Page 20 of Never Sleigh Never
“No, I’m not. I’m—I’m assessing needle retention on that balsam fir to determine if it’ll last until Christmas.”
Willa mock coughs into her hand. “Liar.”
Slowly, I turn toward her and glare. All she does is smirk. “We’ll chat later.” She waves as she saunters off with Mason to pay for her tree.
I’m now the proud new owner of three additional Christmas trees. Luckily, my SUV has plenty of roof rack storage, so transporting them wasn’t difficult. Unloading them was a different story. If it were nighttime, I’m sure Vana, the county sheriff, would be knocking on my door, questioning me about the body bags my neighbors told her I was dragging through my front door. While I love Christmas and I’m enthusiastic about every aspect of the holiday, I never imagined I’d be the person with four trees in their house, but there’s a first for everything. Maybe this will be the start of a new tradition. The silver lining: my home now smells like a high-end pine candle. After scouring through bin after bin of all my Christmas decorations, I find two extra stands, but I’ll have to purchase a fourth one. In the meantime, I fill a five-gallon bucket with water and prop the tree against the wall in my spare room until I can place it in its proper home. In the kitchen, I fit the smallest tree. Another is set up in my bedroom, and the crème de la crème of trees is front and center of the picture window in the living room for all passersby to enjoy.
Unlocking my phone, I cue up my Christmas playlist. “Last Christmas” by Wham! floats through the air. I sashay from one side of the room to the other as I meticulously place boxes of ornaments by color on the floor. Every year, I switch up the decorations. I’ve done scattered, random colors everywhere, and even candy cane stripes, but this year I want to try an ombre effect. Lifting a box of light pink ornaments off the floor, I hold them up to the tree. As I twirl to the opposite side, I contemplate whether I want to go light to dark or dark to light. With the box still in the air, I rest a hand on my hip. The smooth, rich voice of Dean Martin as he croons “Silver Bells” flows through the speaker, and I become one with the tree, letting the holiday music lead my way. As soon as he hits the chorus, I nod. “Yes. The perfect ombre effect with the dark ornaments starting at the bottom. Thanks, Dean. You always have the answer.” I set forth to make my Pinterest-worthy Christmas tree.
When I finish the bottom half of the tree, I step back and admire my handiwork. All the pieces are falling together perfectly. The tree anyway. Everything else in my life is a clüsterfünke. Mariah Carey slides in with “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” and like a traitor, all my thoughts drift to Logan and seeing him today. It’s hard to deny that single dad Logan is hot. I pinch my eyes shut and scold myself for using “Logan” and “hot” in the same sentence, but it’s true. Warmth skates up my spine. His daughter is adorable, though. The way he was so gentle and patient with her shows me he’s not an asshole all the time, only to me.
Maybe Sloane and Willa were right, and I’m judging him too harshly. Maybe deep down, buried in the bowels of his soul, he has an ounce of friendliness in him. Or it was all for show because his daughter was there. That seems like the most logical answer. Either way, I need to stay focused on the Holly Jolly Festival and beating Logan’s carnival and not on how I want to see him wearing nothing but the Santa hat.
Eight
Said No One Ever
Logan
For two straight days, sunrise to well past sunset, minus the couple of hours I went tree shopping with Josie today, I’ve been at the carnival. The original plan was a two-week run up to Christmas—finish on the twenty-fifth with skating, roasting marshmallows by the fire pits, and families spending the day together. It’s what Brooke always wanted. Unfortunately, I underestimated what all goes into organizing a carnival, and the two weeks of holiday fun is now cut to one.
If there’s a silver lining, work has been a good distraction from thinking about Brie and why she was secretly watching me at Reindeer Ridge. The way my body sparked to life when I pulled her up… yeah. Not helpful.
“What should we start with?” Josie’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. She has been hounding me to decorate the tree since we picked it up, so I promised her we’d spend the afternoon fully immersed in decorations.
“Blue ornaments.” I cue up a YouTube fireplace, playing a soft Christmas melody because our new place lacks the real thing. Ten out of ten for the ambiance. Zero on the heat, or lack thereof.
She pops the flaps on a box and hands me a blue and silver swirled ornament.
I hold it up in the air. “Where should this one go?”
Josie taps her chin as she contemplates the perfect spot. It’s something her mom would always do. She would meticulously place every ornament in the best spot for optimal viewing pleasure.
“How about there?” She points to a spot on the top right side of the tree.
“Perfect.” I secure the ornament to the end of the branch. We fall into a rhythm of passing and placing ornaments on the tree.
At the bottom of the next box, she pulls out one last ornament. A frosted white star edged in gold. “We have one more.”
All the air is sucked from my lungs. I’ve avoided hanging that ornament on the tree for the past two Christmases, and I actually forgot about it, until now. “That was your mom’s favorite,” I say, my voice rough. “She said it reminded her of you— her brightest star.” Every year, Brooke would buy a new ornament for Josie. The instant she saw the star, she knew it was perfect and refused to continue looking. “Where should we hang it?”
She holds up the ornament, tapping her finger against her lips. “I think it should go up there.” She points toward the top of the six-foot tree.
“Alright, you’re the boss.” I hoist her up, and she slides the hook over one branch until it dangles in place. It’s the exact same spot where her mom liked to hang it as well.
Once we’re finished, we place the empty ornament boxes back in the plastic bins until it’s time to take the tree down.
“I’m going to FaceTime Grandma so I can show her the tree!” Josie dashes out of the room, up the stairs, and toward her bedroom.
My gaze wanders over the tree. Brooke would be proud. God, I wish she could see it. Another year, and it still doesn’t get easier.
Josie returns to the living room with her tablet in front of her. “See Grandma? This is the tree.” She turns the screen around. “It’s pretty.”
“It’s so beautiful,” my mom says.
While they chat, I slip upstairs. When I reach my bedroom, I sit on the edge of the bed, resting my elbows on my knees and comb my fingers through my hair. They say time heals all wounds, but it’s been three years, and my wounds are still gaping open. I thought moving from the house we shared and closer to my family would help, but so far, nothing. The grief counselor I saw after Brooke passed away told me everyone heals at their own pace. There’s no set time limit, but right now I wish there was and that I’m nearing the end.
Sitting up, I slide open the nightstand drawer and pull out a picture of Brooke. I run my fingers over the smooth glass covering her bright, warm smile. I took the picture four years ago, right after Josie’s seventh birthday party. We finished cleaning up, and Josie went to a friend’s house for a sleepover, so we had the night to ourselves. I started a fire in the fire pit on the patio just as the sun dipped below the horizon. She had a glass of red wine in her hand. The reflection of the firelight across her face was the most beautiful thing I ever saw. It made her glow, so I snapped a picture. Something I did often. I joked that she never looked at me the way she does at a glass of wine. She said the wine is a quick burst of happiness, but I was her forever.
