A Very Grumpy Lumberjack Christmas

7. Noel

7

NOEL

T he longer I sit, staring into the fire, the more my eyes seem to drift from the flames to Nutsack on the mantle, then over to the empty space next to it, the corner where Dad’s tree always stands.

Well, at least, his tree at home.

My gut twists, souring the coffee and cookies I had at the bakery a few hours ago.

How could I not know he was the one choosing the town tree every year?

It seems so obvious, something I should have known, yet that revelation has made not having the single thing he loved decorating the most in the house feel like a massive slap in the face to the man who ran Christmas in this town.

“Are you all right, dear?”

I glance over at Mom, who sits on the couch, knitting a new scarf while we watch National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation . Another one of our traditions I insisted we keep in Dad’s honor, even if I’ve been unable to concentrate on anything happening.

The scene where their tree goes up in flames plays out on the screen, and watching Clark Griswold’s determination to replace it merely strengthens my resolve to do what will probably sound insanely stupid to anyone else, given the conditions outside right now.

It’s bad enough that Mistletoe actually canceled the ceremony over the worry that the weather will deteriorate too fast for anyone to get home safely afterward.

That should be enough of a warning to toss my idea into the trash.

But next to putting out Nutsack on the mantle, the tree was always Dad’s pride and joy. We would spend hours placing the lights and tinsel and picking the ideal spot for every single ornament, only to have him adjust things daily—sometimes even on Christmas Day.

It drove Mom nuts that he couldn’t just leave things be, but he wanted it perfect.

And it isn’t too late to get him that perfect tree this year.

I shift in Dad’s recliner, unsure how to broach the subject with Mom when she was so upset yesterday about the mere idea of decorating the house without him. “Did you know Dad was the one who always picked the town tree?”

Her gaze darts up to meet mine, her brow furrowing. “I mean, I knew he and Bud always went out together, but I assumed Bud made the final decision, since he would know what trees looked healthiest, what would be the easiest to get out of their property and up in town square.”

The same assumption I had made over the years.

And apparently, been very wrong about.

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “That’s what I thought, too. But…I ran into Luke today.”

Her hands still. “What did he say?”

Besides basically brushing off our six-year relationship as nothing ?

“He said that Dad was the one who usually chose the tree, but he did it this year.”

A wistfulness fills her eyes. “It is a beautiful tree. Dad would have loved it.”

And that’s the opening I had hoped for.

“Yeah.” I push out of the chair and walk over to her.

She watches me with trepidation as I approach and squat in front of the couch.

“Mom, I know you said you didn’t want a tree this year, that you couldn’t bear the thought of putting it up without Dad, but”—I wave my hand toward the empty corner—“does this feel right? I mean”—the tears start to burn in my eyes, and I blink them away—“I know nothing is going to feel right without him here, but it definitely feels very wrong not to have a tree, not to decorate it, not to do the one thing he loved the most, just because he’s not here. I feel like instead of avoiding it, we need to do it for him.”

Her lips quiver, and she sets her knitting needles on her lap. “I know, but it’s too late now. It’s Christmas Eve, and—”

I push to my feet. “And you know Bud and Mary will have the lot open as late as they can.”

Wide eyes dart to the windows along the back of the house that creak in the wind. “But the storm?”

“I’ve driven in worse.”

She reaches out and snags my wrist. “Noel—”

I slide my hand over hers and squeeze. “Mom, I’ll be all right. I’ll drive down, snag a tree, come right back, and we can spend the rest of Christmas Eve decorating it, watching Dad’s favorite movie. Okay?”

“The roads—”

“I’m only going two miles, Mom. And I know that road better than I do my own reflection.”

She looks like she’s ready to argue with me, but then her blue eyes drift to the empty spot in the corner. A resigned sigh slips from her lips. “You’re stubborn, just like your father. If I said no, it wouldn’t matter, would it?”

I lean in and press a kiss to her cheek. “Probably not. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

“Don’t try to be quick.” She gives me her best “mom” warning look. “Just drive safe. Maybe take my car. It has snow tires on it.”

It would be a better option, if I could get it out of the garage.

“The last time I checked out front, there was a drift against the garage door. It would take way too long to clear it all and get your car out. I’ll just take my rental. And don’t worry so much, Mom. I could this drive with my eyes closed.”

