I sat there for a long moment, listening to Kathy’s humming drift in from the hallway as she continued her Christmas decorating. The sound was cheerful and warm, everything that this conversation hadn’t been. Everything that this assignment wasn’t going to be.
I looked down at the map one more time. Somewhere up there, people were going about their lives, probably getting ready for Christmas, completely unaware that a Bancroft was about to show up and turn their world upside down.
The smart thing would be to approach this like any other business deal. Go in, assess the situation, make the offers, close the deal, and get out. Clean and simple. No emotional attachments, no second-guessing, no moral quandaries. Just business.
I folded the map and tucked it into the briefing folder, then stood up and walked over to the window. The snow was coming down harder now, coating the estate grounds in a blanket of white that would probably be beautiful if I was in the mood to appreciate natural beauty.
From down the hall, I could hear Kathy laughing at something one of the staff members had said. The sound mademe think about what it would be like to spend Christmas in a place like Northwood. Probably all small-town charm and community spirit and people who actually knew each other’s names.
Well, they were about to get a rude awakening.
I grabbed my coat from the back of the chair and headed for the door. I had packing to do and a flight to catch in the morning. And somewhere in upstate New York, there was a struggling little town that was about to meet Kent Bancroft.
Buckle up, Northwood. The Grinch was coming to buy all their shit, whether they wanted to sell it or not. Because Bancrofts didn’t take no for an answer.
CHAPTER 3
SYLVIE
The old pickup truck rumbled down the farm road like a dying dinosaur. Every pothole sent vibrations through the cab that rattled my teeth and made me grateful I’d strapped my coffee mug into the cupholder.
Brom looked all cool and casual with one hand on the wheel and his old Stanley in the other. And I meant old Stanley. Not the trendy kind with a straw. The thermos had to be at least thirty years old. It was dented and ugly as hell but it was a thing in the family.
“This is it,” I said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice despite the nervous butterflies doing aerial acrobatics in my stomach. “Opening day. The first day of Christmas season.”
Brom glanced over at me. I could see the same mixture of hope and worry in his eyes that I felt churning in my chest. “Remember when we were kids and Dad would let us ride down here to open the gate?”
I smiled at the memory. “We’d be so excited we could barely contain ourselves. And there would be this line of cars…”
“All the way down the road,” Brom finished, his voice soft with nostalgia. “People would start lining up at dawn just to make sure they got the perfect tree.”
Those had been magical times. I could still remember the thrill of hopping out of Dad’s truck and running ahead to unlock the big wooden gate that marked the entrance to our Christmas tree farm. The anticipation in the air had been electric. There would be families bundled up in winter coats, kids pressing their faces against car windows, everyone chattering excitedly about finding their perfect Fraser fir or Douglas fir or Noble fir.
The truck hit another pothole, this one deep enough that I was pretty sure we temporarily went airborne. I winced as something in the engine made a sound that gave some cause for concern.
“Damn road’s falling apart,” Brom muttered, wrestling with the steering wheel. “I need to get these holes fixed before someone breaks an axle.”
With what money?I thought but kept the words to myself. We both knew the answer to that question, and it wasn’t a cheerful one.
As we rounded the final bend, the gate came into view, and my heart did a little skip when I saw the cars waiting there. Not as many as there used to be—not even close—but cars, nonetheless. I counted quickly under my breath.
Six. Six cars waiting for us to open.
Fifteen years ago, there would have been fifty cars lined up by now, maybe more. The farm road would have been packed bumper to bumper with families eager to start their Christmas traditions. Now we had six.
But six was better than zero, I reminded myself firmly. Six families who still believed in the magic of choosing their own tree, who still wanted to create memories instead of just grabbing an artificial tree from the nearest big box store.
“Six isn’t bad,” Brom said, as if reading my thoughts. “It’s early yet. More will come.”
I nodded, clinging to his optimism even though we both knew that opening day numbers were usually a pretty good indicator of how the rest of the season would go. Still, there was no point in shouldering tomorrow’s troubles today. We had work to do.
Brom pulled the truck to a stop near the gate. I hopped out and hurried over to the heavy wooden gate that had marked the entrance to our farm for as long as I had been alive.
“Ready?” I called to Brom as he climbed out of the truck, his work boots crunching on the gravel.
“Let’s do this thing,” he replied, grabbing his end of the gate.
Together, we swung it wide open. The hinges creaked in the cold air. Immediately, the waiting cars began to move forward, and I waved them through with as much Christmas cheer as I could muster.
