Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
NATE
O n the drive to the Christmas tree farm, Nate cast a sideways glance at Juliet in the passenger seat, typing away on her phone. How could she be glued to a screen on a day like today? Crisp, clear blue sky sprawled overhead, wiped clean after last night’s rain. The scent of damp earth and leaves clung to the air, refreshing and sweet. He could get used to rural, small-town life.
In fact, so far, he loved everything about Poppy Creek. And he couldn’t believe his luck back at the coffee shop. He’d actually get to help build the sets for a children’s Christmas pageant! What could be more festive than that?
It may even turn out to be an opportunity to spend more time with Juliet. Not that he cared about spending more time with her. Especially if she spent every second on her phone.
After several minutes of driving in silence, they came to a fork in the road. On the right, an elaborate wrought iron archway welcomed them to the Sterling Rose Estate. Dormant flower fields spread out for miles in every direction along with what appeared to be apple trees asleep for the winter.
On the left, a wooden cutout of a reindeer pointed toward a narrow dirt lane. The hand-painted sign underneath read, Follow me to the Christmas trees .
Nate veered left and rolled down the window. The invigorating aroma of evergreen flooded the truck, catching Juliet’s attention.
She glanced up from her phone. “Wow. That smells incredible.”
As she rested the device in her lap, he caught a glimpse of the screen. She appeared to be using some sort of writing app. Working on her novel, maybe?
Although she wrote literary fiction, he couldn’t help wondering if her novel featured a romantic subplot. And if so, what kind of romantic hero did she like? Rugged or clean-cut? Alpha or—what did his chatty coworkers call the less dominant guys? Cinnamon rolls? Golden retrievers? Labradoodles? He couldn’t remember. Something soft and cuddly. At the very least, Juliet’s so-called “book boyfriend” would probably have a full-time job.
Maybe she even had a real living, breathing boyfriend. Why did the possibility spark a pang of disappointment? He pushed the unwanted emotion aside.
As they approached a gravel parking lot, the twangy notes of “Deck the Halls” greeted them, redirecting his wandering thoughts. An elderly gentleman bent over a banjo serenaded two children making s’mores around a large metal-barrel fire pit. The image was right out of an old-timey postcard.
Smiling, Juliet stuffed her phone in the pocket of her royal-blue peacoat. Finally . “I always loved coming here with Aunt Beverly.”
“Did you visit often?” He parked beside a big diesel truck and turned off the engine.
“Whenever my parents were busy and didn’t want to have a kid around. So, basically, most Christmases until I went away to college.”
“Really?” Nate frowned. “Aren’t kids supposed to make the holidays more magical?”
“Not when you have prestigious parties to attend.” The slam of the passenger door punctuated her statement, but her words sounded more matter-of-fact than bitter. Her nonchalant acceptance of her parents’ ambivalence during the holidays made him sad for some reason.
He’d expected to have lonely Christmases growing up in a group home. While most of the staff had cared about him and the other boys and had done their best by them, they had their own lives and families to worry about. The holidays were always the hardest, serving as a blatant reminder that he was on his own. No fun family traditions like he’d seen in the movies. No matching pajamas, hot cocoa by the fire or singing carols together around a slightly out-of-tune piano. He’d grown accustomed to living without a mother’s and father’s love—without the kind of memories that made Christmas special. But what would it feel like to have two parents in your life who simply chose not to spend the holidays with you?
Oblivious to his melancholy thoughts, Juliet remained focused on the task at hand. “Frank said to get a seven-foot Frazier fir.” She led the way toward a row of full, fragrant trees. Their blueish-green branches stretched skyward, revealing a slightly silvery sheen underneath. He’d never seen anything quite like it. But as beautiful as they were, he wasn’t ready for the tree shopping experience to be over so quickly.
“First things first.” He strode toward the quaint wooden stand offering hot chocolate and s’more supplies.
Juliet begrudgingly followed. “We don’t really have time for s’mores.”
“Sure we do.” He slid a marshmallow onto a roasting stick and passed it to her.
She held the stick at arm’s length, as if he’d handed her a live snake.
Nate hid a smile as he made his way to the fire pit. She could use a little Christmas spirit.
The man with the banjo gave a friendly nod without pausing his country-western rendition of “Away in a Manger,” and the two kids scooted over to give Nate some room.
With a huff of resignation, Juliet joined him. She stuck her marshmallow directly into the flickering flames as if she couldn’t get the ordeal over with fast enough.
The little boy, who appeared to be around six years old, snickered. The girl—presumably his older sister by a few years—jabbed him with her elbow.
“What?” the boy cried. “She’s doing it wrong.”
Nate suppressed a chuckle, glancing at Juliet to see how she’d react. He expected her to be offended. Or annoyed. Or both.
Instead, she told the boy, “You’re right. I’m a little rusty at roasting marshmallows. Do you have any tips?”
