“Candy cane!” he cheers.
I glance in the backseat. “He seems to be in good spirits.”
“You know what they say about kids and resilience.” She shrugs and takes a sip of her coffee. “You’ll bounce back, too. There’s a lot of resilience between you three.”
I shrug my shoulders, unsure of what to say. We’ve been closed to the public for the last two years, which I know my father would’ve hated. But he’s not here to tell me different.
I’ve spent that time walking around with a hole inside me, unsure of who I am without them here. I haven’t known how to move forward, how to be normal, while grieving and feeling guilty that life continues to move on without them.
“Still, Aiden. I’m so glad you’re reopening. The whole town is.”
“People need trees, right?”
“It’s more than that.” She gives me a motherly stare, and I can’t say I like it. It reminds me ofmymother, but with a touchof pity. “People need Christmas. This farm is so much more than trees. You know that, don’t you? Being here is magical. You bring families joy. Hope.”
Olivia almost feels like a spokesperson for Storywood Ridge. Like she’s got faith that the version of me who loved Christmas will return, and the curse that’s kept this farm dark for the last couple of years will shatter.
But I don’t know how to be that person. Just like I don’t know how to break this curse. I’m going through the motions, but it feels hollow, and the farm seems to notice.
“Thank you,” I mumble, my voice threatening to betray my emotions.
As a third-generation farmer, I know how important my job is from an agricultural standpoint. I just haven’t been able to see through the grief to care.
As far as from a magical standpoint? Well, the people who taught me everything I know aren’t here to teach me anymore. If there’s any magic left in this place, it’s trapped in old memories and the way the lights still manage to twinkle on the house at dusk, even when the timer hasn’t been set in years.
“Just know we’re all going to be here opening weekend with bells on.”
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Appreciate it, Olivia. Thanks for bringing Evelyn her goods.”
“Have her call me if she needs more?”
“Sure thing.”
With a small wave, she heads down the long drive of the farm.
No pressure.
“Fake it till you make it, right?” I ask no one in particular. There are critters in the barn, despite all the traps Owen and I have set to catch them. I’m having to chase vendors—my fault,but still frustrating—to get deliveries back out here again. Evelyn is focused on everything but the trees.
Should I tell them about the mess we’re in? Probably.
For now, I just hope we can deliver on all that hope and joy Olivia is expecting. Even with jumping back into selling trees, the season feels far from magical. Something is missing, and it’s not just my parents.
Maybe I can sweet-talk Mrs. Johnson into borrowing her runaway cow.
Do they make Santa hats big enough for cows? If I can’t conjure up Christmas cheer the old-fashioned way, maybe a decked-out cow wandering the rows is the closest thing we’ll get to a miracle around here.
Hoping Evelyn followed through on the new pot of coffee, I head inside for a refill. My first cup is long gone, and I need another push to get through the rest of the morning. My to-do list is never-ending, and I’ve got to pull double time for a bit now to get back on track for the day.
“Is Jack okay?” she asks from the kitchen table, where she’s taking inventory of her craft supplies as I shove open the door.
“Happy as a clam.” On a mission, I yank open the cabinet and grab an oversized mug that says, ‘Dear Santa, Sorry for what I said before I had coffee.’ My dad bought it for me several years back as a joke gift, and for some reason, the sting is marginally less as I stare at it.
I can almost laugh about it.
Almost.
