Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
CELESTE
“Do we have to get a tree this year?”
My father’s face drops into a frown from the passenger seat of his old truck. I shift the stick into drive and pull out onto the street. It wasn’t long ago that he would be sitting here, taking me to the Christmas tree farm. Funnily enough, also a reindeer farm . . .
If the kids ever realized that the reindeer are not, in fact, waiting for Santa’s call—like Caleb has insisted on telling kids this time of year ever since he took over the family farm—they’d be horrified to learn their beloved deer are food.
“Yes, I know you kids have had a thing about Christmas after your mother, but a tree is nonnegotiable.” He looks out the window. He’s having a good day. So far . . .
Then, “How will Santa leave you gifts without a tree? That scooter you want isn’t going to fit in a stocking.”
And I’m seven again, at least in his mind.
I remember that Christmas. It was the first after Mom died. And I did not get the scooter.
“You alright, pumpkin?” he asks.
That name is about as old as the letter I sent to Santa about the scooter . . . And I can tell today is going to be a constant back-and-forth between then and now for him. For us.
I remind myself he’s healthy—physically—and still here with me. And I focus on that, the good parts. The fact that I still have my dad.
Emotion clogs my throat as we turn onto Main Street. I grip the wheel harder, and the burn on my hand from making us scrambled eggs and bacon this morning smarts, like my skin just met the hot skillet all over again.
I hiss and flick the turn signal to turn onto a side street before heading out of town to the farm.
“Is Marie meeting us there?” Dad asks.
“No, remember, she’s having the day off.” I offer a small smile.
“Oh, I must have forgotten.”
Yes, Daddy, it happens a lot.
A few minutes later, we slow and turn onto a gravel road that leads to the Christmas tree and reindeer farm, Maple Acres. The truck rattles over the cattle guard, and we jostle in our seats as I slow down, looking for a spot to park among the many vehicles already here.
Two barns sit on either side of the driveway, one lit up with people walking through, dragging their trees behind them. The other barn is flanked by a tall white fence. Behind it, the deer watch on as folks appear from the barn and make for their trucks and larger SUVs to cart their trees home.
Strings of fairy lights light up the outside of the tree barn and snow still litters the ground, giving the whole place that winter wonderland look. I park and kill the engine. Double-checking our coats are buttoned up, I slide my arm through my father’s.
“Shall we get the biggest tree we can find this year, pumpkin?” he says, leaning closer, his words excited but soft.
“Sure.”
When we make it inside, the barn is much the same as I remember it from last time, which was years ago.
The large, open space is mostly hay storage with a small booth where you pay for your tree.
But some upgrades have taken place. A stall selling cider and hot chocolate sits to the left of the entrance.
And the ceiling is lit up with more strings of fairy lights, setting the old barn in an ambient glow.
The hay-littered floor of the barn crunches underfoot as we make our way through the groups of people chatting, dragging trees, and enjoying steaming beverages.
The place is just so . . . happy.
“Here for a tree?” a young girl says, holding out a tag on a string. “This is to claim your tree. Caleb will cut it down and help you load it, if he’s not too busy.” She doesn’t stick around for an answer, turning to greet the next group of people through the door.
I slide the card and string into my pocket as we move further inside the barn.
“Hank!” A man calls from across the barn. He closes in on us fast, and I scramble to remember his name. Mr. Henderson who runs the hardware store? I’m pretty sure. It’s been almost ten years, but I remember stealing mouse traps from his shelves once on a dare.
Hopefully, he doesn’t remember.
“Howard, nice to see you,” Dad says.
And I smile, not just because it’s polite, but because my dad is having a rare lucid moment. I treasure every one we get, knowing how fleeting they are.
“Great to see you out and about. We’ve missed you of late.”
Confusion washes over my father’s face, but he corrects it, mostly. “How’s the wife? Still baking those Christmas cookies this time of year?”
Mr. Henderson’s face falls as fast as my father’s moment of clarity fades.
Mrs. Henderson died the year before I left home.
