Chapter 5
SYLVIE
Watching this impeccably dressed stranger pick out a Christmas tree was like watching someone choose a piece of furniture.
He was approaching the task with the mindset of finding something purely functional, with absolutely no emotional investment whatsoever.
He’d selected a perfectly fine Fraser fir, but the way he’d done it made it clear he couldn’t have cared less if he’d picked that one or the tree next to it.
Still, a sale was a sale, and I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Perfect choice,” I told him with my brightest customer service smile. “Let me get Ozzo to help us get this tied up and loaded onto your car.”
I looked around the lot, scanning for Ozzo’s distinctive bulk among the other customers. It took me a moment to spot him over by the Noble firs.
“Ozzo!” I called out, waving my arms to get his attention. “Need you over here!”
He looked up, saw me gesturing toward the well-dressed man, and immediately abandoned his current customers to jog over with his characteristic loping gait.
“What’s up, boss lady?” Ozzo asked as he approached, slightly out of breath from his sprint across the lot.
“We need to get this Fraser fir tied up and loaded,” I told him, gesturing to the tree our mysterious customer had selected. “This is Kent.”
“Kent Bancroft.”
The name meant nothing to me, but something about the way he said it suggested it should. Like he was used to people recognizing it and responding accordingly. Was he an actor? Politician? I really should watch more TV.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bancroft,” I said. “Ozzo here is our tree-loading specialist. He’ll get you all set up.”
Ozzo beamed at the title, clearly pleased to be acknowledged as a specialist in anything. “You bet! Let me grab some rope and we’ll have this beauty secured in no time.”
What followed was a comedy of errors that would have been funny if it hadn’t been happening in front of a customer who clearly had money to spend and might potentially spend more of it if we didn’t completely embarrass ourselves.
Kent’s sleek sedan was beautiful, but it definitely hadn’t been designed with Christmas tree transportation in mind. Ozzo kept walking around it, scratching his head and muttering things like “Huh, that’s interesting,” and “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Problem?” Kent asked. I could hear the impatience creeping into his voice.
“Nah, no problem,” Ozzo said cheerfully. “Just gotta figure out the best way to strap this baby down without scratching up your paint job. This is one nice car, mister. What kind of engine you got in this thing?”
“It’s a rental,” Kent said flatly, clearly not interested in discussing automotive specifications with Ozzo.
“Oh, well, that’s different then,” Ozzo said, as if that changed everything about the tree-securing process. “In that case, we can just—”
“Ozzo,” I interrupted before he could finish whatever thought was about to come out of his mouth. “Let’s just focus on getting the tree loaded, okay?”
It took another ten minutes, but eventually we managed to get the Fraser fir secured to the roof of Kent’s car. It looked slightly ridiculous—this massive evergreen strapped to what was clearly a luxury vehicle—but it was secure and unlikely to go flying off on his drive home.
“That’ll be one hundred dollars even,” I told him as Ozzo stepped back to admire his handiwork.
Kent pulled out his wallet without hesitation and handed me a crisp hundred-dollar bill. No haggling, no complaints about the price, no questions about whether we took credit cards. Just cash, like a hundred dollars was pocket change to him.
Which, based on everything else about him, it probably was.
His gaze moved behind me and up to the lodge. I watched his eyes move from the lodge with its warm, glowing windows to the large main house a bit to the right, and then to the detached garage with its small apartment above.
“Quite the operation you have here,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he meant it as a compliment or what. He looked like he was judging everything, sizing it up like a butcher eyes a slab of beef.
“It’s been in our family for generations,” I said, unable to keep the pride out of my voice.
“The lodge was originally built as a hunting cabin in 1782 by my ancestor, Hymal Northwood. He was from Manhattan originally, but he fell in love with this area and kept expanding the property until it became what you see today.”
I gestured toward the lodge, warming to one of my favorite topics.
“What started as a small cabin is now a twenty-room lodge with four luxury suites. My parents live in the main house—that’s where the family has always lived—and I have an apartment above the garage.
My brother, Brom, and his family live in the lodge itself, since they run the day-to-day operations. ”
I was getting excited now, the way I always did when I talked about our family history.
“The Christmas tree farm was added in the early 1900s when one of my great-great-grandfathers realized that the soil and climate here were perfect for growing evergreens. We’ve been providing Christmas trees to families throughout the region for over a century, and—”
I stopped mid-sentence when I noticed Kent’s eyes starting to glaze over. It was a look I’d seen before, usually from people who weren’t particularly interested in local history. I felt a little stab of disappointment but quickly switched gears.
“Are you planning to spend some time here in Northwood for the holidays?” I asked instead.
