Chapter 3
The last weekend before Christmas is always anything but peaceful, but this year it feels like record crowds.
There are no seats for three together on the tractor, so Eve and Hugo ride separately from me while I try to practice some kind of grace with the children sparring their Squishmallows across my lap.
At least they’re a distraction from spiraling over what to say to this girl next.
I look out at the farm. From a distance, it’s an orderly grid of green, rows of trees dusted with frost. That heady pine scent hangs in the air, and behind us, the barn—all aglow with white lights even in the daytime—grows smaller as we make our way into the fields.
When we finally arrive, I find Eve and Hugo waiting for me to catch up.
“Wow,” Eve says, looking around at the rows of meticulously manicured Douglas, Fraser, and balsam firs and Norway and Colorado blue spruce.
Couples and families surround us, carrying freshly harvested trees back to the tractor stop, pausing to take in the scenery.
Hugo’s eyes are wider than Tiny Tim’s when the goose hits the table. “Kind of amazing,” she adds.
“Yeah, we think so,” I say, and even though this little part of our world isn’t my doing like the bakery, I feel a pang of pride in the farm.
“So,” she says, turning back to me now. “Did your mom, like, give you a tree registry or something, or you’re just winging it?”
“Ha! A tree registry would be brilliant. We should totally offer that to customers here,” I say. “But no, actually my best friend Diya—the one with the cider—she already picked him out.”
“Him?”
“Marley,” I say, grinning at the reference. “Diya always names the trees. Guess she’s in her Dickens era too this season.”
“This place is a trip,” she says, which I decide to take as a good thing. “Lead the way.”
“Right! He should be”—I pause, mentally recalling and reviewing Diya’s map—“this way.”
As we start down an aisle of spruces, Marla—one of the many Coopers who run the farm—appears, pushing a cart piled high with fresh-cut trees.
“Morning, Bosley!” she says, and I return the salutation, feeling very important.
When she passes by, she leaves tracks in the shallow snow from a little squall this week, and we have to hop a little to navigate around them.
“So,” I say, “are you also in this tree-taco family business? That sounds kind of amazing too.”
She gives a little shrug. “Occasionally I help out. But no. Mostly I work at a Mexican bakery—the oldest in Brooklyn, where we live.”
Bakery? Brooklyn? These are two important buzzwords in my life: The Cooper bakery is my present, and if all goes according to plan, Brooklyn is my future. It’s a plan that, granted, needs a little work at the moment, but still…
Suddenly, I’m even more intimidated. What can I possibly say to impress or relate to a girl who already lives there?
So I focus on the more familiar part of what we have in common—my comfort zone.
“No way!” I say. “I work in a bakery too. The one here at the farm.”
“You know, I kind of had a hunch,” Eve says, nodding toward my head.
“Ah, right.” I reach up and remove my hat. “Forgot I’m wearing literal evidence.”
“Well, that and… this,” Eve says, pausing. She leans forward, reaching for my bangs. They’re always sticking out the sides of my cap, but now that my whole head is exposed, a ripple of self-consciousness runs through me about the state of my blond dye job on full display.
“Flour,” she says, and she’s so gentle it almost hurts. “Dead giveaway…”
“Oh,” I say, my mouth suddenly as dry as old fruitcake. “Yeah.”
She steps back and really looks at me. “I like the two-tone. Suits you.”
“Oh,” I say, then clear my throat and… that’s it. Nothing else comes to mind. Just “oh.” I replace my hat and resume our path.
“So, is that, like, your future if gift concierge doesn’t work out? Baking?” Eve asks, saving me.
“Nah. I mean, I do like baking enough for now, but someday, I’m going to make movies.”
She tilts her head. “Like, you want to be a director?”
“Writer-slash-director. Producer, too,” I say, then add quickly, “I know, it’s, like, probably delusional.” I’m used to having to defend my dreams, which don’t sound anywhere near as grown-up and realistic as a lot of my classmates’ plans.
“No, that’s tight,” she says, her mouth tugging up in one corner, and it feels like the winter sun is shining just on me. “I’ll keep an eye out for your film debut.”
I’m hyperaware of the dopey grin on my face, so it’s a relief when a group of kids rush past, dragging a tree that’s three times the size of all of them put together.
We slow to let them by as the path bottlenecks, and in their wake comes a young couple holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes and laughing flirtatiously—obvious a festive date.
