Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Aaron
When I arrive at the school to pick up Colin, he comes bounding out of his classroom, gives me a big hug, and says, “Can I go play at Andrew’s house?”
Caught off guard, I blink at him for a second. “You want to go play at Andrew’s house?” I heard him perfectly fine the first time, but it’s a ploy to buy time.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Please, Daddy? Please please please?”
I glance around to find a woman with long dark hair falling around her shoulders, wearing a thick flannel jacket, a beanie, and leggings holding the hand of a little boy with dark hair that matches hers. He gives me a gap-tooth grin.
“I see someone’s been visited by the tooth fairy recently,” I comment.
“I got two dollars!” he announces triumphantly, brandishing two fingers of his free hand.
“Hi,” his mom says, “I’m Michelle, Andrew’s mom.” She leans closer to me and whispers, “I honestly don’t mind taking them both, but if you’d rather plan it for another day, that works too. Let me know which way you want to go, and I’ll back you up.”
But how can I say no to Colin’s big brown eyes pleading up at me, his hands clasped under his chin? “Pleeeeease, Dad? We didn’t get to see each other at all last week! And it’s Friday, so I won’t see him again until Monday!”
Even though I dislike being ambushed by these requests, I can’t say no to that sweet face. And his logic is pretty unassailable. “You sure you don’t mind?” I ask Michelle.
“Not at all. I volunteer in the classroom a few times a month. Colin’s a sweet kid. I know he won’t be any trouble. Does he have any food allergies or anything like that I should know about?”
“Nope.” Crouching down, I straighten the open halves of Colin’s coat. “You be good for Miss Michelle. Help Andrew clean up his toys when you both are done playing with them and be a good friend, okay?”
He nods firmly. “I promise.” I give him a hug, then exchange numbers with Michelle, agreeing I’ll come get him at five.
I follow them out of the school—kindergarten parents have to pick up their kids from the classroom—grab his booster seat out of the back of my truck and take it over to Michelle, who’s already helping Andrew get into his own seat.
I give Colin one more big hug. “Love you, dude. Have fun. See you in a little while.”
“Bye, Dad!” he calls, climbing into his booster and closing the door.
I pause when I get back to my truck, watching Michelle drive away, weirdly anxious like I was the first day of school.
He’s had play dates before, of course. Has for years now.
This is just the first time I haven’t taken him directly to the park or house where he was playing.
I’m not worried, really. It’s just new and different and therefore uncomfortable.
Taking a deep breath, I shake my head at myself to dispel the irrational anxiety, climb into my truck, and … sit there.
So much of my life, so many of my routines, are anchored around Colin.
And even though kindergarten has meant some of those routines shifting and adjusting because of the difference in his school schedule now versus when he was in preschool, the sudden lack of an anchor, even if it’s only for an hour and a half, has me feeling adrift and unsure what to do with myself.
On a normal day, I work after I drop off Colin, then spend time with him after picking him up from school until after dinner, then I finish up any pressing work that needs to be done while he relaxes with a book or a show or hangs out with his grandma until bedtime.
I could go back and do some more work or check on the tree farm, but I got through everything on my list for today and Mom would just shoo me away if I showed up there and tried to do anything.
Putting my key in the ignition, I start my truck and slowly back out of the space. There are still plenty of parents and kids around, so I make my way carefully through the parking lot. It’s not like I’m in a hurry to get somewhere anyway.
But once I get to the exit, I’m again at a loss. Which way should I go? Since there are cars behind me and it’s the easiest option, I turn right, which takes me toward downtown.
It’s only been a few days, but it wouldn’t hurt to check on the trees again, right? I know Jenna said last night that they were doing fine, but …
What else am I going to do?
As I park, I ignore the niggling idea that I might see Jenna and then … what, exactly?
That’s why it’s not worth entertaining those ideas.
