Chapter 11
SYLVIE
Iwas in full survival mode. It was going to be one of those days.
I hated those days. It was like everything that could go wrong went wrong.
And it started with one of the coffeemakers going on the fritz.
Then I dropped a platter of scrambled eggs.
That should have been a sign for me to just crawl back in bed.
But I didn’t and now I was looking at what was absolutely a disaster.
Somehow—and I still couldn’t figure out exactly how—Ozzo had managed to back his own truck into a perfectly arranged row of Fraser firs.
Not just any row, mind you, but the one he’d positioned ridiculously close together the day before in what I now realized was a spectacularly poor planning decision.
Thirty-three trees were now lying on their sides like fallen dominoes.
And of course, they were blocking the main entrance to the customer lot, right where families would be arriving any minute for what I desperately hoped would be a busy Saturday with Santa making his first official appearance of the season.
“Fiddlesticks,” I muttered under my breath, surveying the chaos. “Ozzo, what happened here?”
Ozzo was already trying to right one of the larger trees, his face red with exertion and embarrassment.
“I was just trying to move my truck closer to help with loading. I guess I misjudged the distance, and then when I tried to back up, the trees were all so close together that when one went down, they all went down like those domino things you see on TV, and—”
“Okay, okay,” I interrupted before he could spiral into a full explanation that would take longer than actually fixing the problem. “Let’s just get these back up before customers start arriving.”
I dove in beside him, grabbing the trunk of the nearest Fraser fir and trying to wrestle it back into an upright position.
The tree was heavier than I’d anticipated, waterlogged from melting snow and surprisingly unwieldy when you were trying to maneuver it while wearing winter gloves that were already soaked through.
This was going to take forever. At the rate we were going, we’d still be cleaning up this mess when Santa was supposed to start his shift. There was no way I could disappoint the kids who were probably already getting excited about their visit.
I glanced up toward the lodge, hoping to spot Brom so I could wave him down for help. Sure enough, I could see a figure in a dark winter coat making his way down the hill toward us. Thank goodness. Brom must have seen the disaster from one of the lodge windows and was coming to help.
“Brom’s coming,” I said.
“Sorry, Sylvie.”
“It’s fine,” I assured him. “Accidents happen. I should know. I’ve been a walking accident all morning.”
That made him chuckle. He picked up another tree like it weighed nothing while I still struggled with my first one. It was an awkward task. I poked myself in the face with a branch when I tried to use my entire body to lift the stupid thing.
I glanced over to see how much longer until Brom was there to help and froze.
The man approaching us was too tall to be Brom, and there was something different about the way he moved. It wasn’t until he was within fifty feet that I realized who it was.
Kent Bancroft, wearing what I now recognized as one of Brom’s spare jackets, striding through the snow in winter boots that looked like they came straight out of the box. I supposed it was a good thing to know he wasn’t a complete idiot and had actually packed for the weather.
He reached out and stuck his hand right through the branches and grabbed the center of the tree I was struggling with.
“You don’t have to—” I started to say but he was already pulling it off me.
“It’s fine,” he said.
“Kent, seriously, you could get hurt, and we don’t have insurance to cover you, and if something happens you could probably sue us for everything we have, which admittedly isn’t much, but—”
He lifted the Fraser fir upright with what appeared to be minimal effort and burst out laughing.
“Sue you? The fuck am I going to sue you for?” He brushed pine needles off his borrowed jacket and grinned at me.
“I’m a Bancroft. We don’t sue small-town farmers.
We sue oil tycoons and corrupt business advisors and actual adversaries worth going after. ”
I wasn’t entirely sure how to take that comment. Was it reassuring or vaguely insulting? I ignored it and decided to just accept the help gratefully and figure out the implications later.
“Thank you,” I said simply, and meant it.
“I saw the trees go down,” he said. “Quite the show.”
“Oops,” Ozzo said with a laugh as he picked up another tree.
We worked together to right the fallen trees.
I found myself stealing glances at Kent when I thought he wasn’t looking.
For someone who claimed to be a city boy, he was surprisingly strong.
He handled the heavy trees like they weighed nothing, using his legs and shoulders efficiently instead of just trying to muscle them up with his back like most people would.
There was something almost hypnotic about watching him work.
Brom’s jacket was a little too small and showcased just how broad-shouldered the man was.
He was wearing a pair of work gloves, something else borrowed from Brom.
His thick thighs flexed in the designer jeans he wore every time he squatted to lift a tree.
The fact that he never once complained about the cold or the pine needles or the fact that he was definitely going to need a shower after this was changing my mind about him.
