Chapter 13 Carina
Carina
The doorbell's chime echoes through the chalet, followed by voices speaking rapid French. I peer out the kitchen window to see a delivery truck backed up to the front entrance, two men unloading what looks like—
"Is that a tree?" Knox appears beside me, coffee in hand. "A massive fucking tree?"
"Language," William says automatically, striding past us toward the door. "And yes, it's a tree. Twelve feet of Noble Fir, sustainably sourced from a local farm."
"When did you order a Christmas tree?" I ask, following him.
"Tuesday. We always have a tree."
Knox snorts. "We always have a tree that gets delivered and decorated by professionals while we're conveniently elsewhere."
"Well, this year we're here." William opens the door, immediately switching to perfect French as he directs the delivery men.
The tree is gorgeous—full and perfectly shaped, that deep green that only real trees have. The men muscle it inside, along with boxes and boxes of what must be decorations. The amount of stuff is overwhelming.
"Mon Dieu," one of the men mutters, wiping sweat from his brow after they've set up the tree stand.
William tips them generously, and soon we're alone with what looks like a Christmas explosion in the great room. Boxes of ornaments, multiple strings of lights, garland, ribbons—it's excessive even by William's standards.
"Alright then." William pulls out his phone, already scrolling through contacts. "I'll call the decorating service. They can be here within the hour."
"Wait, hold on a minute. Are you serious?" I move closer to the tree, inhaling that perfect pine scent. "You're hiring someone to decorate?"
"Of course. They're professionals. They'll ensure everything is properly spaced and it's consistent."
"Consistent?" Knox laughs. "Will, it's a Christmas tree, not a corporate presentation."
"Tell me one thing that hasn't benefited from being consistent."
I run my hand along one of the branches, an idea forming. "What if we decorated it ourselves?"
William looks at me like I've suggested we set the tree on fire in the house. "Ourselves?"
"Yeah, like families do. Together. With cocoa and music and probably some arguments about where things go."
"That sounds..." William pauses, and I can actually see him trying to compute this deviation from his plan. "Chaotic."
"Fun. It sounds like fun," Knox corrects, already opening one of the boxes. "Come on, Will, when's the last time we actually decorated anything ourselves?"
"There's a reason for that."
"Because you're a control freak?"
"Because professionals do it better."
Travis appears in the doorway, takes in the scene, and grins. "Are we having a Christmas decorating party? I'll make spiked cider."
"We're not—" William starts.
"Please?" I turn to him, pulling out what Knox calls my 'deadly eyes.' "It would mean a lot to me. I never had... my ex always hired people too. Everything had to be perfect. I just once want to do it myself, even if it's messy."
It's a low blow, talking about Dylan, but it works. William's expression softens completely, and I swear a different man is in front of me.
"Fine," he sighs. "But we're doing it properly. Lights first, then garland, then ornaments from top to bottom."
"Deal." I beam at him, and I swear he almost smiles back.
What follows is what I expected from William—turning Christmas cheer into a project. He brings out a measuring tape from somewhere and actually measures the tree's circumference to calculate light spacing. Knox watches, trying not to laugh at his brother.
"You know what?" Knox says. "I'm going to document this," He pulls out his phone. "William Montclair, CEO of Eden Provisions, measuring a Christmas tree. The board would love this."
"Don't you dare—"
But Knox is already recording. "Tell us, Mr. Montclair, what's the optimal ratio of lights to tree footage?"
"One hundred lights per foot of height," William responds automatically, then scowls. "Delete that."
"Never. This is going in the family archives."
While they bicker, I start unpacking ornaments. They're stunning—hand-blown glass, delicate crystals, some that look like actual antiques.
"These are beautiful," I breathe, holding up a delicate glass angel.
"Grandmother's collection," William says, glancing over. "Some of these are from the 1940s."
"And we're just... hanging them on a tree?"
"What else would we do with them?" Knox asks, but William's response is quieter.
"Mother always said ornaments were meant to be used, not hoarded." Something flickers across his face. "She'd spend hours decorating, making everything perfect."
Past tense. I file that away, another piece of the Montclair family puzzle.
William, true to form, starts sorting ornaments into piles—reds here, blues there, golds in their own section. He's created an entire system on the coffee table, organized by color and size.
