Lacey spent most of her life staring out a window. But, as anyone would tell you and she would begrudgingly admit, what a magnificent window it was.

Ten feet tall and eight feet wide, the front window of Landrau’s Boutique was impressive in size alone.  But it wasn’t only the size that kept visitors gawking on the sidewalk all year, and kept competing shop owners glowering and glaring from their own shop windows.  The front window of Landrau’s Boutique was more than just a window, it was a ever-changing magical world.  From day to day, season to season, year to year; the window slowly transformed.

Sometimes the changes were so small that you had to truly study the display to find the difference.  Other times, the changes were so grand the line would be several blocks long just to catch a glimpse over someone’s shoulder or a short person’s head.  For nothing about the window displays were ordinary–no white twinkling lights, no plastic figurines with price tags glued to the bottom or yards of cheap greenery.  Not only did every scene of Landrau’s Boutique look magical and exquisite, it looked real. People swore they had seen animals move, tiny people wave and during the summer, tiny wooden ships fighting on a raging sea with waves slapping against the glass and wind howling through the store.

And since she was two years old, Lacey had been trapped behind it, watching the world go by.

As the granddaughter of Lara Landrau, Lacey had grown up in the boutique.  At five, she was an expert at helping gentlemen and young boys get measured for a suit.  At ten, she could easily find even the most full-figured woman an outfit that made her look fifteen pounds lighter.  And now, at 15, she was determined to decorate the front window.

And her mother and grandmother were just as determined for her not to.

“But why?” Lacey asked for the millionth time as she tagged glittering necklaces and bracelets for the accessory table.  “Why can’t I decorate the front window?”

Her mother straightened, dropping the box of brightly colored Christmas socks on the floor.  “Lacey, we told you.  It’s just not time yet.”

Lacey tossed her strawberry curls and pouted.  “Mom, it’s never time.  I’ll be 80 years old and you’ll still be using that excuse.”

“No, she won’t.  She’ll be dead.”  Lacey’s grandmother sprung up from behind the register, a sly grin stretched across her wrinkled cheeks.  “What’s the rush, Lacey?  Do you not like the display now?”

Lacey gazed over the racks of dainty sweaters and glittering evening dresses to the latest scene.  Today, tiny deer strolled through a snowy winter forest, complete with a gently rolling stream with a sturdy wooden bridge and cheerful congregation of snowmen dressed in scarves and hats, a few smoking pipes.  Even as she watched, she could swear one of the deer turned his head, snow falling gently from his antlers to the ground.

“No,” she said softly.  “I love it. I always love it.”  Ignoring her mother’s beaming face, she narrowed her sharp green eyes.  “And that’s why I want to help so bad.  I want to know how you and Grandma do it.  I want to know the secrets.”  The magic, she added silently.  She wanted to be part of the magic.

Lacey’s mother hesitated, looking over Lacey’s head at her own aged mother.  Lacey’s grandmother shook her head, her white curls gleaming under the florescent lights.  “It’s just not time, Lacey.  It’s just not time.”

Normally, Lacey would have accepted that.  She would have pouted, whined for several minutes about how unfair everything was and then began demanding other things, like one of the new sweaters in the back or that cute plaid miniskirt to go with her tall brown boots that made her legs look better than Heidi Klum’s.  But this time, Lacey didn’t whine or pout.  Instead she simply bit her lip and continued to tag, ignoring her mother’s overly cheerful chatter about the new stock of socks and how she could decorate the stocking display.

Because this time, she wouldn’t bother to ask how they created the window every night, long after she had been sent home.

This time, she was going to stay and watch.

At seven o’clock, Lacey made a big show of stretching.  “Mom, I’m going to go home and do my homework,” she called, creeping towards the back of the store.  Her mother, flocked by a group of elderly women arguing over how many socks to buy their grandchildren, simply waved.  “Lasagna’s in the fridge,” she called.  “I’ll be home at nine with your grandmother.”

Slipping into the back store room, Lacey tucked herself in a corner, curling up on a pile of blankets that hadn’t sold last year.  Wrapping herself in blue fleece, she leaned against the shelves and pulled out her history book.  She hadn’t lied.  She would do her homework–just not at home.  “After I get done with these this chapter, I’ll sneak back out there,” she whispered to herself, her freckled cheeks spreading into a mischievous grin.  “And after I see their secrets, I’ll slip through the back door and make it home before they ever realize what happened.  Chuckling to herself, she began to read about the Civil War.  Tucked in the warm cocoon of the fleece, she fought her heavy eyelids through every dull sentence, forcing herself to concentrate on the details the Confederate Army’s plight.

The next thing Lacey knew, she was jolted awake by a strange sound.  Blinking in the blackness, she sucked in her breath in panic before she remembered where she was.  Clutching her history book to her chest, she threw off the blanket and crept out into the store, careful to not to make a sound.

Sliding through the back storeroom door, Lacey carefully stepped into the main floor of the boutique.  In the darkness, with only a few small lamps glowing softly, the shop looked eerie.  Mannequins glowered at her, their cheerful Christmas sweaters muted and dull in the shadows.  Scooting past a sinister looking rack of dresses, Lacey snuck closer to the strange sounds coming from the window.  Ducking behind a display, she peered around a rack of coats and swallowed a gasp.

Her grandmother and mother were nowhere near the window.  In fact, they weren’t even in the store.

Yet, without a single hand, the window was transforming.

The deer had moved across the stream, curiously investigating the chattering group of snowmen, snow dribbling from their antlers.  As Lacey watched, several children ran across the snowy hill, laughing and shouting as they pulled sleds behind them.  A dog ran beside them, barking giddily, snow flinging from it’s joyful tail.  Several trees parted to reveal a ice-covered pond, where a giggling group of schoolgirls plopped down their schoolbags and pulled out pink pairs of skates.  In the corner of the window, several houses rose from the ground, the smell of muffins and simmering stews filling the stores as the tiny glass windows glowed.

Lacey jumped as a hand touched her shoulder, whirling around.  Her grandmother and mother stood behind her, stern yet amused expressions painted across their faces. Shrugging, Lacey told them the truth.

“I had to know where the magic came from.”

Her mother took one hand, and her grandmother took the other.  “We know,” they whispered in unison, squeezing her hands.  “We know.”

And together, the three generations of the Landrau family turned to watch the window slowly transform.

As they had done, and would continue to do, for years to come.

Stay tuned, Invisible Friends!  We have a bit of Christmas whimsy tomorrow, a new Christmas ballerina story Wednesday and more delicious fun Thursday!  Stay tuned!

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