Chapter Five

Eve

As I step outside, I’m all smiles. The sun is shining, and there’s a fresh dusting of snow on the ground. It’s the perfect day to cut down a Christmas tree, drag it home, and decorate it.

When my boots hit the steps, I glance down, surprised to find my walkway already shoveled. I don’t mind moving snow. In fact, I kind of enjoy it. It’s part of the beauty of the season. But who?

My eyes dart toward the house next door.

No. Do not go there, Eve. It was probably your dad.

With a nod, I take off walking toward the edge of town where the tree farm is located. It’s not too far, only about six or seven blocks. Most people would drive there, but not me. I prefer the short hike. I’ve always found outside so invigorating. It’s why I’ve never left. Most people I went to high school with couldn’t wait to leave, whether it be in search of the lights and life in a bigger city or in search of warm climates. Me, on the other hand, I absolutely love it here. Not to mention, Snowflake Falls is a self-proclaimed Christmas town. Tourists flock here, taking weekend stays in the quaint hotel or bed-and-breakfasts.

Why would anyone want to spend the holidays anywhere else?

When I reach the entrance to the tree farm, I can see cars lined up at the gate to gain access. Not only can you select your own tree at the farm, but Whitman’s has tons of other family-fun activities and experiences to enjoy. There’s the hot cocoa and coffee bar, ornament making for the kids, horse-drawn sleigh rides, and carolers. Not to mention the kids’ area where they can play games like tic-tac-toe, checkers, and Connect Four. In the fall, they sell pumpkins, mums, and autumn rustic décor, and in the spring, they sell a variety of annuals and perennials they grow themselves in the greenhouse.

My dad loves it here. He’s worked for the Whitman family for decades as a farmhand, first in the fields during planting and harvest, but helping maintain their pumpkin patch and tree farm too. He even bales hay and mows the grass when needed.

I find my dad wrapping a tree at the payment hut. Tasha, the Whitman’s teenage granddaughter, is running the cash register, while a few other young high schoolers man the food stand and game tables.

When he turns around, he notices my approach. “Hey, sweetheart,” he greets, placing a kiss on my cheek. “Come to pick out your tree?”

“I did.” I’m practically bouncing where I stand.

“You know the drill. I have to load this on, and then at least two more,” he says, glancing at the line at the payment shack.

“Don’t worry about me,” I tell him, feeling like an old pro by this point. “I can cut it down and wrap it up.”

“Take a saw beside the shed, and there should be several carts and sleds over there too.”

“I will,” I say, wrapping my arms around him for a quick hug. “You better get that loaded up. There’s a line forming.”

He sighs, but you can’t miss the smile on his face. Dad loves his job and the Whitman family. “See you soon, honey. I’ll come help you wrap up your tree in just a bit.”

I nod, even though I’m not worried about it. I’ve helped my dad do this for so many years, I could cut down and wrap a tree with my eyes closed.

I find an old-fashioned wooden sled and grab the rope. Most prefer the large-wheeled wagons, but this feels right to me. I place one of the handsaws in the attached bucket and grab one of the small bundles of netting. Then, I set out into the tree farm to find my tree.

Some of the acres are roped off. As they remove trees from certain sections, they close those sections after the tree harvest season and replant new ones. It takes several years for a tree to grow into the proper sizes you see in homes throughout the world, so I make sure not to enter anywhere not allowed for picking.

After walking for several minutes, I slip inside a section and walk back a few rows. I can hear the birds chirping and the sound of trees being cut down nearby, but I don’t see anyone in my immediate surroundings as I search for a section containing Fraser fir trees. They have them in all shapes and sizes, and my heart starts to pound with anticipation.

I take in each tree with a critical eye, though I never settle on the perfect one. No, I find a tree perfect for me. Sometimes it’s the ones missing branches on one side or isn’t thick enough for most people’s likings. It takes me only a few minutes to find it. A tall, regal tree with a curved trunk that gives it a slightly odd lean. I run my hands over the soft bristles and smile. When I close my eyes, I can picture it in my living room, filling the vacant spot in front of my window.

