfortable silence. His father's movements were confident, practiced—a side of him Thomas had almost forgotten. He recalled, vaguely, the days when his father had cooked often, before life had shifted and left them to their quieter, solitary routines.
When they finally sat down, their dinner was simple but far richer than their usual fare. Thomas savored each bite, and though neither of them spoke much, there was an unspoken acknowledgment of the effort, a rare attempt at something resembling normalcy. The night wore on, content and quiet, until a distant chorus of voices broke through the calm. The sound of Christmas carols, carried by the crisp winter air, approached their home, a tradition in Avonlea where folks visited neighbors to spread holiday cheer through song.
Although Thomas's father didn't like guests, he opened the door and stepped outside, enduring. Thomas saw a few familiar faces in the group, namely Diana and Mrs. Lynde. And then, more surprising still, as the last notes of the carols faded into the night, his father offered a gruff but sincere "Happy Christmas" to the group.
The next morning, Thomas woke to a strange anticipation. He rarely expected much from Christmas, but the previous night had left him curious. He headed to the parlor and found his father already there, a steaming mug of coffee in hand. His father gave him a quick nod, gesturing toward the package beneath the tree.
"Happy Christmas," he said simply, his voice low.
Thomas hesitated, then knelt to pick up the package. He hadn't expected anything and found himself surprised. Tearing through the wrapping, he revealed a guitar, its polished wood gleaming in the soft morning light. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface, smiling as he remembered the guitar he'd left behind long ago, a part of his past he hadn't been able to bring with him.
"Thanks, dad." Thomas's gratitude was genuine.
Thomas's father only offered a quick nod, taking a sip from his coffee. However, his usually cold eyes had a glimmer in them that had been absent for years.
Over at Green Gables, Anne was unwrapping a surprise of her own. She sat cross-legged on the floor by the fire, carefully peeling back the brown wrapping from a package she had found on their doorstep that morning. She gasped softly as she revealed the cover of a book: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Her face lit up with delight; she'd heard of this story but had never had the chance to read it. She retrieved the note and read it.
"Who's it from?" Marilla asked, watching her with a smile as Matthew looked on, equally intrigued.
"I don't know.. It doesn't say" Anne replied, slightly disappointed.
She read the words over again, smiling at the thoughtfulness of it, but she wished there was a name to attach to this mystery.
"Well, seems like you have a secret admirer," Marilla teased, raising an eyebrow. Anne dismissed Marilla with a laugh but glanced back down at the note. As she traced her finger over the ink, her thoughts drifted to possibilities, and her heart fluttered at the idea of someone out there, thinking of her. The handwriting was neat, careful, and somehow… familiar. Where had she seen it before?