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velvet bows.  Above the door of the winery was a huge grapevine wreath highlighted by a single giant red bow and lined with white lights. As Paul stopped the car in the circular drive in front of the house, they noted wreaths on every window, and swaths of bow-studded garland looping the railing of the wraparound porch.  More garland—as well as lights, no doubt—climbed each of the white columns, draping artfully over the arch of the front door.  The front door displayed one of the most elaborate holiday wreaths either of them had ever seen, complete with dried hydrangeas in breathtaking hues of lavender and pink, silver ribbon, miniature birds, and tastefully arranged glass spheres in shades of pink and purple.
    Paul turned off the engine and looked uncomfortably at Derrick.  “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I feel a bit like a beggar at the feast.”
    “And we haven’t even gone inside,” agreed Derrick glumly.
    The moment they started to open their doors a black and white terror in the form of a border collie charged around the corner of the house, teeth bared, voice raging, and flung himself at their front right tire.  They closed the doors and waited, as anyone who had ever visited Ladybug Farm was trained to do, for someone to come along to control the beast.  That someone was Lori, who came from the back in jeans, scuffed green rain boots, and a quilted red vest over a flannel shirt.  Her copper curls escaped a knit cap with yellow yarn braids, and she wore matching yellow knit gloves.  Seeing her, Paul could not prevent a great sigh.
    “Once she was a fashion diva,” he said.
    “At least the gloves match the hat,” Derrick offered, although he, too, looked pained.
    Lori, struggling with the contents of a gallon bucket, planted it by the corner of the porch and rushed forward, shouting, “Rebel, no!”
    She grabbed the dog by the collar and dragged him away from the car, calling happily, “Hi, Uncle Derrick!  Uncle Paul!  What’d you bring me?”
    They held up the poinsettias hopefully.  “Flowers?” Paul called back through his barely opened window.
    She wrinkled her nose.  “A Victoria’s Secret gift card would be better.”
    Paul said, “Love you, precious!”
    She grinned. “Love you back!”  She hauled the dog away from the car and added, “Everybody’s in the kitchen.  Except Dominic, who’s in the winery, and Kev, who’s at school.”  Her husband, Kevin, taught business at the community college while working on his PhD from UVA.  In his spare time, he also helped run the winery.  She gave the dog a swat on the bottom that sent him racing off toward the meadows and said, “Got to feed the chickens. Merry Christmas!”
    “Merry Christmas to you, sweetie!” They both called back, but waited until she was gone and the dog was well out of sight before they got out of the car. 
    They walked around the wide porch to the kitchen door.  It was wrapped like a present in red and green calico and tied with an enormous red velvet bow—Lori’s idea, no doubt, who could always be counted on for a whimsical touch. A garland of cedar boughs outlined the door frame, decorated with tiny silver bows and sparkling red, lime green and silver Christmas balls.  Rustic milk cans filled with bright red berries and greenery decorated with more of the red, silver and lime green ornaments flanked the door, and beside the steps there was a stack of boxes wrapped in more colorful calico and tied with bright floppy bows, as though Santa had just dropped them off.  Lori, again.  The white wicker table where, during the warmer months, the ladies often had breakfast, was now decorated with a red and green plaid tablecloth lightly shot through with silver, and bright red cushions adorned the chairs.  There were playful felt Santa placemats and a runner of cedar boughs studded with more red, green and silver balls.  Two white pillar candles stood on that bed of greenery, flanking a