This is the one.

I reach for the handsaw and get to work. This isn’t my favorite part of the process, but it’s necessary. I place the serrated blade against the tree trunk, practically lying on the snowy ground beneath it, and start to cut. After only a few minutes, my arms are numb, and I have sweat in places I wish I didn’t. Plus, my back is starting to ache, thanks to the awkward position I’m in.

Just when I let out a frustrated sigh, I hear, “Need help?”

I pause, recognizing the owner of that particular voice instantly. “No thank you. I’ve got it,” I reply, trying to sound as chipper as possible.

“All right,” he says.

I get into position again, raising my saw to finish cutting. I realize it’s too quiet, and I never heard him walk away. I set the saw down on the ground and shift myself to look out. The sun is shining, but through squinted eyes, I easily find where John is standing. He’s leaning against a post, arms crossed over his chest, and a small smile on his kissable lips.

“Are you just going to stand there and watch me like a stalker?” I ask, annoyed at his casual appearance.

“Yep. You said you didn’t need any help,” he reasons.

“I don’t!”

“Okay,” he replies, remaining where he’s standing and continuing to watch.

With a huff, I shift back into place and start to cut. My movements are jerky as determination fills my entire body. I switch sides so the tree falls away from me as I make the final cuts, ignoring John’s presence as much as I can. I can still feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to give in and look.

Just as the tree begins to break away, the trunk shifts and jumps away from me, causing the tree to come crashing down in the opposite direction I had planned.

Toward me.

I brace for the weight of the tree to land on me, but when that doesn’t happen, I suck in a deep breath. Rolling to the side, I find John standing there, holding my tree. “You could have been killed.”

Lying in the snow looking up at him, I roll my eyes. “A tad dramatic, don’t you think?”

He smiles. “Perhaps, but I like to think I saved your life right now from being crushed to death by a Christmas tree.” He moves it to the side so I have plenty of room to get up.

Dusting off the packed snow covering me, I grumble, “It’s not that heavy. It wouldn’t have hurt.”

“Probably not, but that’s not the story I’ll spread around town,” he boasts, clearly proud of himself for keeping my tree from falling on me.

“What do you want, John?” I ask, unable to mask my irritation. Reaching for the tree, he doesn’t argue as I take it from him and drag it toward the sled.

“To help.”

“Well, I don’t need any help,” I insist, realizing instantly my mistake.

I should have put the netting down on the ground, or at least across the sled, before I cut the tree. It would have been much easier to wrap up and prepare it for transport. Sighing, I glance around, remembering the post. I can lean my tree against it while I get the netting ready. Shifting the tree, I waddle over to where John once stood and try to lean it against the post. It takes a few tries to get the balance just right, all while not breaking any more limbs than necessary. Finally, the tree is in position, and I can return to the sled.

When I turn around, I blink in surprise. John is there, the netting already laying out where I was going to put it. With a huff, I turn back to the tree and lift. “Will you stop it?”

“Stop what?” he says.

I move and shift until I’m ready to start lowering it to the ground. He takes the top of the tree and helps as I place it on the netting. “Stop helping me!”

With his hands on his hips, he says, “You were always independent, but this seems a little extra. You don’t like help anymore?”

I huff and start to work the netting around the tree, using the pieces of string to tie it together. “I don’t mind help…when I want it.”

“You don’t want my help? Fine. I was just trying to be a nice guy.” He crosses his arms over his chest and watches as I complete the work and grab the rope.

Just as I go to pull away with the tree, I remember the saw. Grumbling under my breath, I stomp over to where I left the saw and retrieve it. I place all the items I brought out here back in the bucket before returning to the rope. Hoisting it over my shoulder, I set out to drag my new Christmas tree back to the shed to pay for my purchase.

I expect John to move on, to continue finding his own tree, when he falls in step alongside me. “What are you doing?” I ask, glancing his way.

“Walking.”

