M.C. Beaton

So although it was only early October, she tried to fill her mind with thoughts of Christmas. Unlike quite a number of perople, Agatha had not given up on Christmas. To have the perfect Christmas had been a childhood dream whilst surviving a rough upbringing in Birmingham slum. Holly berries glistened, snow fell gently outside, and inside, all was Dickensian jollity. And in her dreams, James Lacey kissed her under the midletoe, and, like a middle-aged sleeping beauty, she would awake to passion once more.
Her friend, the vicar's wife, Mrs. Bloxby, had once pointed out that Christmas was to celebrate the birth of Christ, but Agatha's mind shied away from that. To her, Christmas was more Hollywood than church.