Chapter 8
EIGHT
CALDER
Town is usually quiet the morning after a storm. Sometimes, it feels like everyone is holding their breath to wait and see what Mother Nature will throw at them next.
But when Natalie and I pull into the small lot beside the community center, her breath fogging the window in excitement, it hits me all over again that she’s not from here. She’s seeing Wilder Mountain as something magical.
I’d forgotten it could look that way.
“Is this where we get the tree?” she asks, practically vibrating.
“No,” I say. “This is where we check the plow schedules, see if the highway crews opened the back road, and make sure the general store has power.”
She deflates just a little. “So… bureaucracy before pinecones?”
“Briefly.”
She sighs dramatically. “Fine. Adulting first. Festivity later.”
I almost smile. Almost.
We climb out of the jeep. The sky is a flat winter blue, the sun bright enough to make the snow sparkle. Natalie tightens her scarf around her face as we walk inside. The community center is warm, lit by a backup generator humming in the back hallway.
Martha, who runs the front desk, looks up as soon as we enter.
“Well I’ll be,” she says. “If it isn’t our favorite hermit.”
I grit my teeth. “Morning, Martha.”
Her eyes slide to Natalie. “This must be the decorator your mama’s been bragging about.”
“Oh,” Natalie says, cheeks warming. “I’m not exactly a decorator. I’m more of a—”
“Miracle worker,” Martha says with appraising eye. “At least that’s what I hear.”
Natalie laughs, flustered but pleased. “That’s a stretch.”
I shift my weight. “We just need the plow report. And to know if the general store’s open.”
“Store opened twenty minutes ago.” Martha taps her keyboard. “Back road is still closed, but Main is drivable. Shouldn’t give a strapping man like you any trouble.”
“Did you hear that?” Natalie nudges me softly with her elbow. “Main shouldn’t give a strapping man like you any trouble. Sounds like the Christmas tree hunt can begin.”
Martha’s ears perk up. “You two looking for a Christmas tree?”
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Natalie says at the same time.
Martha eyes us like we’re the entertainment she didn’t know she needed this morning. “Well now I’m invested.”
“We’re getting a tree,” Natalie confirms with absolute authority.
Martha beams. “Go see the Donnellys. They’ve got a temporary stand in the church parking lot until the big lot is cleared. Last I heard, they still had a few good ones.”
“Perfect!” Natalie says.
I grunt something that might be agreement, but Martha has already turned back to me with a suspiciously pleased expression.
“Your mama’s gonna love that,” she says.
I say nothing.
Because she’s right.
The Donnellys’ setup is small but charming—half a dozen bundled trees propped in neat rows, a folding table, a hand-painted sign that reads FRESH CUT TREES: 20% OFF IF YOU PROMISE TO WATER THEM.
Natalie gasps like someone just revealed the gates of Narnia.
“Oh my god, look at them,” she whispers. “Calder, look at them. Look at the branches. Look at the symmetry. Look at the fullness. I’m fainting.”
“You’re not fainting.”
“I might.”
She marches toward the nearest spruce, eyeing it critically. “This one is close but not perfect. The top leader is crooked.”
Then she circles another. “This one has great density, but the trunk leans like it’s been emotionally burdened since childhood.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Trees don’t have childhood trauma.”
“They absolutely do.”
She moves to the third tree. Studies it. Walks around it. Squints at it like she’s interrogating a suspect on a cop show.
“No,” she declares. “This one has weak self-esteem.”
“Trees can’t—”
She holds up a finger. “Shhh. I’m vibing.”
I stare at her. “You’re vibing with an evergreen.”
“Multiple evergreens.”
“Unbelievable.”
“You better believe it, Mister.”
She approaches a fourth tree—tall, symmetrical, strong branches, dark needles. She stops.
Stares. Does one slow circle.
Then she turns to me with a determined nod. “This one.”
I walk over and give it a practical once-over. Straight trunk. Even shape. Minimal needle shedding. Solid height for the cabin’s ceiling.
“It’s good,” I admit.
“It’s perfect.”
“Are you sure?”
She nods so fervently I think she might take flight.
“Okay,” I say, grabbing the trunk with one hand. “We’ll take it.”
“YES.” She pumps a fist into the air. “Victory!”
The Donnelly kid running the stand startles. “Uh—great! I’ll get twine.”
Natalie glances at me. “You’re really doing this.”
“You said it was perfect.”
She beams. “I love decisive men.”
I almost drop the tree.
By the time we strap the tree to the jeep, her cheeks are pink from the cold, and she’s practically glowing with pride. When we start the drive back up the mountain, she twists in her seat to stare at the tree through the rear window like it’s a newborn child.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.
“It’s a tree,” I say.
She gives me a scandalized look. “How dare you talk about our child that way.”
“I’m just saying—”
“No. No words. None. Our tree baby deserves reverence.”
I exhale through my nose, fighting a smile. I’ve been doing more and more of that.
It’s annoying as hell.
Halfway up the mountain, she relaxes into her seat again. “You know, this is my favorite part.”
“Buying trees?”
“Not just buying them.” She tucks her blanket around her legs. “Finding the right one. Imagining how it’s going to change the room. Knowing that something ordinary is about to become magical.”
Her voice softens. “It’s one of the few kinds of magic that never goes away. No matter what life throws at you.”
I glance at her. She’s looking out the window, profile warm in the winter light, fingers wrapped around her scarf. Something in my chest shifts irrevocably.
“You’re good at this,” I say.
“At what?”
“Making ordinary things seem magical.”
She looks at me then, really looks, and the air thins in my lungs.
“Calder,” she says quietly, “you have the ability to do that too.”
I grip the wheel tighter.
She turns back to the window, giving me space I didn’t ask for but probably need.
The jeep climbs the last stretch of road toward my cabin. The tree thumps gently against the roof. The snow drifts sparkle in the noon sun.
And somewhere in the quiet between us, something roots deeper.
Something warm and real.
Something that feels like the beginning of a shift I’m not sure I can stop.
And not sure I want to stop.