The Donnellys’ setup is small but charming—half a dozen bundled trees propped in neat rows, a folding table, a hand-painted sign that reads FRESH CUT TREES: 20% OFF IF YOU PROMISE TO WATER THEM.
Natalie gasps like someone just revealed the gates of Narnia.
“Oh my god, look at them,” she whispers. “Calder, look at them. Look at the branches. Look at the symmetry. Look at the fullness. I’m fainting.”
“You’re not fainting.”
“I might.”
She marches toward the nearest spruce, eyeing it critically. “This one is close but not perfect. The top leader is crooked.”
Then she circles another. “This one has great density, but the trunk leans like it’s been emotionally burdened since childhood.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Trees don’t have childhood trauma.”
“They absolutely do.”
She moves to the third tree. Studies it. Walks around it. Squints at it like she’s interrogating a suspect on a cop show.
“No,” she declares. “This one has weak self-esteem.”
“Trees can’t?—”
She holds up a finger. “Shhh. I’m vibing.”
I stare at her. “You’re vibing with an evergreen.”
“Multiple evergreens.”
“Unbelievable.”
“You better believe it, Mister.”
She approaches a fourth tree—tall, symmetrical, strong branches, dark needles. She stops.
Stares. Does one slow circle.
Then she turns to me with a determined nod. “This one.”
I walk over and give it a practical once-over. Straight trunk. Even shape. Minimal needle shedding. Solid height for the cabin’s ceiling.
“It’s good,” I admit.
“It’s perfect.”
“Are you sure?”
She nods so fervently I think she might take flight.
“Okay,” I say, grabbing the trunk with one hand. “We’ll take it.”
“YES.” She pumps a fist into the air. “Victory!”
The Donnelly kid running the stand startles. “Uh—great! I’ll get twine.”
Natalie glances at me. “You’re really doing this.”
“You said it was perfect.”