“Yes.”
“Where are you staying?”
He paused, looking almost sheepish for the first time since I’d met him. “I haven’t actually booked anything yet. I was planning to find something when I got into town.”
This was it. This was my chance to turn one tree sale into something much bigger. I could practically see the dollar signs dancing before my eyes as I launched into my most enthusiastic sales pitch.
“You should stay at the lodge!” I said, gesturing toward the beautiful building that was my family’s pride and joy.
“We have luxury suites available, and one of them even has a hot tub on the balcony. The views are incredible, especially with all the snow. We have a full-service dining room with three meals a day. My sister-in-law, Stacy, is an amazing cook. There’s a grand stone fireplace in the library where you can relax with a book and a glass of wine.
We host events in the main hall almost every night during the holiday season, everything from carol singing to cookie decorating to storytelling. ”
I was really hitting my stride now, painting a picture of cozy winter luxury that would make anyone want to extend their stay.
“The suites are comfortable with modern amenities. You’d have privacy when you want it, but you’d also be part of the lodge community.
And the location is perfect. You’re right here on the property, so you can enjoy all the winter activities we offer.
Cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, sleigh rides. ”
Kent was looking around the property as I talked. I could see him taking it all in. But his expression wasn’t what I had hoped to see. He looked bored. Maybe even a little repulsed.
“A tree farm isn’t really my scene,” he said finally. “I was thinking something more modern. In town.”
I tried not to let my disappointment show. “Well, you could try, but I don’t think you’re going to find what you’re looking for. Northwood isn’t exactly a metropolitan area. We’ve got a few bed and breakfasts, but nothing that would qualify as modern. Good luck, though.”
Kent nodded, apparently taking my words as a polite dismissal rather than the reality check they were meant to be. He walked around to the driver’s side of his car, pausing to check that his tree was still securely fastened.
I watched him drive away. What was a guy like him doing in Northwood? He clearly had money—serious money, based on his clothes and his casual attitude toward spending a hundred dollars on a Christmas tree.
Wait, where was he going to put a Christmas tree?
I was still staring after his taillights when Emmy appeared beside me in her elf costume. With all the bells on her costume, she couldn’t exactly sneak up on me. She followed my gaze down the road where Kent’s car had disappeared.
“That one is a red flag,” she said as if she’d been reading my thoughts.
“Maybe.” But even as I said it, I knew Emmy was probably right. There had been something about Kent Bancroft that didn’t quite add up.
“Come on,” Emmy said, linking her arm through mine. “We’ve got work to do. Santa’s expecting his afternoon hot chocolate, and I’ve got three more families waiting for the full elf experience.”
We got back to work, but I found myself distracted for the rest of the day. Every time a car pulled up, I found myself looking to see if it was the sleek black sedan returning.
Around midday, Brom came down from the lodge to check on how opening day was going. I could see the question in his eyes before he even asked it.
“How are we doing?” he said.
I did a quick mental tally. “Eight trees so far. Eight hundred dollars.”
Brom nodded, but I could see the disappointment he was trying to hide. Eight hundred dollars on opening day was… well, it was better than nothing, but it was nowhere near what we needed to make this season successful.
Four or five years ago, opening day would have brought in close to ten thousand dollars. And every day after that would have looked similar. The lot would have been packed with families, the parking area would have been full, and we would have run out of hot chocolate twice.
Now we were celebrating eight trees like it was some kind of victory.
“It’s still early,” Brom said, but his heart wasn’t really in it. We both knew that opening day numbers were usually a pretty good indicator of how the rest of the season would go.
A few hours later, our father made his own trip down to the payment booth. Unlike Brom, he didn’t try to hide his expectations or cushion his disappointment.
“How many?” he asked simply.
“Twelve,” I told him. We’d managed to sell four more trees since Brom’s visit.
Dad nodded grimly. “About what I expected.”
Brom and I exchanged glances, bracing ourselves for whatever was coming next.
“The age of the live Christmas tree is over,” Dad continued, his voice heavy with resignation. “Everyone wants those artificial monstrosities with the built-in lights and no character. No mess, no fuss, no tradition. Just plug it in and you’re done.”
I wanted to argue with him, to point out that we still had customers who valued tradition and authenticity. But twelve trees on opening day was hard to argue with.
“I want you both to make the most of the holidays this year,” he said, looking between Brom and me with an expression that made my chest tight with dread. “Enjoy the traditions, enjoy the family time, enjoy everything that makes this place special.”
He paused, and I could see him steeling himself for what came next.
“Because this is going to be our last Christmas at Northwood Christmas Tree Farm.”