I may not have had one, but I know it when I see it.
“Maybe you should make a movie here,” Eve remarks as this parade passes. “I’m surprised Hallmark hasn’t already come knocking.”
“Oh, they have,” I say. “The farm was used as a set a few years ago.”
“That tracks.” She lets out a faint laugh. “And you didn’t direct it yourself?”
“Sadly it was before my time,” I explain. “But you can still find it… My friends and I watch it every season.”
“God bless streaming,” she replies.
“You know,” I say. “If this were a Christmas movie, in the next scene we’d realize we’re about to be pitted against each other in the same baking competition.”
“Obviously,” she agrees, and without missing a beat, picks up the storyline. “And you signed up because first prize is the exact amount of money you need to save the farm.”
“Which is necessary because some ice-cube-for-a-heart out-of-towner with no respect for tradition has a plot to swoop in, buy the land, and turn it into a shopping mall.”
I make a sweeping gesture, as if demolishing the town with my bare hands.
“The whole community is relying on you—their only hope for salvation,” Eve tacks on, and my heart—which I’ve always firmly believed is the shape of a Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cake—doubles in size, like bread dough rising overnight.
“So much pressure,” I say, and wipe fake sweat from my forehead.
Eve laughs a little more easily this time, and I want to capture the sound in a jar and shake it like sprinkles over my next hot cocoa. I’ve written dialogue like this before, but who knew I’d be capable of bantering in real life?
At a crossing, we’re almost bulldozed by two little girls in reindeer antlers, shrieking and sprinting like puppies with a case of the zoomies.
“Wow, you really gotta watch yourself around here, huh?” Eve asks, and Hugo follows the two girls with his gaze, shaking his head as if he finds them totally undignified.
“A lot of sugar in that cider,” I say, smiling. “So… Hallmark movies. Is that your preferred genre?” I ask as we turn down another path—this one slightly less populated.
“Me? Not exactly. But my Tía Antonia is obsessed and basically never turns them off after Thanksgiving,” she says. “It’s like a Christmas gift to her that I don’t cancel her subscription altogether.”
“Now that is generosity of spirit.”
She pauses to pull her scarf higher, her breath visible as a gentle wind brushes through the branches behind her, her dark curls flutter around her reddening cheeks, and I want so badly to warm her up somehow.
“Actually, it’s kind of the only time of year I really watch scripted stuff at all. I’m more into documentaries.”
“Like white-guy-kills-his-wife, or stupid-millennials-get-scammed kind of thing?” I ask.
She laughs. “I mean, I’ve seen one or two of those. But I really like stuff that’s more… cultural, or social. Or like, related to psychology. Especially when I watch with my cousin, Carlos. He’s really into that kind of thing too.”
Good lord, she’s beautiful and deep , I think, and decide maybe I’ll keep my obsession with Christmas magic and movies to myself a little longer.
“But you know, I do try to lighten things up this time of year. When I get the remote, we watch a lot of baking competition shows. Kind of documentary-adjacent? And still solidly holiday.”
“Oh, for sure.” I start counting off my favorites on my fingers. “ Holiday Baking Championship , holiday episodes of Chopped, The Great British Bake Off …”
“Check, check, check,” she says, and Hugo looks on now. “Hugo is actually an exceptional chef. His eggnog pancakes are the stuff of legends.”
“Eggnog pancakes!” I exclaim. “Tell the competition to just stay home.”
“For real.” Eve smiles at Hugo, who is looking up at her now, and damn. The heartwarming movie moments just keep coming.
“Maybe we should audition for one of those shows,” I say, suddenly very aware that I just we ’d this stranger.
“You have a signature dish?” she asks, unfazed.
“Apple strudel,” I answer without hesitation. “It’s basically famous around here.”
“Ah, hence the button,” she says, nodding to my hat again. “I would’ve figured you as more of a cookie girl.” She nudges me and her mouth twists into a teasing curve.
I blush so hard that I must match the red patches of my hat.
“What about you? Any personal specialties from this Brooklyn bakery?” I ask quickly, before I can overthink it.
“Me? Nah, I’m not a baker. I’m in customer relations,” Eve says.
“Sounds very official.”
“Yes. I very officially greet people and bag up their bread and cookies,” she says. “But I like it. It’s always an experiment in humanity.”
“What do you mean?”