Page 21 of The Christmas Catch
Especially now, as Ali leaned back, held her phone in the air, and raised her gaze to meet Morgan’s.
Morgan’s heart boomed like a thunder crack.
She flinched, then took a deep breath in. “Did you book them?”
“We have train tickets,” Ali replied. “Whisper it, but I think our luck is about to change.”
Morgan clutched the hope to her chest.
* * *
“I’ve always wantedto ask, don’t you get cold? If I had to do this, I swear I wouldn’t last a day. My hands would fall off, as would my feet.”
Morgan and Ali hauled the last tree under the tarpaulin-covered metal cage.
Dave locked the padlock and rattled it to check.
“You get used to it,” he told them in a softer Scottish accent than Morgan was used to. Was Dave considered a soft southerner when he went to Glasgow, living an hour south of the city? “I was born and bred in Scotland, so it’s sunshine and warmth that makes us melt. The cold just toughens us up. Where are you from?”
“Devon,” they both replied.
Dave gave a sharp laugh that pierced the air. “I don’t think the Scottish Christmas tree trade is right for you. A nice office job would be best, am I right?”
Morgan bent her head, a little embarrassed. Dave had her number.
They climbed into his white van, all three in a row up front, high enough to view the traffic on the A74(M) with ease. This time, it was moving at least. Plus, the snow had stopped, although the sides of the motorway were still stacked high.
“I might see if we can get an actual tree when I get home.” Ali’s thoughts broke the silence.
“You don’t normally?” Dave twisted his head left as he spoke.
Ali shook her head. “My family runs the local pub. We have a few trees dotted around it, but they’re always fake. Too much mess with the pine needles otherwise. We buy that pine-scented oil and pipe it into the pub instead. That, and a log fire with some mulled wine and mince pies, and people think all their festive dreams have come true.”
“I’m glad not everyone thinks like that, otherwise I’d be out of a job. Me and my brother run a Christmas tree farm nearby, so it’s a year-round occupation for me.”
Morgan leaned over. “What’s your business called?”
“Jolly Good Elf Christmas Trees. I came up with the name.” Dave looked pretty pleased with himself.
“Wow. You really are Mr Christmas.”
“I contemplated changing my name by deed poll, but my wife talked me out of it.” Dave raised one of his excessively bushy brows. “What about you, Morgan? Are you a real-tree fan, or have I got two heathens up front?”
“We always have a real tree,” she replied. “Actually, more than one. My parents go all out for Christmas. You know those houses that break the national grid with all their Christmas lights? That’s ours.”
Ali turned her way. “Baking gingerbread houses. Lighting up your side of town. I don’t remember this from my childhood. Is this where you tell me your surname is really Claus, and Imogen is your daughter?”
Morgan snorted. “If Imogen was my daughter, I’d be super proud. Then I’d make her take a driving course.” She paused. “As for my family, it’s always been that way, led in the most part by my dear, departed Nan.” She gave Ali a pointed look. “Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. Getting into the festive mood lifts your spirits. Having Christmas drinks. Hanging decorations and getting a tree. Buying presents. Which is why I really hope we get our luggage back in time for the big day, or all my carefully bought gifts will go to waste.” But she wasn’t going to think about that. “What about you, Dave? I take it a man running a Christmas tree farm has one in every room?”
He shook his head. “My wife is fed up with them by the time Christmas rolls around. We’ve got one in the lounge like everyone else. And about ten thousand in the garden.”
Morgan could just imagine it. A vast swathe of green trees. She’d always loved visiting Christmas tree farms as a kid. “I bet your garden smells divine. Where’s the strangest place you’ve delivered a tree?”
“The local graveyard. I had a customer whose mum died the previous year, and she’d always loved Christmas. She buys a tree and puts it on her grave every year.”
“I love that,” Morgan replied. “Much better than flowers and more personal. If I die near Glasgow, can you deliver one to my grave, too?”
“We’re nearly at Lockerbie, so if we swap numbers before you go, yes.”
