Page 34 of The Art of Being Merry
clem
Winterberry’s Christmastree lot is exactly that—a parking lot housing dozens of already cut trees. I would have imagined a place so into the Christmas holiday would have a cut-your-own farm, but I assumed wrong. The trees come from tree farms in the surrounding areas, and the profits go toward community endeavors.
Dax isn’t afraid to share his opinions about our tree, but he’s got good taste in trees. The boys don’t get upset or discouraged when he comments about a wonky branch or a hole on one side. They’re eager to find the perfect tree, if only perfect by Dax’s standards. They don’t realize they’re giving him the power, but since he’s not out to steer us wrong, I’m allowing it to happen.
He’s patient with them in choosing the best tree, not rushing them if they take too long at one tree or return to a previous one to make comparisons. It’s endearing to watch him give them the power, yet he’s the one in control.
If I could have even gotten Keith to agree to come with us to pick out a tree, he would have chosen the first one we came upon, no matter what it looked like. He wouldn’t have let the boys have any say, and he definitely wouldn’t have tolerated all this time for a tree that would only be up for a month at most. The differences between Dax and Keith are startling. Even as a friend, Dax has stepped up for my kids in more ways than their father ever has.
“I like this one,” Atlas says, sizing up the tree Dax holds up by the top. It’s a little shorter than Dax’s six feet two, which means it’ll be the perfect size for our living room.
Jace agrees with a nod. “Mama, what do you think?”
I pretend to look it over, but the way Dax smiles so big, it’s a winner. “I love it. It’s perfect for our first Winterberry Junction tree.”
Jace leaps up and down. “Yay.”
“If my opinion counts, I’d also say it’s a winner. Great choice, boys. Let’s get it baled up and in my truck so we can get it home and set up.”
“And then we can decorate it.”
I dug out the boxes of decorations last night after the boys went to bed. I told myself to only check for a tree topper, but did I listen? Nope. I surveyed the box, crying as I brought out different ornaments from years past, each one dredging up memories. Some happy, some sad. I definitely shouldn’t have poured myself a glass of wine while I did it because it made me sappy and nostalgic for the life they should have, not the one they’re living.
“You need at least one day to let the branches fall,” Dax explains, much to the chagrin of the boys. Had it come from me, they’d put up a fight, probably yell at me until I dragged them kicking and screaming from the lot to the car, leaving the perfect tree behind.
However, when it comes from Dax, in his patient, explanatory voice, they barely bat an eye.
“I can’t wait to see what it looks like when you’re done.”
“Why don’t you come over tomorrow and help? You can do the high parts Jacey and I can’t reach.”
Dax takes Atlas’s suggestion in stride. “That’s up to your mama. I don’t want to crash your time together.”
While I appreciate him considering my feelings, I hate being put on the spot, especially when both boys want me to agree. It’s not that I don’t want him to help. I’m not sure spending so much time around this man is good for me.
For staying within the lines of pretending I feel nothing but friendship toward him.
Then I remember he’s supposed to come over for dinner for us to go over my ideas for his sweater.
“Sure, we’d love to have you. Do you like pasta and meatballs? I planned that for dinner tomorrow night.”
“Sure do. It’s one of my top favorites.”
“Great. Come when you’re done with work, and I’ll have dinner ready if you let me know what time you’ll be there, and then we’ll decorate the tree.”
“Do you need a topper?”
“Yep. Think ours got left behind in North Carolina.”
“Let’s get this tree in the truck and we’ll head to The Christmas Barn and grab one, Picassa.”
Like the tree weighs nothing and isn’t awkward as hell, he picks it up and follows us to the cashier. After I pay, he sets it in the truck bed carefully. All I can do is gape at how he moves. How he’s so precise in his movements. The way he carries himself. The way his jeans mold to his legs and butt.
The way he calls me “Picassa.” Instead of using the shortened version of my name, he came up with his own, unique to me.
Oh, yeah. Spending more time with him is something I should definitely avoid.
It’s a short drive to the store, but I’m thankful for the reprieve from being in his truck. Because it smells way too much like him. Under the grease and motor oil, there’s something surprisingly soft—like sun-warmed cotton—and the scent is overwhelming.
