Chapter 6 #3
“Call my car a can of tuna. His is gonna make us feel like a can of sardines,” Toby muttered as he practically marched forward.
My hand shot out to wrap around the place above his elbow. The fabric of his quilted jacket was cold from the air, but it didn’t stop my fingers from tightening and my footsteps from slowing.
“Get your hands off of me,” he hissed beneath his breath.
I ignored him and tugged him toward me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Something I regret,” he snapped.
“What?”
Tugging his arm free of my hold, he adjusted the jacket. The obnoxious fur trim around the hood looked like a beast about to attack. “What does it even matter?”
My lips twisted but remained closed. I did not blink as I stared, waiting for an answer.
“Brett seemed nervous about coming. Seems to think his dad expects him to shoot the mistletoe down.”
“As if I’d give that moron a gun.”
“He’s not a moron. He’s actually really smart.” Toby defended him, and I was pretty sure my heart started to sweat.
Could hearts sweat?
Sure felt like they could.
“But the outdoor life seems a little out of his element.”
I grunted. “‘Cause he lives inside textbooks.”
Toby crossed his arms over his chest, a stubborn set to his jaw. “So?”
“So I’m not giving him my gun.”
“Obviously,” he allowed. “He just seemed kinda nervous, and Mom told him I’d done this before. So I offered to come along, you know, for moral support.”
“Moral support,” I echoed, the words sticking to the inside of my throat like old gum. I wanted to ask where my moral support was when my dad died five years ago and he was nowhere to be found, but those words stuck in my throat too.
“Yeah.” He confirmed. “Moral support.”
“We’re losing daylight!” Paul hollered from the open passenger door of my truck.
Yeah, because he’d brought half the town to this harvest.
I stalked forward, resolving to just get this over with. I hated doing this every year. And this year, I hated it even more.
Almost to the truck, I noticed Toby wasn’t following. I glanced over my shoulder to see him standing in the same place I’d left him, hands tucked into his pockets and the fur at his back blowing in the wind. The look on his face squeezed my heart.
“What?” I asked, not raising my voice to make it easier to hear. He’d hear just fine.
Hesitation bled from his every pore when his eyes paused briefly on mine before flicking away. His voice didn’t rise either, despite the space between us. “Do you want me to stay back?”
You know what? Maybe I was developing a heart condition. All day, it had been palpitating, forgetting to beat… sweating. And now it was contracting like a cow in labor. I was going to have to call the doctor.
It would one hundred percent be best for him to stay back. To get in that green monster he called an SUV and drive off the farm and never come back. My life would know peace again.
“Get in the truck, Tobes.”
He rushed forward then, avoiding my stare even though I knew he felt it. Once he rushed by, I continued around to the driver’s side. When I pulled open the door, three faces turned in my direction, and the cab felt about ten sizes too small.
Saying nothing, I wedged the shotgun behind the seat and climbed in behind the wheel to slam the door. The engine fired right up, the old girl reliable as ever.
The consistent purr of the engine was disrupted, though, by people fidgeting and squishing themselves on the bench seat. An elbow jabbed into my side.
“Ow,” someone else said.
“Sorry,” Toby murmured.
I glanced over to see Toby and Brett squished side by side, their arms overlapping each other.
“Maybe I should just follow in my car,” Toby suggested.
“It’s fine. It’s a short drive,” Brett replied.
I bet if Toby climbed in his lap, he’d be happier than a pig in mud.
I shifted the transmission and hit the gas, dirt flying up behind the back tires as we shot forward. All three men jostled, and Toby reached for the handle.
“Hold on, gentlemen. The ride’s a little bumpy.”
“I think it’s just your driving,” Toby sniped.
“Nothing like a little four-wheeling to get the blood pumping.”
“I think I should mention I get easily car sick,” Mayor Schroder announced.
Of course he did.
I let off the gas a little and downshifted as I turned in the direction of the old oak.
“So how long has mistletoe been growing on this tree?” Brett asked.
“Since before my grandfather’s time,” I replied.
“Is the story really true?”
“Their initials are carved into the bark of the tree,” Toby answered.
“Really?” Brett asked.
“Saw them myself last year.” Paul added.
“So does it work?” Brett asked.
“Does what work?” I questioned.
“The mistletoe. Do people who kiss under it really stay together forever?”
I snorted. “Do you know how many people kiss under those twigs and berries every year? I can guarantee not all of them are still together.”
“You’re so cynical,” Toby chided.
Brett turned to look at him. “So you think it works?”
Toby was quiet a minute, and I wondered if I was the only one who noticed how loud he was when he was quiet. “I think that if the love is true, then, yes, it works.”
“But if the love is true, why do they have to kiss under the mistletoe to stay together?” Brett wondered, and I couldn’t help but grunt in agreement.
Paul chuckled. “You can tell my boy takes a lot of science classes. He’s a critical thinker.”
“Well, for Hershel and Beatrice, their love was true but still wasn’t enough.
Their families wouldn’t accept it and tore them apart.
That’s why the mistletoe began growing there when they were reunited after she died.
Because even after his life ended and they were forced apart, their love remained.
The mistletoe is a reminder that, when love is true, no amount of toxicity can ever really taint it. ”
His words struck a chord in me. A chord I thought had long since been out of tune, a chord I didn’t want to even acknowledge.
