There was an aluminum-sided trailer parked near the lot’s entrance with various-sized wreaths hanging from pegs on the front of it, all marked with price tags.
Music was playing from a PA system, but it wasn’t Christmas music. It was seventies rock. “Take the Long Way Home” by Supertramp. Who still listens to Supertramp?
Business seemed light (who shops for a Christmas tree at three in the afternoon?), and there were only a few cars parked outside the fence.
I walked through the front entrance into the makeshift forest. There were four other customers inside the fenced area, an elderly couple and an older man with what was likely his grandson. A young, skinny man wearing a denim jacket over a hoodie passed by me dragging a tree toward the entrance. He was followed by the elderly couple.
“Can I help you with something?” he asked as he walked by.
“I’m looking for a tree,” I said.
“Be right with you.”
“I’ve got it, Shelby,” another voice said.
I turned to see an attractive man walking toward me. He looked to be about my age, early thirties, with striking brown eyes beneath thick eyebrows. His hair was dark brown, short but combed back, half-hidden beneath a wool cap. His face was covered with a partial beard, kind of an extended goatee, though along his jawline it was not more than stubble, as if it had either just started to grow or he was trying to look like Hugh Jackman.
I had never seen Clive with facial hair. I’m not even sure he could grow a beard. Once when I’d suggested he attempt to grow one, he said, “No one trusts a politician with a beard.” When I countered that Lincoln had had a beard, he replied, “Yeah, and look how that turned out.”
Frankly, when it comes to facial hair and politicians, it’s the mustache that should be feared. Stalin and Hitler had particularly memorable lip hair.
He smiled as he approached me. “Hi, I’m Andrew. May I help you?”
I felt butterflies. “Hi. I’m . . . I need a tree.”
“I suspected that,” he said with a half smile. “Not that I’m psychic.”
I felt stupid. “I guess most people coming here want a tree.”
“Unless they’re lost,” he said. “What kind of tree are you looking for?”
“Kind?”
“Most people have a favorite. It’s usually what they grew up with. Norway spruce, Nordmann fir, blue spruce, Fraser fir, Douglas fir, lodgepole pine . . .”
The names were lost on me. I pointed to the one closest to me. “What kind of tree is that?”
“That’s a Fraser fir.”
“Is it good?”
“All the trees I sell are good.”
“I mean, are some better than others?”
“That depends on what you’re looking for. Like, do you want a tree with a nice smell or something that’s a little lower-maintenance?”
“Lower-maintenance is good. I don’t need anything dying on me,” I added. “Enough has died in my life this year.”
He looked at me empathetically and said, “Low maintenance. Then we’ll stay away from this one.” He stepped away from a nearly perfectly cone-shaped tree.
“But I liked that one,” I said.
“You won’t after you get it home. That’s a Norway spruce. It’s a pretty tree, but it has sharp needles, which it loses fairly fast. Unless you like vacuuming every day, but you said you wanted low maintenance.”
“Definitely low maintenance,” I said.
“How tall a tree were you thinking?”
“Just regular.”
His brow fell. “Regular. How high is your ceiling?”
“I don’t know. Normal.”
He grinned lightly. “Regular and normal. Is your ceiling eight or nine feet?”
“I really don’t know.”
“What year was your house built?”
“What does that have to do with my tree?”
“Before 1995 most ceilings were eight feet. In the next decade, they changed to nine. Is it a new home?”
“It’s an older house. I think it was built in the seventies.”
“The golden years. So, you need a six-foot tree. You want to allow room for a star.”
“I don’t have a star.”
“Or whatever. Not everyone puts a star on top of their tree. I’ve seen spires, cones, snowflakes. I’ve even seen a Death Star.”
“I was just thinking how much I wanted a Death Star on my tree,” I said sardonically.
“I might have a Yoda topper. Put me on a tree, you will.”
I grimaced. “Was that your Yoda imitation?”
“Sadly,” he replied.
“I want a tree that’s sturdy,” I said. “And cute. Not one of those asymmetrical ones. Something well-rounded.”
“Cute, sturdy, six foot, and well-rounded. You’re still describing a tree here?”
“Yes.” I smiled, a surprising blush creeping down my neck. I pointed at a tree. “How about that one?”
He walked over to it. “This would be a good choice for you. It’s a balsam fir. It’s a classic tree with a nice scent and it doesn’t lose its needles as fast as some of the others. Its only downside is that it’s not great for heavy ornaments because its branches aren’t real thick.”
“I don’t have heavy ornaments. How much is it?”
He pulled out a tape measure and measured the tree. “They’re nine dollars a foot, so this is fifty-four dollars. I’ll make it fifty even.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll take it.”
He reached in to the tree’s trunk and lifted it. I followed him as he carried my tree to a long worktable surrounded by piles of sawdust.
“I’m going to give it a fresh cut. That will help it live longer.”
“I could use a fresh cut,” I said beneath my breath. He furtively glanced over at me, then placed the tree up on the table with the tree’s trunk hanging over the side. He donned plastic safety glasses, then fired up a chainsaw, its squeal drowning out all other sound. Cutting trees was something my father was always doing. I tried to imagine Clive holding a chainsaw, but I couldn’t. His hands were too soft.
Andrew cut off the bottom three inches of the tree, then killed the chainsaw engine and brought the tree over to me. “She’s ready to go.”
“The tree is three inches shorter now,” I observed.
“Yes?”
“That’s like two dollars’ worth of tree.” I was only joking, but he didn’t catch it.
“I’ll make it forty-five,” he said. “Do you need anything to go with it?”
“Like what?”
“Do you have a tree stand?”
“I think so. It’s probably in our shed. If I can find it. I’m not sure where my husband—my ex-husband kept it.”
He nodded calmly. “Well, you’ll need one. If you want, I can get you one, then you can bring it back when you find yours.”
“That works.”
“What kind would you like?”
“Just pick one for me.”
From the side of the trailer he lifted a large green stand that looked like an impaled plastic pail with aluminum pole legs. “I like these; they’re big, but they hold a lot of water, so you can water every few days and not worry about it drying out. Do you need lights?”
“No. We’ve got a million of them. I mean, I do. Now.” I sounded stupid.
“All right.” He added up the amount on a tablet. “That will be fifty-five dollars with your discount. With tax, that’s fifty-eight forty-three. The stand was ten.”
“Thank you, but you don’t really have to give me the discount. I was just kidding.”
“It’s done,” he said. I pulled out my wallet and handed him my credit card. He ran it through a card reader, then handed me the iPad. “If you’ll autograph that. You can use your finger to sign.”
I signed it and handed it back.
“Thank you,” he said. “You’re parked out front?”
“Just outside your gate.”