He brightened, pleased to be called upon for his expertise. “Sure! You gotta hold it over this part. Watch.” He hovered his marshmallow over a patch of smoldering coals and embers. “It takes longer this way, but your marshmallow won’t get all burnt up.”
“That’s great advice. Thanks.” She followed his lead. “You’re really good at this.”
“I taught him,” his sister interjected, not wanting to be left out.
“Then you’re an excellent teacher,” Juliet told her, which made the little girl beam with pride.
Nate gawked at the exchange, completely dumbfounded. Miss Proust liked kids? More than that, she was actually good with them. Between agreeing to rewrite the middle school play, and now this , she’d thrown him off-balance. Was it possible he’d made one too many assumptions about her?
They roasted a few more marshmallows, chatting with the kids, who told a funny story about finding a deer mouse in their Christmas tree—that staunchly refused to vacate its cozy home—so they came back with their parents to exchange the tree for one that was rodent-free.
During the lively conversation, Nate tried not to notice how stunning Juliet looked when she smiled, how her dark eyes appeared lit from within. Or how her laughter sounded prettier than a thousand church bells.
Ugh. What a sap. Get ahold of yourself, Nate . You can admire her from afar. But that’s all. Got it?
He reiterated the mental pep talk several times as they finished their s’mores and made their way back to the row of Frazier firs. But no matter how adamantly he mentally reinforced the invisible boundary line, he couldn’t resist the urge to stick a toe across it. Juliet intrigued him in a way no other woman had. In truth, women and dating had fallen off his radar since he’d joined the military, when every waking moment revolved around the current mission—and making it home alive.
Lost in her own thoughts, Juliet brushed her fingertips across the feathery branches, her expression wistful, almost reverent. “‘My woods—the young fir balsams like a place / Where houses all are churches and have spires.’” The familiar words escaped her lips in a soft murmur, and Nate did a double take, certain he’d misheard.
Juliet’s eyes widened, and she blushed, as if she’d just realized she’d spoken aloud. “Sorry. The trees made me think of an old poem.”
One he knew well. “‘I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas trees. / I doubt if I was tempted for a moment / To sell them off their feet to go in cars / And leave the slope behind the house all bare, / Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.’” He quoted the next few lines of the Robert Frost poem “Christmas Trees”—the poem he’d recently put to memory.
Although not one of Frost’s most famous poems, the themes of pure, simple pleasures over consumerism, and the appreciation of country life versus city life, resonated with him on a profound level. It certainly wasn’t a poem he’d expected Miss Proust, with her Bentley and pricey pearls, to know by heart.
She met his gaze, equally startled. “You like poetry?”
“Some. Classics, mostly. A lot of the newer stuff doesn’t make sense to me. I read one in the San Francisco Chronicle the other day about a moldy orange that seemed to be a metaphor for a midlife crisis. By the end of the poem, the orange had become an eagle that somehow laid a dinosaur egg that cracked open, revealing a newly ripened orange. I’d never been more confused in my life.”
Cupping a hand to her mouth, Juliet burst into laughter—a deep, boisterous, belly laugh that shook her petite frame.
What had she found so funny? His inability to understand the poem? “What?” he asked gruffly, trying not to be offended.
“Sorry, it’s just—” She giggled again, then, collecting her breath, she confessed, “My dad wrote that poem.”
Oof. Way to go, Nate . He grimaced. “Shoot. I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“It’s fine.” She gave a don’t-even-worry-about-it flick of her hand. “There’s no way you could’ve known. Besides, between you and me, I had no clue what he was talking about, either.” She grinned, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of her eye with her fingertip.
The woman was full of surprises.
“So, your dad’s a poet. And you’re an author. Quite the literary family.”
“ Debut author, actually. I’m working on my first novel. That’s why I said you wouldn’t have read anything I’d written.”
Ah. That makes sense now . “Gotcha. That’s exciting.”
“Try terrifying. Your debut sets the tone for your career. There’s a lot of pressure to make a big splash right out of the gate, and my editor has particularly lofty expectations.”
Did he detect doubt in her voice? And why did he have a sudden urge to put her mind at ease? “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. If you have an editor, you’ve already had to prove yourself. They don’t hand out publishing contracts to just anybody.”
She grimaced. “They do if your father is a famous poet and your mother’s a prestigious English lit professor with connections in the publishing world. My editor is a close personal friend of my parents’.” Looking embarrassed, Juliet resumed her stroll down the row of trees, brushing their branches with her bare hand as she walked.
“So you had an advantage. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. As long as you try your best and make the most of the opportunity.”
She paused beside a bushy fir with perfectly shaped branches and met his gaze. “And what if my best isn’t good enough?”
Her raw, humble vulnerability rendered him momentarily speechless.
He usually had a knack for pinpointing a person’s character within the first fifteen minutes. But when it came to Juliet—and labeling her a shallow, self-absorbed snob—he’d grossly missed the mark. This woman had depth, with real fears and doubts, who genuinely seemed to care about others.
What else had he gotten wrong about her?