Alice smiled. “Sounds lovely. I’ll keep it in mind.”
Her pleasant musings were interrupted when her gaze landed on the troubling sign from earlier: “Grant’s Christmas Tree Farm: Get Your Fresh Tree for Christmas!” In an era of sustainability? It rankled her.
She raised the topic with her server when she came to check on her. “Do you know about Grant's Christmas Tree Farm?”
The server’s eyes lit up. “Oh, Grant's trees are the best! Everyone in town gets theirs from him. Why?”
“It just seems... you know, using real trees for decoration.” Alice hesitated, trying to phrase it without sounding judgmental.
The server tilted her head. “It's a tradition here, and Grant loves his trees. Maybe you could speak to him? Get to know his side?”
Oh, speaking to this Grant wasdefinitelyon her agenda. She smiled at the server and tried to keep her tone light. “Thanks, I might just do that.”
She spent a few more hours exploring, discovering charming nooks and corners of the town. Little stalls sold handmade crafts, and every alley echoed with the joyful laughter of children.
As night fell, Alice returned to the cozy inn. The kindly innkeeper, Betty, welcomed her with a cup of hot cocoa. As Alice curled up by the fireplace, her decision was made. First thing tomorrow, she’d visit Grant’s tree farm. It was high time she met the man behind the trees.
Chapter Two
Grant
The soft rays of morning light pierced through the gaps in the curtain of Grant's cabin. It was the kind of cold, crisp morning where the frost shimmered like a blanket of diamonds spread across the earth. Grant rolled out of bed, his muscles stretching from a good night’s sleep, the familiar weight of the day ahead settling in. But mornings were his favorite – the quiet before the festive rush of families coming to pick out their trees.
He quickly dressed in his flannel shirt, jeans, and worn-out boots and made his way downstairs. As he poured himself a cup of steaming coffee, he took a moment to glance out of the window, his eyes scanning the vast expanse of trees in varying stages of growth. Each one was nurtured, cared for, and treated as a part of the family. The rich aroma of the brew filled his senses, and he took a deep breath, savoring the moment of peace before his day truly began.
Stepping outside, he took in the familiar sight of his farm, rows and rows of evergreen trees standing tall and proud. Grant loved these trees. It wasn’t just a business; it was his way of life, his passion. The wind ruffled his dark hair as he started his routine check, ensuring the trees were in their best shape.
Grant moved with practiced ease between the trees, occasionally pausing to inspect a particularly full one, and ensuring the young ones were growing strong and healthy. He had the special trees to deliver to the town square for the annual carol festival, and he always chose the best for such occasions.
His eyes settled on one particularly beautiful tree, strong and ready to be taken to town, decorated, and admired.
It’s leaning a bit to the left, his inner bear commented critically.
Grant chuckled.It's got character, like you that time you thought you’d go after that beehive.
Funny. Remind me again why I’m stuck with you?his bear retorted.
Grant rolled his eyes as he ran a hand over the tree’s bark. “Pure luck, buddy.”
With a carefully selected batch of trees securely fastened onto his truck, Grant drove down the well-worn path leading to town. Like his bear, he enjoyed his solitude, but he loved being a part of the town’s thriving community.
As he pulled into the town square, Mrs. Thompson, the ever-energetic festival organizer with a perpetual stream of festive scarves, rushed over. Today’s scarf, he noticed, was dotted with tiny snowmen.
“Grant,” she beamed. “Like clockwork, you are! And how do you always manage to find the most splendid trees?”
Grant grinned, lifting a particularly full fir tree from the back. “Trade secret, Mrs. Thompson. If I told you, I'd have to—” He spotted a cluster of children listening in. “—Make you a cup of hot cocoa?”
Mrs. Thompson laughed heartily, her scarf flapping in the gentle wind. “Always the joker. Place them by the stage, won't you?”
As he was working, he was approached by Mr. Jenkins, the town baker, whose beard was almost as full as Grant’s own, with the notable addition of its customary traces of flour. “Grant! I've been trying out a new gingerbread recipe. Thought you'd like to be the guinea pig. Don't worry, no actual pigs were harmed.”
Grant accepted the gingerbread man with a raised eyebrow. “Looks... crunchy.” He took a bite, immediately choking on a hard piece. “Very crunchy. What did you put in here, a brick?”
Mr. Jenkins gasped dramatically. “A secret ingredient! Can't believe you found it on the first try.”
Before Grant could delve deeper into this culinary mystery, the group of kids from the local school surrounded him, their faces lit with excitement. “Mr. Grant, will you help us put the star on the tree this year?” little Susie asked, tugging on his jacket.
“Only if you promise not to use Mr. Jenkins' gingerbread as the base,” he teased, earning giggles from the group. From the looks of them, they were already loaded with sugar and festive excitement, and just about ready to bounce all over town in their jubilation.