“Where’s your tree?” I ask, realizing he doesn’t have a sled or a wagon with him.

“It’s already up at the shed. Your dad told me you came out to cut down your tree, and since he was busy wrapping others for customers, he sent me to check on you.”

The annoyance I felt just moments ago dissipates quickly. “Oh.”

We’re both silent as we make our way back to the entrance of the farm. People are hustling and bustling everywhere, the sound of Christmas music coming from speakers near the shed. I’m a bit winded from dragging my tree, but I refuse to let it show. I don’t want John thinking I needed his help, even though I suppose it wouldn’t be too bad. I’ve never actually done this entire process myself. Dad is usually with me while I cut down the tree, helping me wrap it and pull my selection back up front. And while I might walk it back home by myself, my sister helps me get it inside my house and standing.

“Pick out a good one?” Dad asks when I approach.

“Of course,” I insist proudly.

“Do you want me to drop it off after work?” he offers.

“Oh, no. I don’t mind taking it home,” I tell him.

Dad glances over at John. “Thanks for helping her,” he says, reaching out his hand to shake.

“She did it all on her own,” he informs my dad.

Dad grins and glances my way. “She’s an ol’ pro at this by now.”

I step forward to pay for my tree. “Hi, Tasha. Busy day today,” I comment, pulling cash from my pocket.

“It sure is. Did you get a cup of hot apple cider? Mom just made a fresh batch and filled the carafe. It’s delicious, especially when you pair it with one of her warm apple donuts.”

My stomach rumbles. “Oh, that sounds delicious. I’ll definitely grab some before I leave. How much do I owe you?”

Her eyes narrow. “Oh, I thought you were getting that one,” she says, pointing to a tree standing against the fencing.

“No, mine is over there, on the sled,” I state, turning and pointing to where I left John, my dad, and my tree.

“Oh! I thought you were with John. He already paid for that tree,” she says.

“No, we’re not together,” I say, a little too quickly and with a little too much insistence.

“My bad. I saw you come out of the lot together and then talk to your dad, so I just thought, you know,” she insists. “Forty-five dollars.”

I place the money on the counter, trying not to notice the rapid beat of my heart. “Thank you, Tasha.”

“You’re welcome,” she replies, placing the money in the cash register and offering me a smile. “Didn’t you guys used to date? I remember seeing you around together when I was younger.”

“Oh, uh…yeah, back in high school.”

She flashes me a grin. “I thought so. Anyway, sorry about the little mix-up.”

“No worries,” I reply, turning around so she can help the next customer in line.

My stomach is a little twisted, and even though cider and a donut sound amazing, I know I can’t pull my tree and carry a cup and snack at the same time.

Heading over to Dad, he flashes me a smile. “All set?”

“Yep. I’m ready,” I reply, reaching for the rope so I can start the six-block return home. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Holler if you need anything. I’ll stop by tonight and grab the sled,” he says, offering to return it to the tree farm in the morning.

“Thanks. Love you.”

As I start to walk away, careful not to run into any of the people near me, I feel a large presence to my left. I glance over and find John there, his tree thrown over his shoulder. I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “What are you doing?”

“Going home with my tree.”

My mouth falls open. “You’re going to carry it for six blocks?”

He shrugs. “It’s actually much lighter than the last thing I threw over my shoulder and carried. Plus, the distance is much easier. Six blocks versus about two miles, only back then, I had to jog. Hope you don’t mind I just walk this time around.”

I stare at the man beside me, a lump forms in my throat as realization sets in. “Did he make it?”

John nods and swallows hard. “I had to use my belt for a tourniquet. A teammate, Holden Riggs, was shot in the thigh, damn close to his femoral artery. I was able to stop the bleeding enough to get us to our extraction point, about two miles away. As soon as we were in the chopper, I went to work, and by the time we landed, the bleeding was under control, and he was comfortable. The rest of the medical staff were able to remove the bullet and repair the damage in surgery.”

Relief washes through me, even though I didn’t know this soldier personally. Feeling a lump form in my throat, I whisper, “Thank you for your service.”