Mom offers a wry smile. “Please don’t…”

After yesterday and what a runaway rabbit was able to do when I was briefly distracted by the Crisp farm, I don’t think I’ll attempt it with my eyes closed.

I step out of her hold and hustle toward the front door, where the foyer is now properly decked out in all the holiday regalia—as are we. Putting on the ugly sweaters felt like just one more “normal” thing we could do to keep Dad’s presence with us.

With the added bonus of keeping us warm when Mother Nature seems determined to bury Mistletoe in a deep freeze.

Wind buffets the house, making the old wood creak in warning. Snow blows almost sideways outside the windows on either side of the front door, and as I zip my parka and tug on my books, hat, and mittens, I almost chicken out.

But we can’t have Christmas without a tree.

And what I told Mom was true.

I’ve driven much farther in much worse weather for stupider reasons than fulfilling my dead father’s Christmas wishes .

The moment I open the door and step outside, the blustery gale hits me, battering my face with icy flakes that make me cringe.

Shit, the storm really has picked up since the last time I was out here.

But the worst of it isn’t supposed to come until after midnight, and it isn’t even six o’clock yet. So, I have plenty of time to get down there and back up…as long as the road isn’t too nasty.

That may take a Christmas miracle.

Maybe it isn’t the smartest decision I’ve ever made, but I can’t make it through this night and tomorrow without a tree.

It’s bad enough doing it without Dad.

Which is why I’m willing to trudge through calf-deep, freshly fallen snow to the car, battling bone-chilling gusts and stinging flakes.

I brush the accumulation off the windshield with a mittened hand before I climb in and fire it up. The headlights flip on and illuminate how fast and hard the snow is really falling in front of me.

Not white-out conditions, but it will be before too long.

I better move fast.

Or, at least, as fast as possible in this car and this weather.

I throw the car in reverse and make a Y-turn to face the road.

Now or never, Noel.

Bitter-cold blizzard or…

I glance back at the house—the lights strung along the front eave and the warmth emanating from the bright windows.

Go back in?

The need to have the house complete on Christmas wins out over any concern about driving in these conditions or my earlier one about running into Luke if I had stopped for one earlier.

Of all the people in Mistletoe, the Crisps will understand why I need to do this and ensure I’m safely on my way with the perfect tree small enough for Mom and me to set up ourselves strapped to this tin can on wheels.

I inch down the driveway and out to the unplowed main road. Clearing Jolly Lane isn’t a priority when only the Crisps and us live here. They’ll get to it eventually, but the way the forecast is looking, it might be several days, which means getting down there and back up before it gets too bad is even more important.

Two miles.

It’s nothing, really.

I slowly descend the mountain, telling myself that.

Blankets of snow flash across the headlights like I’m on Star Trek , going at warp speed when I’m barely crawling through the accumulation on the road.

My windshield wipers set on high fight the best they can to keep my vision unobscured, but it’s a fruitless effort.

I grip the wheel so tightly that my fingers ache, trying to keep control of the car that seems to want to slip and slide around the slightest turn.

At least no one else is on the road, but as the little incident proved yesterday, there are other things to worry about around Mistletoe.

Like stray rabbits.

And moody ex-boyfriends.

Who hopefully won’t be anywhere near the lot tonight…

I try not to think about the possibility that he will be as the normal three-minute drive to the farm any other day becomes thirty.

So many songs rotate through my playlist that by the time “ Last Christmas” starts, my hands ache from gripping the wheel so tightly to maintain control on the road.

When I finally see the break in the trees where the forest opens up onto the Crisp property, I’m almost ready to wave the white flag and give up.

Thank God.

I release a breath I’ve been holding as the multi-colored Christmas lights twining around their fence line and across the front of the barn come into view.

If everything is still lit, then someone is on the lot, even this late on Christmas Eve…

Which means I will get Dad a tree.

I turn into the farm, slowly advancing down the unplowed driveway toward where the lines of trees still stand, ready for any last-minute sales. But there aren’t any other cars in the lot, nor is there any movement from anywhere on the property that I can see through the storm.

