2. Levi
CHAPTER 2
Levi
Frost sparkled on the evergreens, the pale morning light catching each branch like tinsel. I leaned against the edge of the barn, my breath fogging in the crisp air, and let the moment settle around me. The scent of pine and cold earth filled my lungs, grounding me even as my thoughts wandered to everything left undone.
The farm felt quieter this year—emptier. Grandma’s passing over the summer had left a gaping hole none of us had figured out how to fill. Grandpa, so heartbroken by losing her, had struggled in ways we hadn’t anticipated. His health had declined sharply, and two months ago, we moved him into a care facility. He’d put up a fight, but the truth was, this place wasn’t safe for him anymore—not with its uneven ground and endless ways to fall.
The silence weighed heavy, but the farm couldn’t stop just because our family was grieving. If anything, it needed more from us now.
“Levi, we’re out of twine!” Paige’s voice shot across the yard, breaking the quiet. My sixteen-year-old sister came charging toward me, a coil of ribbon in one hand and her phone in the other. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, her expression a mix of determination and exasperation.
“It’s in the shed,” I said, pushing off the wall. My legs felt heavy, the weight of the season already pressing down on me. “Top shelf, next to the burlap.”
She groaned, rolling her eyes as she stomped toward the shed. “Of course it’s on the top shelf. Who even puts twine up there?”
“People with long arms,” I called after her, managing a smirk. Paige was all legs and energy, more interested in TikTok dances than farm logistics, but she’d been pitching in wherever she could. I appreciated it, even if her grumbling came with the package.
The barn door creaked behind me, and Mom appeared, bundled in her puffy jacket and a scarf that looked like it had been knitted in the seventies. She carried a tray of mugs, steam rising from them in lazy curls. “Coffee break,” she said, holding one out to me.
“You’re a lifesaver.” I took the mug and wrapped my hands around it, the warmth seeping into my chilled fingers. “Paige is wrestling with the twine situation.”
Mom chuckled, her smile faint but genuine. “She’ll manage. She’s tougher than she looks.”
I sipped the coffee, the bitter edge cutting through my fatigue. “Have you checked the craft market setup yet? I’m heading over after this to make sure everything’s on track.”
“It’s under control,” she said, but her eyes lingered on me a moment too long. “You look tired, Levi. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”
I shrugged. “December’s always like this. Once we get through the market and the tree sales, it’ll ease up.”
Her lips pressed together, and she turned toward the field, her gaze distant. “Your dad and I were talking about the ADUs last night. You’re not getting anywhere with them, are you?”
I winced. “It’s not that I’m not getting anywhere. It’s just... there’s only so much time, you know? Between running the farm and keeping everything afloat?—”
“Levi.” Her tone was soft but firm, the way only a mom could manage. “Maybe we should apply for a loan, or maybe we should throw in the towel and sell the place, head back to LA, you know?”
I shook my head, the weight of the conversation settling heavily in my chest. The Kincaids had inherited this Christmas tree farm from my great-uncle Sam, a distant relative we barely knew, but who had somehow seen something in us. He had no children of his own and had wanted the land to stay in the family, to remain a working farm, and to continue the tradition of growing Christmas trees. When he passed, he left it to my family—despite being from LA and living hundreds of miles away. Great-uncle Sam believed we were the best stewards of that vision, and I’d taken it on as my responsibility, moving here with the whole family.
I wanted to make it work for my mom—who was already well into her sixties—especially knowing how much this place meant to her. I’d been born thirty years ago, late in my parents’ lives, when they were almost ready to give up on the idea of having kids. Then, sixteen years ago, Paige came along and surprised us all. The weight of that history and expectation pressed on me daily, but it also kept me grounded in a way nothing else could.
“I can’t just walk away from it, Mom,” I said quietly. “This farm is all we’ve got. The market, the wreath sales—they’re helping. Once the season slows down, I’ll tackle the chalets. We’ll get them listed as seasonal rentals, and it’ll bring in enough to cover the costs. Just need a little more time.”
She reached over and squeezed my arm, her touch providing some comfort. “We’re proud of you, you know. Your grandma would be proud too.”
Her words landed like a weight in my chest. Grandma. The farm hadn’t felt the same since she passed. It was like the heart of the place had gone with her.
“I miss her,” I admitted, my voice low.
Mom’s eyes shimmered, but she didn’t look away. “Me too.”
Before the silence stretched too long, Paige returned, the spool of twine in one hand and a triumphant grin on her face. “Found it. You’re welcome.”
“Congratulations on your groundbreaking achievement,” I said, tipping my mug in her direction.
She stuck her tongue out at me and then turned to Mom. “Craft table’s almost done. Can I set up my stuff now?”
“Go ahead,” Mom said, ruffling her hair as she passed. Paige ducked away with a laugh, skipping toward the barn where her creations waited.
I drained the last of my coffee and set the mug on the tray. “I’d better check the market setup. If Mrs. Taylor tries to claim two stalls again, it’ll be chaos.”
Mom’s laugh was soft, but it warmed me. “Go. I’ll finish here.”
The holiday market, a tradition in the Hollow, was already bustling when I arrived. We held it right here on the farm every year, transforming the open space near the barn into a maze of tables and booths. Wreaths, garlands, and other decorations made from tree trimmings were our main attraction, but we rented out stalls to local vendors too. The scent of cinnamon and pine hung in the air, mingling with the murmur of voices and the occasional laugh.
“Levi!” Mrs. Taylor’s voice cut through the noise, her hand shooting up to flag me down.
Here we go.
I plastered on a smile and made my way over. “Mrs. Taylor, everything okay?”
She gestured to the table next to hers, where another vendor was setting up a display of holiday-themed jams. “She’s encroaching on my space! I paid for a double stall, and she’s practically on top of me.”
The jam vendor looked up, her brows furrowing. “I’m well within my area. I measured.”
“It’s fine,” I said, stepping between them. “Let me take a look.”
After a quick assessment, I shifted a few tables, creating a bit more breathing room. “There. Everyone happy?”
Mrs. Taylor huffed but nodded. The jam vendor gave me a small, grateful smile.
As I walked away, I caught sight of Paige setting up her table near the center of the market. She’d arranged her stuffies in neat rows, each one made with care. She spotted me and waved, her grin as bright as the lights strung above the stalls.
For a moment, the weight on my shoulders eased. This—family, community, the spirit of the season—was why we did it. Why we worked so hard to keep the farm running, to make something special out of the chaos.
Even if it meant running myself ragged, it was worth it.