He’s also a good man with a good heart.
“Wait here,” he says, getting up and heading up a ladder into the attic. It takes him three trips to bring down all the boxes, setting them down on the floor in front of me. He wipes off a sheen of dust and opens them up to reveal a jumble of tinsel, baubles, candles, and garlands. There are tons of retro holiday figurines—Santas, snowmen, reindeer, gingerbread men, all molded from plastic.
“Damn,” Ivan mutters. “I remember this stuff from when I was a kid. My parents bought most of it back in the eighties.”
The decorations are definitely dated. The strands of tinsel are all different colors; the baubles are mismatched; the garlands are tacky. They’re nothing like the sleek, minimalist decorations I photograph in the background of nearly every Christmas wedding. Nope, these boxes are a messy, unaesthetic explosion of festive joy…and I’m instantly in love.
“This stuff is perfect!” I say. “It makes it feel like a real old-school Christmas. Where should I start?”
I swear Ivan almost smiles. “Go nuts. Put stuff wherever you want. Don’t need to ask.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
I grin at him, my heart swelling with affection as I say, “Thank you, Ivan.”
He shrugs off my thanks. “Get started without me, okay? I just need to do a few things outside.”
“Uh, outside?”
Has he forgotten the raging snowstorm happening out there? Surely he can still hear the wind shrieking all around the cabin…
“Don’t worry,” he says, already heading for the door. “Won’t be long. Want this place looking like the North Pole exploded by the time I get back.”
I can’t help giggling. “You know, that really doesn’t sound like something a Grinch would say. Maybe you’re catching a little holiday spirit?”
Ivan grunts dismissively, but his eyes glimmer as he says, “See you soon, Candy Cane.”
Then he disappears outside into the raging snow.
8
IVAN
The storm hasn’t letup an inch. If anything, it’s even fiercer than before. I can’t stay out here too long—not unless I want to get hypothermia. But there are a couple of things I need to do for Ruby, and not even the searing pain in my leg is going to stop me.
First, I grab my shovel and start digging into the drift around my cabin, clearing as much snow as possible from around the windows. This will be Ruby’s first white Christmas, and I want her to see it. It takes a while to plow through. The snow is packed tight, but eventually, the windows are clear. I scrape out as much as possible from beneath the frames, giving the snow room to pile up without blocking the window again.
My hands are numb when I finish, skin blistering with the cold. I’m used to the snow as a mountain man, but this storm is the worst we’ve had all year. I can feel my beard starting to freeze, my eyelashes sticking together with every blink. But there’s still one thing I need to do.
I grab my axe from the toolshed and head for the trees behind my cabin. I pick a young one—a bushy green fir—marking the trunk with my axe. It’s hard to see where I’m hitting, snow blurring my vision as I start to chop. But musclememory takes over, and soon, the fir topples to the ground. I hoist it up by the trunk, shaking it vigorously before dragging it back toward my cabin.
I can’t believe I’m putting up a Christmas tree this year.
If someone had told me a week ago that I’d be wandering around in a snowstorm just to cut down a damn Christmas tree, I’d have said they were nuts. But I’d do anything to make Ruby happy. Hell, I’d catch hypothermia a thousand times over just to see that pretty smile.
God help me, I’m officially a lost cause.
This girl has got me addicted.
Obsessed.
I never would have guessed that a sweet, upbeat little beauty like Ruby had such a rough start in life. It broke my heart hearing about how she tries extra hard to make Christmas special because it’s such a lonely time for her. She deserves so much better. I want tomorrow to be an awesome day for her, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.
As I drag the fir tree over the threshold and into the living room, I’m hit by a burst of sparkle and color. Ruby hasn’t wasted time. Decorations drape every surface of the living room. Garlands and ornaments line the shelves, tinsel outlines the doorways, and golden lights crisscross the room. Big red bows are tied above the still-shuttered windows, and several candles flicker on the mantelpiece. There’s music playing, Dean Martin crooningBaby It’s Cold Outsidefrom my old radio in the corner.
Ruby is nowhere to be seen, but North is sniffing around the unfamiliar decorations. He bounds toward me when I step inside, then falters, barking at the tree. He doesn’t look impressed.