Even if the blizzard has driven Bud and Mary into the house, I can always go up there and have them come and help me. A quick in and out and back on the road.

If I can even find it by the time I get done here.

I park as close to the edge of the lot and the trees as I can, and climb from the car, leaving it running. Icy flakes blast me, a bitter warning from Mother Nature that maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

“Fuck, that wind is cold…”

Shivering, I rush toward the barn that houses the sales office. That’s definitely where I would be tonight, rather than waiting out here in case any customers come at the last minute.

Idiots like me who decided to drive in this for a tree.

I can barely see a few feet in front of me, but as I near the barn and safety from the storm, a flash of movement through the blowing snow makes me jerk my head up and skid to a stop.

Luke stands inside the open double doors, backlit in his customary sleeveless plaid shirt, unbuttoned and open to expose his muscle chest and perfect eight-pack.

Jesus Christ.

My eyes drift to a piece of mistletoe tied to one of the loops of his jeans, just above his crotch, then up to the Santa hat on his head.

Flashbacks of a different time when he wore the same thing and I had dropped to my knees for him infiltrate my mind long enough for a hot flash to warm me. But it’s quickly cooled by the reminder of our earlier confrontation and his current reputation.

What the hell is he doing in that hat and with mistletoe?

For a brief second, bitter green jealousy spikes through my blood.

Is someone in there with him?

He steps toward me, axe resting across one shoulder, as if he just came in from felling trees during a damn storm. Hard eyes narrow on me, his lips twisting into what seems to be a permanent scowl. “Noel, what the hell are you doing here?”

His words get swallowed by the wind and barely reach me, but I can hear enough to catch the anger in them.

The feeling is mutual.

Luke Crisp is the last person I wanted to see tonight, on Christmas Eve, when I’m doing everything I can to stay in the holiday spirit and ensure Dad’s memory is honored.

His constant snippy attitude will only sour everything.

Still, he may be my sole hope of actually accomplishing this mission.

I rush closer to him, bouncing on my feet, trying to stay warm. “I need a tree. ”

Those emerald eyes widen. “You drove down here in this storm to get a fucking tree ?”

Okay, when he says it like that, it does seem a bit…unhinged.

“My mom didn’t have the heart to get one herself, and I couldn’t stand that living room without one on Christmas Eve. It all felt so wrong. I just…”

I let my rambling explanation trail off because the more I talk, the clearer it becomes how crazy I must sound to the man who already holds me in such low esteem.

He closes the distance between us and grabs my upper arm with his free hand. “You just decided to come to the farm in the middle of the blizzard of the century to get one?”

Eeep.

I open and close my mouth, my jaw snapping shut, surprised by how truly upset he seems to be. “Yes…” My gaze darts to the line of smaller trees leaning against the row of stands to our right. “Can you just put one on the car, and I’ll head back home?”

Luke issues a low growl and drops the axe so he can grip me with both hands and spin me to face the rental car. “You mean the car you can barely see through the storm?”

Okay, he has a point there.

We’re only twenty feet from it, and already, the gusting winds and heavy, wet flakes are starting to cover it. Even squinting, it’s hard to make out, and I’m not sure I would be able to see it if I didn’t already know where I had parked.

Luke sidles up behind me, pressing his hard body against my back and wrapping an arm around my waist, both holding me steady and keeping me warm while also preventing me from moving. His hot breath flutters against my cheek as he leans in, sending a shiver down my spine unrelated to the cold. “I am not strapping a tree to that death trap and sending you back up the mountain on the unplowed road, Noel.”

“What?” Breaking free of his hold—both physical and emotional, when it would have been so easy to lean into his touch and the way his gravelly voice ignites my blood—I whirl to face him. “But—”

A muscle in his clenched jaw tics, and he fists his hands at his sides, veins bulging on his neck and biceps. “Do you really think I’m going to let you just drive away?”

Coming from anyone else—or even observed by another person who doesn’t know our history, who wasn’t standing in almost exactly this same spot eight years ago—it might seem sweet, protective, downright chivalrous.

But not to me.

Not after what he did.

Not when I know the sheer hypocrisy of his statement.

Fighting the tears that so badly want to fall right now, I stare him down, preparing myself for the combat that seems to be coming. “Why not? You did before…”