Knox watches this with growing horror. "Are you... alphabetizing Christmas?"
"I'm creating order."
"You're sucking the joy out of everything." Knox grabs a handful of random ornaments. "Watch and learn, big brother."
He starts hanging them wherever they catch his fancy—a red ball next to a blue star, a gold angel nestled against a silver snowflake. It's chaotic but charming.
"The red ornaments shouldn’t be next to the blues, Knox," William grumbles, eye twitching.
"It's Christmas, not a color-coding seminar." Knox hangs another ornament in deliberate defiance. "Trees are supposed to be personal, not perfect."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive concepts."
"In your world they are."
Travis returns with mugs of cider that smell like cinnamon and definitely contain more than just apple juice. "If you two are done with your daily control versus chaos debate, maybe we could use some music?"
He connects his phone to the sound system, and soon classic carols fill the room. It's perfect—the tree, the music, the bickering brothers, the snow falling outside. Like a Christmas movie, but better because it's real.
We work in relative harmony for a while. William strings lights with military precision while Knox follows behind, "adjusting" them to be more artistic. Travis and I hang ornaments, as I ask about the stories behind the older ones.
"This one," Travis holds up a lopsided clay star, "Knox made in third grade."
"It's a masterpiece," Knox says solemnly. "Note the avant-garde use of glitter."
"You used an entire bottle," William mutters. "The housekeeper found glitter for months."
"Art requires sacrifice."
I'm laughing at their stories when "Silent Night" begins playing through the speakers. The change is immediate. Both brothers go still, Knox's hand frozen halfway to hanging an ornament. William's jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jump.
"Can we change this?" Knox's voice is unusually flat. "I hate that song."
"We don't need music," William adds quickly. "We should focus on the tree."
Travis is already switching to something else, but I can't ignore the tension that's filled the room. "What's wrong with 'Silent Night'?"
The brothers exchange a look—one of those wordless conversations that comes from years of history.
"It was playing," Knox says finally. "When Mom told us about the divorce. Christmas Eve, after midnight mass. She waited until we were opening one present early—tradition, you know? And that song was on the radio when she said Daddy wasn't coming home."
"Knox," William warns.
"What? She asked." Knox's voice carries forced lightness. "It's not a state secret. Our parents had shitty timing. Now Christmas music makes us want to punch things. End of story."
But it's not the end, I can see that. The way William's hands shake slightly as he adjusts a light. The way Knox hangs the next ornament with too much force.
"I'm sorry," I say softly. "We don't have to play music."
"No." William takes a breath, visibly pulling himself together. "We're making new memories, right? Better ones."
"Yeah," Knox agrees, but his usual brightness is dimmed. "New memories."
I want to hug them both, these broken boys in men's bodies still carrying wounds from Christmases past. Instead, I change the subject.
"You know what we need? Cookies." I head for the kitchen. "Can't decorate properly without plenty of sugar."
"I'll help!" Knox follows eagerly, clearly grateful for the escape.
I find refrigerated sugar cookie dough in the fridge—bless whoever stocks this kitchen—and soon Knox and I are rolling out cookies while the oven heats.
"Thanks," he says quietly. "For changing the subject."
"Always." I bump his hip with mine. "Want to talk about it?"
"Nothing to talk about." He focuses on cutting out shapes. "Just your average childhood trauma ruining holidays for decades. Pretty boring, really."
"Knox..."
"Did you know Will used to love Christmas?" The words tumble out. "Like, obsessively. He'd make lists starting in September, plan out the whole day. He was thirteen that year, still young enough to believe in magic, you know?"
I stay quiet, letting him talk.
"After Mom told us, he went upstairs and threw away all his lists. Said Christmas was for children." Knox's laugh is bitter. "He's barely celebrated since. Just goes through the motions for appearances."
"But you still try."
"Someone has to." He looks at me. "That's why this—you making us decorate together—it matters. Even if Will's being a dickhead about it."
I kiss his cheek. "Then we better make it perfect. Imperfectly perfect."
We're sliding cookies into the oven when Knox catches my waist, pulling me close. "You're amazing, you know that?"
"I'm just making cookies."
"You're making us feel like a family." He kisses me hard on the mouth. "That's fucking magic. And I’m very grateful."