Page 33 of The Art of Being Merry
Most likely because she’s used to doing everything on her own.
My heart squeezes for her. I hate how her ex was such a douche and how she’s practically raised the kids on her own, even with another parent in the picture. Autumn’s ex left her and Shania when Shania was a baby, but she only had one. I can’t imagine doing it with two.
I shake out of these thoughts and park in the lot next to the trees.
Once the engine is off, I unbuckle and lean over the console. “Okay, boys, we need ground rules. There’s an art to picking out a tree.”
“This should be good,” Clementine mumbles beside me, only loud enough for me to hear.
“One. Never pick the first tree you like.” Atlas nods, completely on board. Jace smiles. “Two. Everyone has to agree on the tree. It can’t be three-fourths or half. It must be unanimous.”
“Three-fourths?” Clementine spits. “Didn’t realize you had a say in picking our tree.”
Whoops. Open mouth, insert foot.
“Two-thirds,” I correct, peeking at her over my shoulder. “Three out of three. I’m merely here for moral support and to provide the muscles to carry the tree.”
Clementine snickers. “Better.”
“Three. You must look at all angles of the tree and envision it in your space.” A thought occurs, and I focus on Clementine again. “Wait. Where’s the tree going?”
“In the living room.”
“K, but where in the living room?”
“Does it matter?” she says, exasperated.
“It matters. Think about my parents’ tree. It would look completely different in the corner of the room by the window. The lights would shine differently and cause weird reflections. Do we want that?”
“No,” Atlas states. “How about in the far corner? We don’t have to move much, and it will light up that side of the room.”
“Yes. Brilliant. Great thinking.” I look at Clementine for clarification. Ultimately, she has to agree. It’s her tree and house.
“That’s where I was thinking.”
“Super. Moving on.”
“Five.”
“Four,” Atlas corrects, always paying attention to his surroundings.
“Four,” I amend, thinking about the next rule. “Nope, only three. You’re well-versed and ready to pick out a tree. Coats, hats, and gloves on. It’s cold out there.”
The boys follow my direction, and Clementine stares at me. “What?”
“No-nothing,” she stutters.
“Sure it is. Let’s go. Coat on. Did you bring your new gloves?”
She digs in her pocket for her gloves, producing my worn pair. “Oops, no.”
“Those will work.”
They dwarf her small hands, but a thrill runs through me knowing she kept them even when she bought herself a new pair.
This year’s Christmas magic is wreaking all kinds of havoc on me.
10