“You’re staring again,” Ozzo said quietly beside me, elbowing me in the ribs just like he had the day before.
I felt heat rise in my cheeks. “I am not staring.”
“Uh-huh.” Ozzo was grinning now, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “You look at him like Buddy the Elf looks at maple syrup.”
“Shut up, Ozzo,” I said, giving him a shove. Of course, my shove was the equivalent of a butterfly attacking him. “Focus on the trees.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, but he was still chuckling as he moved to help Kent with one of the larger Fraser firs.
When I spotted the first customers of the day pulling into the parking area, I quickly assigned Ozzo to finish up the last ten trees while I hurried over to greet the arriving families.
The familiar rhythm of customer service immediately soothed my frayed nerves.
I felt myself falling back into the cheerful, enthusiastic persona that had become second nature after years of working the farm.
The day had gotten off on the wrong foot, but it couldn’t stay there. I could salvage it. I would salvage it.
“Good morning!” I called out to the first family climbing out of their minivan. “Welcome to Northwood Christmas Tree Farm! Are you here to find your perfect tree?”
The rest of the morning flew by in a blur of happy chaos. I loved this part of the job, helping families find their perfect tree, hearing about their holiday traditions, and getting to be a part of the process that would create Christmas memories for years to come.
Mrs. Hodges from town brought me a container of her famous snickerdoodles, just like she did every year.
Patrick, the guy that ran the grocery store, handed over a thermos of hot cocoa that he made especially for me.
He’d been bringing me a thermos of hot chocolate for ten years.
Ever since I polished off the container at the holiday party he threw ten years ago. It was kind of a running joke.
This was what I loved most about our community.
I loved the way people took care of each other, especially during the holidays.
These weren’t just customers. They were neighbors, friends, people who had been coming to our farm for decades and who brought their own children now to continue the tradition.
I helped a family find an eight-foot Noble fir for their living room.
I always asked about their traditions. It was part of the process and people loved to share.
The Bishop family was looking for something smaller for their apartment.
They told me about their tradition of letting their four-year-old twins “help” decorate, which mostly meant the bottom third of the tree would be completely overcrowded with ornaments while the top remained bare.
It reminded me of my childhood. My mom had a tree just for me and Brom and then the pretty one that stood in front of the living room window.
During all of these interactions, I was acutely aware that Kent was still hanging around the property.
He was watching me work with an intensity that should have made me uncomfortable but somehow didn’t.
He truly seemed interested, like he was watching a show rather than observing my daily dull life.
He had struck up a conversation with Santa when Wesley arrived for his shift.
I could hear their low voices and occasional laughter from across the lot.
When Emmy emerged from Santa’s cabin to remind Wesley that children would be arriving soon for their visits and he needed to be in position by the fireplace with his hot cocoa, Kent chatted with her too. He was acting like they were all best buds.
There was something different about him today. Less skeptical, more engaged, maybe? Like he was actually interested in understanding how this place worked instead of just tolerating it. It was weird in the best way.
When the initial rush of customers had been served and Ozzo had the tree loading well in hand, I found myself walking over to where Kent was standing near the payment booth, still watching everything with that thoughtful expression.
“Tell me something, Kent Bancroft,” I said, looking up at him with what I hoped was a teasing smile instead of the slightly breathless expression I was afraid might be showing on my face. “Why are you really out here?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. His confident demeanor wavered for just a moment. I caught a glimpse of something more vulnerable underneath.
“What do you mean?” he asked, but I could tell he knew exactly what I meant.
“Yesterday you said you needed to speak with the owner about business,” I pressed, sensing an opportunity to finally get some real answers. “So what kind of business? If the Bancrofts are such a big deal, what do you want with us little old Northwoods?”
He was quiet for a long moment, and I could practically see him weighing his words carefully.
“My family sees potential here,” he said finally. “We’re always looking for investment opportunities, and I wanted to see the area with my own eyes, get some insight into what this place is really about.”
Investment opportunities. The words hit me like a lightning bolt. I felt my heart start racing with something that felt dangerously close to hope.
“Investments?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual even though my pulse was pounding. “Here? At the lodge? In town?”
He hesitated for just a moment before nodding. “Yes.”
The weight that had been sitting on my chest for months suddenly lifted, replaced by a giddy sense of possibility that made me want to laugh out loud. Investment. Real, actual investment from people with the kind of money that could make a difference.
Maybe Kent Bancroft really was the Christmas miracle that Northwood had been waiting for.