“Welcome to Northwood Christmas Tree Farm!” I called out to the first car, a minivan packed with what looked like three generations of family members. “Merry Christmas!”
The driver, a woman about my age with tired but happy eyes, rolled down her window and smiled. “Thank you! We’ve been coming here for years. Wouldn’t think of getting our tree anywhere else.”
That comment sent a warm glow through my chest. These were our people, the families who understood what we were all about, who valued tradition and connection over convenience.
Normally, I would have been directing all these vehicles to designated parking spots scattered throughout the farm property, making sure nobody got boxed in and everyone had clear access to load their chosen trees onto their cars. We had a whole system worked out, with numbered spots and traffic flow patterns that kept everything moving smoothly even when we were packed to capacity.
Now, with only six cars, parking was significantly less complicated.
I followed the small convoy up toward the main area of the tree farm, where rows upon rows of evergreens stretched out across the rolling hills. The trees stood like green soldiers at attention, their branches heavy with snow from last night’s dusting. Even with all my worries about the business, I couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride at the sight. Whatever else was happening, we still grew some of the most beautiful Christmas trees in the state.
I might have been a little biased.
A couple of kids from the first car immediately took off running through the trees the moment their parents let them out, their delighted shrieks echoing across the property. Their joy was infectious. I found myself grinning as I watched them dart between the Fraser firs, probably trying to find the tallest tree in the entire lot.
I made my way up to the small, heated structure that served as our payment booth and customer service center. It wasn’t much to look at, basically a glorified shed with a space heater, a cash register, and a coffee pot that had seen better days. It worked, though, and it had done so for decades. It was warm and functional, which was about all we could afford these days.
“Morning, boss lady,” came a cheerful voice from behind me. I turned to see Ozzo loping up the hill with his characteristic easy grin.
Ozzo was our part-time employee, a twenty-year-old local kid who was built like a linebacker and had roughly the same intellectual capacity as a golden retriever. What he lacked in brains, though, he made up for in enthusiasm and pure physical strength. And he was an absolute sweetheart. The epitome of a gentle giant. When it came to wrestling eight-foot Fraser firs onto the tops of cars, Ozzo was worth his weight in gold.
“Hey, Ozzo,” I said, unlocking the booth and flipping on the lights. “Ready for opening day?”
“Yep!”
I spent the next hour helping our early customers select their trees, walking through the rows with families as they debated the merits of different varieties and sizes. A Noble fir versus a Fraser fir. Seven feet versus eight feet. Full and bushy versus more open branching for larger ornaments.
These were the conversations I lived for, the moments when I could share my knowledge and passion for these trees that had been my life’s work. Each family had their own traditions and their own requirements. And all of them had their own vision of what their perfect Christmas tree should look like.
The elderly couple from the second car wanted something smaller and easier to handle, so I showed them some beautiful five-foot Douglas firs that would fit perfectly in their living room. The family with the running kids needed something tall and dramatic, so we walked through the eight and nine-foot Fraser firs until they found one that made all three children gasp with delight.
Ozzo was in his element, hoisting trees onto his shoulder like they weighed nothing and helping customers secure them to their cars with an efficiency that never failed to impress me. He might not be the sharpest axe in the shed, but when it came to Christmas tree logistics, the guy was a pro.
I was helping a young couple choose between two nearly identical Noble firs when movement caught my eye at the entrance to the farm. Another car was coming up the road, but this one was different from our usual clientele.
For one thing, it wasn’t a truck, SUV, or minivan. Those were the practical vehicles that most people drove when they planned to haul home a Christmas tree. This was a sleek, glossy black sedan that looked like it had just rolled off a luxury car lot.The kind of car that probably cost more than most people in Northwood made in a year.
“That’s not exactly tree-hauling transportation,” I murmured to myself.
The sedan navigated carefully around the potholes that had been giving Brom’s truck such trouble. Then it pulled into the makeshift parking area and came to a stop. The driver’s door opened, and a man stepped out.
I audibly gasped. Who on God’s green earth wasthat?
The man was tall—probably six-two or six-three—with dark hair and the kind of sharp, angular features that belonged on magazine covers or movie screens. He was dressed like he’d stepped out of some high-end fashion catalog. I wasn’t even aware men actually dressed like that. He had on a long charcoal peacoat, perfectly tailored slacks, and shiny dress shoes so polished they reflected the sun. The dark sunglasses seemed like they were designer, but I couldn’t say for certain.
He stood next to his car for a moment, looking around the tree farm with an expression I couldn’t quite read. Not exactly disapproval, but definitelyassessment. Like he was cataloguing everything he saw and finding it somehow lacking.
“Close your fly trap, Northwood,” Ozzo said in an amused voice right next to my ear.
I realized I’d been standing there staring with my mouth hanging open like I’d never seen an attractive man before in my life.
I had, but none like him. He was legit billboard worthy.
Why in the world was he at our tree farm? There was getting lost and then there was getting lost. He would have had to take a lot of wrong turns to end up here.
“Shut up,” I muttered to Ozzo, snapping my mouth closed and giving him a shove that barely budged his solid frame. “I was just… he doesn’t look like our usual customers.”
“Uh huh,” Ozzo said, his grin widening. “Want me to go help him, or are you gonna keep staring at him like he’s the last piece of chocolate cake?”