“I’m sorry,” I say to the man who is standing stunned, his mouth moving but producing no sound. “We should get a tree before all the good ones are gone.”
I offer him an empathetic smile.
He simply nods. “Of course. Shout if you need a hand loading it into your truck.”
“Thank you.” I slide my arm through my father’s, and we walk through the barn and out into the field of Christmas trees. Rows and rows of snow-dusted pines stand like dutiful soldiers. It’s incredible.
Some tower over us, others barely reach my shoulders.
How on earth will we ever choose?
A few folks stop to say hello, mostly welcoming me back home for the holidays.
My father wanders through the trees as I try to get away from a girl who was in my grade in elementary school.
I feel bad that I can’t remember her name.
I watch as he stops by a medium-sized pine.
It’s got excellent foliage coverage and an almost perfect shape where it stands.
“Excuse me.” I force a smile to the woman saying hello, not really bothering to see if she returns it, as I stride through the symmetrical forest and to my father’s side. “Find a good one?”
“This one’s a beauty, Tish. This is it.”
I take in his lit-up face before casting my gaze to the tree. It surely is.
“Well, this one it is!”
He beams at me. I slip the card from my pocket and bend down to tie it around the tree’s base. Murmuring comes from the tree. Okay . . .
Either I’ve lost my mind, or—
A hand slips around the trunk of the tree, rope wrapping around the bark.
What?
No, no way. This is our tree.
I spring up and round the tree. A large half a man is sticking out the bottom of the tree.
No, out from under the tree . . .
“Excuse me, this is our tree.” I snap my hands to my hips.
A small child appears from nowhere, coming to stand beside the man crouching under the base of the pine. She’s bundled up, wearing a beanie and an oversized coat. A scarf covers most of her face, leaving her dark brown eyes that are now narrowing as she stares at me.
Shaking her head, she says, “Nope, we saw it first.”
“Ah, we have been standing here for, well, at least five minutes, this is our tree.”
The man shuffles backward, standing before brushing off his knees and then clapping his hands together. Blue eyes pierce right through me as his gaze alternates between the kid and me.
“Our tag is on. So, I guess it’s ours now.”
“No, no. We were standing right there.” I round the tree pointing to the snow-covered ground marred with our footprints, like a crazy person.
Brows lower over his blues. “Look, there’s like hundreds of other trees to pick from, just—”
“Hold up!” I raise a hand, stepping closer. A huffy laugh of disbelief sends a cloud of breath from my lips. “You’re the guy from next door.”
He folds his arms over his chest, raising a lone eyebrow. “And?”
He obviously recognized me before I did him. Shit.
The little girl’s eyes are wide and pleading as she shakes her head at me for the second time in as many minutes. “Please, can we keep the tree? We’ve been here for ages. You have no idea how fussy my daddy is.”
I narrow my gaze and lean down a little. “Did he make you look at every single one before you were allowed to pick?”
She rolls her eyes with a groan. “Yes.”
I snap up straight. “Seriously, every single one?”
“She’s exaggerating.” He tilts his head, giving the girl the side-eye, but his lips tilt up like he’s trying so damn hard to tamp down a smile.
“Fine, you keep the tree. This time.”
“Thank god for that,” the girl says, slapping a hand to her forehead dramatically.
I chuckle. I like her, she’s got a great sense of humor. She’d need one, having this guy for a dad.
I take a second glance at the man in front of me. He’s actually not that ba—
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Helping out a neighbor.” He gives me a smirk that lights up his stupid face.
You have got to be kidding me.
Urgh . . . Nope. I was right the first time.
What an ass.
“Hey, where did your daddy go?” the girl says, turning on the spot.
Oh shit.
I spin around, glancing through the rows where people wander, all bundled up and unidentifiable unless you’re looking right at them. I take off through the rows. “Hank?”
Dammit.
Pressure builds in my chest. I was supposed to be taking care of him. Keeping him close. The notes in the binder on outings has everything outlined. Stay close. Keep a visual on him at all times.
But no, I was too busy arguing over a stupid stinking tree . . .