Sure, she’s pretty. Yes, I felt kind of bad last night when it became clear I was just making her feel worse and not doing anything to materially help or defend ChristmasFest with my stonewalling—everyone’s right that the potted trees do look nice.
Cynthia asked me about doing that a couple years ago, and I shut the idea down with hardly any consideration.
Probably I should’ve let her talk me into it.
Cynthia always had a note in a few places that I was the source of the cut trees and greenery, but Jenna has a pretty sign attached to each display with a QR code that goes to my website.
As much as the older die-hards resist the way she’s embracing technology and social media, I have to admit that I’ve seen an increase in sales of potted trees over last year at this time.
While it’s possible that it’s just a coincidence, I think her dedication to promoting the sponsors on social media as well as the vendors who are here, plus making it almost thoughtlessly easy for people to find the sources of the decor has more to do with it.
Walking into the event space, I step to the side so I’m not blocking the flow of traffic, and really take everything in, trying to look at the whole thing with fresh eyes.
I’ve been attending ChristmasFest basically since the beginning—though I don’t remember the first few years since I was so young.
But it’s been a fixture here my whole life.
The whole town gets excited about it and talks it up, whether they work at it or just attend.
Families come from all over the region to get pictures with Santa, buy ornaments, and get unique gifts that you can’t just order online.
Would that be the next step, though? Some way that people can browse ChristmasFest virtually, order the things they want, and have them shipped either to them or to their intended recipients?
I don’t remember Jenna talking about that at all. Maybe that’s an idea she’s waiting to share until next year, or maybe she hasn’t thought of it yet?
Or maybe it’s just a shit idea. I mean, if she’s already posting all the vendors, don’t they all have websites they’re selling from already?
Maybe a few don’t, but I’m pretty sure most of these people do this as a sizable chunk of their income, if not the whole thing, so it would be silly not to have an online store somewhere.
The space really does look amazing. It always has, of course, at least since I’ve been old enough to remember and pay attention.
I’ve never come in here, even at my worst teenage years, and thought, “God, this place is shit.” Sure, I’ve thought that about other times and places, but never ChristmasFest. Somehow we’ve always managed to create a magical feeling in the Town Square and throughout Arcadian Falls.
It’s a point of pride that my trees and greenery are a major focal point of the decor here and have been since my dad started the tree farm when I was little.
I can see where Jenna has added her own touch, though.
The potted trees, for one. But the bows are a slightly different red—that was a major point of contention when she brought them out when the space was being set up.
People were mad that she wasn’t just using the bows we’ve always used, even though she went through the committee and got approval for the replacements.
“They were fraying,” she’d said. “Cynthia mentioned that they’d been in use for nearly two decades at this point.
They were lovely bows. I saw pictures of them in their prime.
But we needed an update. This is a lovely red that will go nicely with the decor we have.
” When that did nothing to stymie the grumbles, she’d simply said, “This is what we have. This is what we’re using. There isn’t time to get anything else.”
It reminded me of how I sometimes have to deal with Colin when he’s whining that we’ve run out of his preferred snacks before I’ve had a chance to go to the store.
“Here are our snack choices. You can have one of these, or you can be hungry. But if you choose hungry, I don’t want to hear complaining about it. ”
Only in this case, the choice was to deal with it or leave. And since those women are so set on clutching their pearls about every decision Jenna makes, there’s no way they’d leave. How else will she know that everything she does is wrong?
I start making my way through the space, pausing by each cluster of potted trees, looking at the branches and needles, sticking my finger in the dirt to see if they need water.
It feels like they were probably watered earlier today—the dirt’s moist but not muddy. Perfect.
I really did misjudge Jenna. I assumed she wouldn’t be able to handle taking care of so many potted trees—I’ve had customers contact me because they couldn’t handle taking care of one potted tree, after all—rather than trusting the professional event planner to know what she would and wouldn’t be capable of.
And then when a few trees were having issues, I immediately assumed it was all her fault, not for a second considering all the other variables at an event like this.