Chapter 2

Juan is in the kitchen making breakfast. As he does so, I locate the festive dusting cloth he gave me a few days earlier. I dust off Gran’s curio cabinet, then polish the photos that sit on top in glowing gold frames. I position the Regency Grand snow globe between the photos, giving it a place of prominence between the people I have loved most in this world.

I can hear eggs sizzling in the pan in the kitchen as Juan sings along to “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” We still have a few preparations to complete before the twenty-fifth, and we must get everything done on this final Sunday before the last short and busy workweek of the year. Then, on Christmas Day, Mr. Preston, my grandfather and the beloved doorman at the Regency Grand, will arrive at our apartment door with bells on—and to be clear, I mean that literally, not figuratively. Charlotte, his daughter, will be by his side, dressed in a Christmas-themed sweater and laden with so many gifts it’s a wonder she will be able to carry them all.

It’s not that I’m clairvoyant—this has been our tradition for a few years now, a happy Christmas of found family brought together by fate. And if the fates allow, we will enjoy another season en famille in just a few days. My only regret is that Gran won’t be there with us, though sometimes I wonder if she is. Like the star atop a Christmas tree, perhaps she shines her light down on us from above. It’s a thought that gives me comfort at this time of year.

And speaking of trees, that’s on the to-do list today for Juan and me. We must buy a tree and decorate it—a real one, Juan insists, rather than the old artificial one we usually put up. Then we’ll deck our halls with all the Christmas spirit we can muster. We’re a little late this year, mostly because we’ve been working overtime and weekends at the Regency Grand. The hotel has been booked solid for weeks. We’re lucky, in fact, to have this one day off together.

“Breakfast is ready!” Juan chimes from the kitchen. “ Chilaquiles para dos, with tea and crumpets.”

I head to the kitchen, where Juan—beautifully bare-chested but wearing Gran’s old paisley apron—has laid two full plates at our kitchen table.

“ Buen provecho, ” he says.

“ Bon appétit, ” I reply, sitting down at my place across from him. Breakfast is as scrumptious as the tousle-haired man who serves it to me. Between hearty bites, Juan chatters about how many more Christmas cookies he and the staff at the Regency Grand still have to bake and how this year he’s overseeing not only the specialty holiday cookies but also the construction of the Ginger Grand, a replica hotel made entirely of gingerbread, jujubes, old fashioneds, humbugs, gumdrops, and enough sugar icing to induce a diabetic coma in every guest, though fortunately, the gingerbread hotel is for display rather than digestive purposes.

Once breakfast is finished, I bring our plates to the sink and begin the washing up.

“Oh!” says Juan. “I’ve just remembered. I need to quickly pop down to the laundry. You get ready for our Christmas tree adventure, and I’ll be back before you can say ‘Juan Manuel is the best boyfriend ever.’?”

“Very well,” I reply.

He kisses my cheek, removes Gran’s apron, then hurries to our bedroom to grab a shirt. He’s out our front door and heading to the building’s basement laundry room before I can even remind him to take the hamper.

While he’s gone, I do the dishes—washing, drying, and putting them all away. I expect him to return tout de suite, but he’s still not back by the time I’ve returned the kitchen to a state of perfection. Perhaps he’s decided to fold the laundry downstairs, though it’s hard to imagine why. Mr. Rosso, the landlord and owner of our decrepit building, is more miserly than Scrooge himself. Recently, he removed nearly all the overhead lights in the laundry room in an effort to “discourage loitering,” not that anyone in their right mind would spend a second longer than strictly necessary in that dark, spider-infested inferno. I’ve petitioned Mr. Rosso to reconsider his plan for greater lighting efficiency, raising the safety and well-being of tenants, and while I did not receive a formal response in return, Mr. Rosso’s grunt, followed by a slamming of his front door in my face, left few doubts as to his true feelings on the matter.

Stand up for what’s right or you’ll sit on the sidelines all your life.

Gran understood. She had the door literally and figuratively slammed in her face—so many times over the years, and yet she always made the choice to shine light in the dark.

I dry my hands on my tea towel, then head to our front door, opening it to check for Juan. I look right and left down the long corridor, but there is no sign of him. No matter. I decide to take a shower, then get dressed in my favorite Christmas sweater, the one festooned with every Christmas ornament imaginable, including candy canes that light up (battery operated). I pair this with red-and-white-striped leggings. Once clean and fully clothed, I check myself in the mirror—perfection.

I head to the living room and settle myself on the threadbare sofa, waiting for Juan to return, which he does about fifteen interminable minutes later.

“Are you all right?” I ask the second he walks through the front door.

He looks piqued and overheated, like a glazed donut melting in the sun. Both his arms are smudged with grime, and though I didn’t think it possible, his hair has achieved an even greater state of disarray.

“I’m fine!” he responds in his singsong voice. “Some issues in the laundry room, but all is well.”

“Where are our clothes?” I ask. His hands are empty, no laundry in sight.

“Oh. I forgot. I brought everything up last night and put it all away. My mistake.”

