Tangle of Tinsel

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he teases.

I slide down in my seat as he pulls out of the driveway, thinking of his big hands warming my bottom in a completely different manner.

“We should get into the spirit.” He turns on the radio. Nat King Cole begins to sing about chestnuts. I admire the scenery as we drive, and he occasionally points out landmarks. The place looks like a postcard.

“How do you like the town so far?”

“I haven’t seen as much of it as I would’ve liked. I’ve been pretty focused on learning my way around the practice I work for and getting moved in.”

“I get that. I might be a little biased, but I think you’re going to love it here. People are friendly, the landscape is amazing, and there’s always something to do. There are a lot of local, seasonal events. The close-knit community vibe is one I sorely missed when I lived in New York City.”

“Why did you come back?” I ask. It’s such a drastic change.

“It was time. I went to further my career, but I had plans of coming back when the time was right.”

“And you just up and left,” I snap my fingers, “like that?”

“It wasn’t as difficult as you think. I cut my teeth there, learned the ropes, and won cases. Outside of working insane hours, I didn’t have much.”

“You sound incredibly focused.” I’m impressed.

“I felt like I had too much to prove not to be.”

“I can understand that.” I study him. “How old are you?”

“I’m thirty-five.”

“You already know my age.”

“I want to know everything you wish to tell me.” The sincerity in his voice moves me.

Careful, Romy, he’s out of your league.

I lick my lips. “So why is there no Mrs. Caleb?”

“I was too busy working, and I never met anyone who made me think of a little white church and wedding bells. What about you?”

“I used to daydream about walking down the aisle in a white dress.”

“What happened?” he asks softly.

“I realized how silly and naïve I was to expect the perfect man to show up.” I trace designs on the beside me.

“Perfect for you is different than being without flaws altogether. I wouldn’t be opposed to meeting the right one. What about you?”

“There it is!” I point at the sign with the farm’s picture, claiming it’s only three miles away now.

Sitting up straighter, I move closer to the window. We pull into a dirt parking lot. He parks, and I scramble out like a child about to go into a toy store. Assaulted by the scent of pine blowing on the wind, I spin around in a circle, taking in everything. There’s a section of trees already cut and waiting for a home. Two structures sit across from each other in a clearing. Each has cash registers, but one has a menu written on a chalkboard.

“I’ve never done this before,” I whisper

“Had a live tree?”

“No. Gone to a Christmas Tree Park like this.”

“Ah. Then we have to get you the full experience.” He gestures toward the concession stand. “They have some of the best cider around.”

I shove the shrewish voice inside of my head, cautioning me to let my guard down, aside and embrace the moment. I follow him to the aptly titled Tree Stand.