Discomfort had me shifting on the bench seat, thumb tapping the steering wheel. “Mistletoe is a parasite.”
Toby hummed. “Yes, and legend says people believed their love was a parasite, but I don’t see it that way.”
“How do you see it, then?” Brett asked.
Frankly, I wished he’d stop encouraging him.
Toby turned to glance out the window, his breath creating a cloud of steam on the glass when he softly spoke.
“That Hershel and Beatrice are the tree, and the real parasite was the people who tore them apart. That’s why the tree never dies despite the mistletoe growing.
People can be torn apart, but even with distance, real love remains. ”
The words left a stillness inside the enclosed cab that felt warm from too many bodies squished so close. It was no secret I hated this legend, everything it represented, and the hold it had over this town.
But damn, if I didn’t hang on every word he’d just whispered like the story was brand new and I was a believer. Like I suddenly understood why this entire town was obsessed with the story.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were a man of philosophy instead of science,” Paul mused, breaking the bubble I’d been floating in. “That was as romantic as it comes.”
He grunted, weight jerking into me, and I looked down just as Brett was pulling his elbow from the man’s side as he gave him a pointed look.
“Well, that’s not a bad thing.” Paul amended. “Nothing wrong with being a romantic. I’m sure the ladies love it.”
There was a very pregnant pause, and the muscle in my jaw twitched from how rigid the muscle in my neck turned.
“What?” Paul said, picking up on the heavy undertones. “Did I say something wrong?”
Honestly, I’d like to know how he became the mayor. Shouldn’t someone in public office have better people skills? Read the room, Paul.
Toby cleared his throat, and I cut the wheel, the old oak coming into view.
“We’re here,” I said, cutting off any more conversation.
There was no designated parking out in here in the field, so I simply hit the brakes. The action ended up being more aggressive than necessary, causing everyone to jerk forward with the force.
Without thinking, my arm shot out, clotheslining the two men beside me.
The barrier not quite long enough, I shifted my weight, pushing Paul into his son as I leaned farther and spread my fingers wide, using them like a net against Toby’s chest. The second his body hit my palm, I pushed back, preventing him from flying into the dash.
He dropped back against the seat, the air whooshing out of him in a single punch of breath. Surprised, he turned to stare at me, then glanced down at my hand that still covered his chest.
I drew back as if I’d been burned, the flame so hot I felt it against the back of my neck. “Ah, sorry about that. Everyone okay?” I asked.
“We’re all fine,” Paul replied.
Saying nothing, Toby shoved open the door, the old hinges creaking loudly. Cold wind blew into the warm cab to sting my cheeks.
“Snow’s coming,” Paul declared. “You can smell it in the air.”
The sun was nearly kissing the horizon, and despite how gray the day was, the sky was awash with vibrant shades of orange and pink. It was another indication of snow. The colder the air, the clearer the skies would be, which allowed for more visibility of color.
Most people hated how early the day grew dark in winter.
Here in Vermont, it could be as early as four in the afternoon.
But it was something I loved. How some days were laden with endless washes of gray, creating a beautiful backdrop for the deep green of pine.
The blustery, almost moody atmosphere would bite you with its temperature and then apologize for about an hour by painting the sky with brilliant hues that—to me—rivaled a summer sky.
When the apology faded, it would leave behind a velvet onyx sky filled with thousands of stars that shimmered with the brilliance of diamonds.
I could never leave this place. Hodge Farm might be the only place I’d ever known, but it was home, and I belonged here.
“You gonna be able to see to shoot it down?” Mayor Schroder called from the other side of the truck’s hood.
I glanced up but forgot to reply as my attention snagged on Toby approaching the tree. The closer he got, the tighter my chest felt as his slow, almost measured footsteps carried him closer. As if he were giving the tree the respect it deserved.
As far as I could tell, it was the oldest tree on this farm.
Even if it wasn’t basically famous and attached to a legend, I would have to admit there was something about the way it rose toward the sky, quiet yet commanding in its presence.
Its trunk was massive, the bark deeply furrowed, even gnarled in some spots.
The branches were sprawling and would be intimidating in the way they commandeered space if not for the whimsical, dramatic way they reached outward.
In the summer, the crown was broad, mimicking a large umbrella that cast protective, dappled shade over the raised, knotted roots at its base.
The countless hollows and knots provided shelter to wildlife as it watched the landscape change as centuries passed.
What must it be like to be so timeless? To stand still when everything else around you changes?
The thought struck a nerve inside me, and for a lingering moment, I stared at the old oak with an affinity I hadn’t felt before.
But just like before, Toby commandeered my attention when he stopped before it, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat and gazing up at the majestic structure.
Gusts of wind combed through his near-curly hair, making it look like a living thing bursting from his crown, but the rest of him seemed small compared to the powerful tree with the dense green clusters of leaves and berries.
They looked bigger this year. Perhaps I was the philosophical one because I found myself wondering if it knew he was coming.
But then I remembered I didn’t believe in all this nonsense, and if the mistletoe clusters were larger than normal, it was good for me because it would be easier to shoot out of the tree.
Shaking off the sight he made and the almost melancholy way it made me feel, I reached into the cab for the shotgun.
“I could shoot it down with my eyes closed,” I assured the mayor as I walked past. “Better cover your ears. It’s time for the harvest.”