His blue eyes hold mine for several seconds before he nods.

We start to walk again, my mind reeling from his heroic story. I’m sure there are more stories from the twelve years he served in the Army. A wave of sadness hits me hard. So much has happened in the twelve years since we were together, not only in my life, but in his too. So many years spent apart, and I have no idea what happened in his life during that time.

“Do you still talk to him? The man you saved?”

John grins. “Yeah, we still do. In fact, I was able to see him last month after I was discharged and in the process of planning to move back here. I got to meet his baby girl…Jona.” He swallows hard. “They named her after me.”

My eyes fill with tears as I look his way. “Wow, that’s an amazing honor.”

He gives me a slow nod. “I’m prouder of the title of godfather than I am of the medal I was awarded for saving his life.”

“Wow, a medal?”

“Army Commendation Medal.”

“That’s incredible, John.”

He shrugs, still holding his tree up over his shoulder as we walk toward our street. “It was part of my job. I would have done it a hundred times and twice on Sundays to save my teammates and those in our unit.”

We walk the rest of the way in silence, both lost in our own thoughts. I wonder about his time in the military, knowing he’s probably seen and done things he’ll never forget. But I don’t feel I have a right to ask. We’re not together anymore, and even though I’m curious about those years, I don’t feel I’ve earned any right to inquire about them.

A noise pulls me out of my thoughts, causing me to stop. We’re standing in front of my house on the sidewalk, staring up at my porch. The noise sounds like…a cry. No, not a cry, a wail. A sad, needy bellow. My eyes settle on Snowflake, who’s sitting in the front window, eyes cast downward. That’s when I see the other cat.

Biggie.

I gasp, watching as my cat cries for the big male one sitting outside. “What is your cat doing?”

He snickers. “I’m guessing trying to get some.”

The horrific scene from the other day flashes through my mind. “Oh my God! Make him stop!”

“Him? How do you know your precious little Snowflake didn’t lure my Biggie over here with her siren cries?”

My eyes narrow as I glare at the man standing beside me. Of course he looks completely edible in his winter coat, flannel shirt hanging out of the bottom, and well-worn jeans. He hasn’t even broken a sweat while carrying a Christmas tree for six blocks, while I feel like I need a shower after pulling mine.

“You’re disgusting. My sweet little Snowflake wouldn’t dare,” I argue, as my cat continues to stand at the window and cry, clearly proving me wrong. But I refuse to yield. This is his fault—or at least his cat’s.

“I think we should just open the door. You know, let them get it out of their systems?”

My mouth gapes open. “What? No! I will not willingly allow your cat to…to… hump mine!”

He chuckles. It’s both sexy and grating on my nerves, and while a part of me wants to invite him inside, a bigger part knows I need to put distance between us, because all too suddenly, feelings are rushing back to the surface. Feelings I’ve long buried deep in the recesses of my mind and heart.

“Come on, Biggie. Let’s go put up the tree,” John hollers, catching his cat’s attention.

I watch as the big feline glances back at Snowflake in the window before slowly heading off in the direction of his house. I swear his shoulders are slumped in sadness as he goes. Not to mention, Snowflake looks completely dejected from her perch in front of the window.

“Do you need help?”

It takes me a second to figure out what he’s talking about. Clearing my throat, I whisper a soft, “No. Joy is coming over to help me.”

John nods. “Well, I’m next door if you need something.”

Then, he continues on, making his way to his own front door. I watch as he releases the lock and pushes open the old, wooden door. Biggie runs past him inside before he steps through the doorway, careful not to hit his tree, and disappears. A wave of sadness washes over me, one I ignore.

Going into my house, I leave my tree on the sled outside. My eyes go to Snowflake, who seems completely crushed not to see her male suitor cat joining us. I walk over and run my hand across her white, fluffy back. She gazes up at me with sad kitty eyes, and I sigh.

“Yeah, I understand how you feel.”

I just refuse to acknowledge it.