Page 45 of Miss Humbug
My brother helped a familiar family carry their chosen tree to their van. “Ethan, how are you? Good to see you.” The woman, a white blond in her late thirties, stopped at the counter by the gate where we took payments.
“Hey, same, Sherry. I’m good. Looks like you got a great tree.”
She recounted how the kids ran through every row of available trees until landing on their chosen one. “We’ve been so busy with the office expansion we haven’t decorated at home,” she said. “Did your dad let you know about the position?”
I nodded. I kept my voice low and my response to the point as I thanked her for her interest, and the tree, and moved on to the next customer.
We hit a lull and Marlowe wandered over. “What position was your friend talking about?”
I’d hoped she hadn’t noticed. “It’s nothing. Sherry and her husband run a local business. Home renovation. They recently expanded into exteriors.”
“You help build houses in your free time, so that makes sense.”
“Yeah, but I’m not interested.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Because I have a job. Here. At the farm.”
“Why would your dad have talked to them about a job if you already have one working for him?”
She could put two and two together. Still, I answered. “Dad thinks he’s being clever turning my interest away from the farm so he can spring selling it on me and not feel bad.”
“He wants to sell?”
I hated how Rob was right. Dad had been exploring part-time work for retirement. And I caught him bookmarking cruises on a travel deals website. “His latest injury apparently put thoughts in his head about retiring.”
She didn’t press, but her unasked questions rang in my mind anyway.
After we closed for the night, I took Marlowe on a holiday lights tour through the local neighborhoods, with our trusty soundtrack the holiday radio station. Since Crystal Cove was V.I.C., aka Very Into Christmas, lots of houses went all out. Which could mean a front lawn filled with inflatable holiday yard decorations or thousands of lights covering the house and shrubbery. Every so often, we’d spot something simple like a red ribbon-trimmed wreath on the door with a spotlight pointed at it.
Marlowe chattered beside me in the passenger seat, scoring the decorations based on her own highly specific criteria. She didn’t complain once about the music.
“Okay, you’re either going to love this next one or hate it.” I headed out of the neighborhood to a stretch of country road.
She squinted through the dark. “Uh, what is that?”
The glow ahead was impossible to miss. A beacon in the night.
“Why is the car ahead of us slowing?” Her tone filled with dread.
I tapped the truck’s stereo to forward to another station. I slowed behind the line of cars and watched for Marlowe’s reaction.
On time with the music, the house in the distance pulsed with light. Red, green, red and green together, then every color imaginable shining with precise, digital delight. We inched forward, gaining a closer view.
“The house and the music. It’s all synced together?”
I beamed at her. “Isn’t it the coolest?”
We’d come in halfway through the spectacle, so the big finale with Santa and his reindeer along the top of the house went disco-wild, flashing and blinking along with the frantic music.
Cars honked and kids whooped cheers out of rolled-down windows.
The house darkened, but only for a handful of seconds. The show was about to start again.
We moved forward as the cars ahead of us cleared out. Now we were positioned right in front of the house.
Marlowe’s mouth hung open. Slowly, she folded herself inward. At one point, she covered her eyes. “It’s so…bright. And intrusive.”