He removes his shoes, wipes the bottoms, then neatly stores them in the front closet. Next, he heads down the hall to the bathroom, closes the door behind him, and switches on the loud ceiling fan before I can ask what he was doing in the laundry room for so long if not the laundry.

I hear the familiar groan of the shower turning on, and above that, the whirring of the fan. Juan soon begins a Christmas concert solo in the confines of our bathroom, belting out “Joy to the World,” followed by an especially jaunty rendition of “Deck the Halls.” I know he’s nearly done when he reaches the high part in “O Holy Night.” The shower stops, then moments later the bathroom door bursts open, and Juan’s bare feet pad down the hall to our bedroom.

I wander over and stand in the doorway as he gets dressed. Our soiled clothes hamper is where it always is, in the corner by the bed, but it isn’t empty, as I expected it to be. Rather, it’s three-quarters full.

Juan watches me from the bed as he wrestles socks onto his damp feet. “You’re wondering what I was doing in the laundry room. An old lady needed help.”

“An old lady,” I say. “Mrs. Nguyen?”

“The woman down the hall? No, not her,” he says.

“Mrs. Bancroft from the fourth floor?”

“Do you know her well?”

“Not really,” I reply.

“Yes, it must have been her. Mrs. Bancroft,” he says. He pops up from the bed like a gopher emerging from a smoke-filled hole, rushing toward me and sweeping me into his arms. He smells soapy clean and fresh, and at long last, his hair is neatly combed.

“Are you ready, Molly? It’s time to choose our Christmas tree! I’m so excited.”

He kisses me then, his mouth minty fresh, and I forget all about old ladies and laundry and just about everything else.

We don coats and shoes and head out the door. Holding mittened hands, we make our way out of the building and onto the sidewalk dusted with powdery snow. The Christmas tree lot isn’t far away, just a few blocks. It’s a pop-up installation set up once a year in a grocery-store parking lot. I swear I could make it there with a blindfold on just by following the scent of fresh conifers redolent in the air.

When we arrive at the lot, the burly tree seller heads straight to us. “Merry Everything,” he says. “Need a tree?”

“We do!” says Juan. “Show us the best you’ve got.”

“Look up,” he replies as he points to a magnificent tree on display right behind us. It must be over two stories tall.

“We’re actually looking for something a tad more modest,” I explain. “Maybe my height?”

“Over here,” he answers, walking us to the back of the lot. “I’ve got balsam fir, Fraser fir, Douglas fir, Norway spruce, eastern white pine, and one premium, deluxe option—beautiful blue spruce.”

“Beautiful blue spruce!” says Juan. “That’s the one for us.”

“This way. Pick the tree you want. Let me know when you’re ready.” The man trudges off to help some customers gathered at the front of the lot.

“Are you sure we need a premium tree?” I ask Juan the moment the attendant is out of earshot. “Gran always said ‘premium’ is just a fancy way of saying ‘foolishly expensive,’ and I’m not sure we have the money to spare. The price of everything has shot up so much, you know.”

“Christmas comes just once a year. And besides, how bad can it be?” As Juan says this, he checks the price tag on the nearest blue spruce. “ What? This is insane. Are they all this expensive?”

We quietly check the tags on all the trees amassed in this far corner of the lot, which, I suspect, is where the cheapest options are collected.

When Juan finishes his price check, he stares at me, his expression one I’ve never seen conveyed quite so succinctly on a face before—the stunned look of sticker shock.

“Molly, we can’t afford any of these trees.”

“I know,” I say. “But chin up, Buttercup. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

I search out the man I’m looking for, who’s easy to spot given he’s wider and taller than anyone else on the lot and may very well be part tree himself. “Yoohoo!” I call out, and soon enough the burly lot attendant is trudging back our way.

“Which tree should I bind up for you?” he asks.

“Actually,” I reply, “I’m afraid it is we who are in a bind—of the financial variety. We simply can’t afford to purchase a tree at this price. Not this year, at least. I thought I’d ask if you have any budget-friendly trees that might be better suited to our…pecuniary predicament?”

“Uh…are you asking if I’ll give you a tree for free?”

“No!” I reply. “Of course not. We’re willing to pay, but at a more modest price point.”

“I’ve got the Charlie Brown specials over there.” He points to an evergreen pile beside a porta potty stall. “They’re all bottom branches, so gnarly and bent I just hack ’em off the big trees. I could pound one onto a stand for you. Cost you a tenner.”

“Sold!” says Juan.

The lot attendant grabs two thin pine planks and the mallet from his tool belt, banging them into an X formation onto which he spikes a spindly Charlie Brown branch. The “tree” has a ten-degree lean and several midlevel bare spots, but it sports copious pointy branches for ornaments and a lopsided coniferous tuft up top that reminds me of Juan’s morning bedhead.

“It’s perfect,” I say.

Juan reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a bill to pay. “Thank you, sir!” he says as we leave the lot, our precious misfit tree tucked under his arm.