I spied Andrew almost immediately. He was standing near the east side of the lot, helping a family with two young children who were so bundled up for winter they looked like Easter eggs.
Andrew noticed me and, to my relief, waved me over.
When I got to him he turned from the family, who were still examining a tree. “Don’t tell me your tree died already.”
“No, it survived the weekend. But I can’t get to my lights. You have Christmas lights, don’t you?”
“More than you need,” he said. “Let me finish up here and I’ll help you.”
As he went back to the family, I wandered around the lot looking at the trees, hoping that I wouldn’t see one I liked more than the one I had already bought. I was just that way.
Shelby again asked if he could help me. I told him I would wait.
Ten minutes later Andrew found me near the front of the lot. “Thanks again for the coffee the other night.”
“Thanks again for bringing my tree,” I replied.
“My pleasure,” he said. “So, you’ve decided you need lights after all.”
“Mine are buried in my shed. I couldn’t get to them.”
“Do you know what kind you want?”
“Pretty ones.”
He smiled. “I have those. Come with me.” I followed him over to the trailer that he used as an office. We stopped in front of an array of lights. “We’ve got five-millimeter LED lights on green wire, the M-six mini LED lights, the Icicle LED lights, and the C-nine ceramic warm light twinkle bulbs.” He stood pleasantly close to me as he pointed out my different options. He smelled like pine and wood shavings.
“Whatever happened to just lights?” I asked.
“We live in a complicated world,” he said.
“Which would you buy?”
“Do you know what color you want?”
“Something cheerful.”
“Cheerful and pretty.” He grabbed a box of lights. “I would recommend our five-millimeter multicolor LED color-morphing lights.”
“That sounds exciting,” I said.
“Breathtaking,” he replied. “More fun than a Christmas tree owner should have. They’re constantly changing colors, so with one hundred lights per strand, you never have the same tree twice.”
“I’m not sure I could stand that much excitement.”
“I’ll tell you what. Take them home for a spin. If they’re too much of a thrill, bring them back and I’ll refund your money, no questions asked.”
“Really? No questions?”
“Ne’er a one.”
“All right. I’m sold. How many boxes of these miracle lights do I need?”
“The rule of thumb is about a hundred lights for every foot and a half of tree, so yours was six feet, minus the three inches I shorted you, that’s about four hundred lights. Four strands.”
“How much are they?”
“With the friends and family discount,” he said, “just ten dollars a box. They’re usually seventeen.”
“Thank you,” I said, handing him my credit card. “Does that include installation?” The words tumbled out of my mouth.
“No,” he said. “That’s extra.”
“How much this time?”
He smiled, and my heart jumped. “Dinner.”
I smiled back. “Dinner. It’s a deal.”
“Dinner it is.” He ran my card and gave me a slip to sign. “When would you like me to come over?”
If I didn’t want to look too eager, I completely blew it. “Is tonight too soon?”
“Tonight’s good. My schedule is as open as a politician’s mouth.”
I don’t think he had any idea how relevant his simile was to me. “Mine’s pretty open too.”
“I’ve got my other guy back, so I can leave a little early.”
“What’s a little early?”
“Around seven.”
“Seven works. Do you like pasta?”
“I’m a quarter Italian. Pasta is my life force.” He put the boxes of lights into a sack and stepped out of the trailer. “I’ll carry the lights out to your car. They might fit.”
“I don’t know why everyone gives me grief about my car.”
“Because they can.” At the car he said, “Do you want them in the back?”
“The passenger seat is fine.” I opened the door.
He reached over and set the boxes of lights on the seat, then stepped back. “Great. I’ll see you tonight at seven.”
“Great,” I said back. I hesitated, then said, “Friday night was unexpected. I had a really good time talking to you. It’s been a while . . .”
“I was thinking the same thing. I don’t have any friends here, really. Just some employees who would rather be playing video games.”
I wasn’t sure what else to say. “Well, thank you. I’ll see you tonight.” I climbed inside my car and he shut the door.
“Ciao,” he said.
I drove home. It was the happiest I’d felt in months.
Chapter Fifteen
It feels good to be cooking again—figuratively as well as literally.
—Maggie Walther’s Diary
I stopped at the grocery store on the way home and bought everything I needed for dinner, then spent the rest of the afternoon cooking. It felt good to be in the kitchen again. Normalcy. I even made a tiramisu for dessert, one of Marge’s recipes. I finished cooking around five. I took a quick nap, then freshened up and set the table.
Andrew arrived about five minutes before seven, carrying a brown paper bag. I opened the door as he walked up. “Come in.”
“Thank you.”
He stepped inside and pulled the bottle from the sack. “I brought some wine. Antinori Marchese. It’s a Chianti.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I can’t wait to try it.”
“Whatever you’re baking, it smells delicious.”
“It’s mushroom sausage ragù. And arancini di riso.”
“Arancini di riso?”
“Little oranges. They’re deep-fried rice balls full of meat and mozzarella.”
“Shall we do the tree first or eat?”
“Definitely eat,” I said. “I still need to boil the pasta. I wanted it fresh. In the meantime, I have antipasti.”
He followed me back into the kitchen and I offered him a plate of salami, cheeses, and crackers with little pieces of honeycomb. He seemed pleased. “Where did you get this salami?”
“There’s a little Italian deli not far from here. Granato’s.”
“I’ve driven by that,” he said. “I’ve wanted to stop in but haven’t yet. And the honeycomb?”
“The same. The deli owner keeps bees.”
“I kept bees once. Like, ten years ago. I thought it might be therapeutic.”
“Was it?”
“I learned there’s nothing therapeutic about being swarmed by a thousand bees. It’s what nightmares are made of.”
I laughed. “Why did you think it would be therapeutic?”
“I read an article in the New Yorker. Some Madison Avenue executive was extolling the Zen-like experience of beekeeping. I fell for it. One of my employees at the time, Beatrice, had parents who were beekeepers, so she offered to help.”
“Her parents kept bees and they named their daughter Beatrice?”
He nodded. “Unfortunately,” he said. “I was out of town when my bees came in, so I asked my brother to pick them up without telling him what they were. He called me from the store, panicked. ‘You didn’t tell me I was getting bees.’ I said, ‘I know. I figured you might not do it if I told you.’ When he tried to get out of it, I told him to quit being such a baby.”
“So you shamed your brother into picking up your bees,” I said.
“Basically. At least it worked. They came in a little plywood carton about the size of a shoebox. Most of it was screen and you could see the bees in a huge buzzing cluster inside. He was terrified.