Tears burn behind my eyes. It’s that torturous feeling you get when you’re little and you lose your parent, your hand slipping from theirs in a crowd of bodies, followed by your stomach sinking, your panic rising to fill the void it left.
But this time, the panic is laced with guilt.
Trees fly past as I hurry through each row, one after the other, calling for my father like a little girl.
The strangled sound of his name feels too raw.
And I know I’m freaking out, but despite every person I pass and every section of the farm I cover, the overwhelming feeling only grows. I have no way to rein it in.
Passing the last row, I slide to a halt when I reach the white wooden railing. The end of the tree field.
“Shit! God, how could I be so selfish?” I spin on the spot.
“Well, it is the time of the year to think of others. Maybe you temporarily forgot? Easy enough to do.” The low voice startles me, and I turn toward it.
I find a bundled-up man, beanie over his dark hair, blue eyes lit up. Is that an axe in his hand?
It’s now I read the name stitched over the Maple Acres logo on his vest.
Caleb. I almost didn’t recognize him.
“You looking for something in particular?” He tilts his head, studying my face.
I huff out a sigh, but it wobbles. “My father.”
His brows drop. “Did you try the barn?”
“Oh, no. I just kind of freaked out and started running around like an idiot.” I slide the beanie from my head and wring it through my hands.
“You were worried about him?”
“You could say that,” I utter, an icy cloud puffing from my lips.
“We talking about Hank Black?”
“Ah, yeah.”
“Celeste?”
He steps forward.
“Yes?”
“Huh. You probably don’t remember me, I was a few grades above you in high school.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.”
It all floods back. The face, the name. The fact that he’s taken over his family farm. Makes sense. Not all of us were as self-absorbed as I was to run off to the city and never look back.
“Let me just grab this tree out and I’ll give you a hand to look.”
“Oh, you don’t have to.”
“Nah, it’s no trouble. Besides, he’s always done a lot for our family. And this town.”
And the guilt is back as I realize my father spent his life helping others and being a great friend. And I missed it.
But the sentiment sounds about right. He’s always been a kind and generous man.
I swallow past the emotion that Caleb’s words evoked. Once he’s shouldered the medium-sized tree trunk, we walk back through the rows until the barn is in sight.
“How is it being back?” Caleb asks when we get closer to the barn. He glances at me, but his gaze swings to where my father sits on a hay bale, a small bundled-up child next to him as they both sip the mugs in their hands.
“It’s a big change. But I’m happy to be here.”
It’s almost the truth.
“Well, I see he’s safe and sound.” He tilts his head Dad’s way. “You need a hand with a tree too?” he asks as the folks waiting on their tree take if off his hands.
“Ah, no. We’re still finding one.”
He dusts his hands on his jeans before leaving with a nod and a bright smile. I close in on my father and find him sitting with the little girl from the tree scuffle before. “Here you are.”
“Hello, darling. Have you met my friend?” Dad says, taking another sip.
I plaster a smile on my face and offer her a small wave like we’ve just met. “Hey.”
“Daddy will be back soon with our tree. Did you find one?” the little girl says.
Yeah, the one you stole.
“Not yet,” I say with a forced smile.
Footsteps close in behind me, and I glance back to see the thief himself carrying our tree over his shoulder. Because of course he is. I resist the temptation to roll my eyes and scoff at him.
“Ready, kiddo?” he says, frowning as he takes in the three of us together.
“Yep.” His daughter jumps up. “Can we decorate it straight away when we get home?”
“Are the decorations stolen, also?” I whisper to myself.
He turns toward me, tree balancing on his shoulder. “Guess you’ll never know.” He winks at me before taking his daughter’s hand and giving me his back.
Now I roll my eyes at him, letting the scoff free.
They walk through the barn, paying for their tree before disappearing through the front.
“Come on, let’s find a tree.” Dad hugs an arm around my shoulders. “I have a feeling about this Christmas, darling.”
Sorry if I don’t bank on that feeling of yours, Daddy.