“Okay, I have to stop,” she says, placing down a half-eaten piece. “Or I won’t be able to get anything done.”
“Right in the middle of a slice?” I ask.
“Sorry,” she says.
“No problem,” I tell her. “I’ll take care of it.”
She pushes her plate toward me and I knock out the rest of her slice in two bites.
“So, are we organizing books today?” I ask her as she gathers up our plates and napkins.
“I think Meg was really looking forward to helping with that,” she tells me, stopping in the midst of her cleanup. “Would it be okay with you if we did some decorating tonight instead?”
Her caring about what might be important to my daughter hits me right in the heart, and for a second I forget to breathe.
“Yeah,” I say as I recover. “Of course. Actually, I know just what you need in here.”
“What’s that?” she asks.
“A Christmas tree,” I tell her.
Her eyes light up and then she gets this look on her face. I think I know what it means.
She’s on a budget. The whole world is these days, but we’re talking about something I have plenty of, more than enough to share.
“It’s on the house, of course,” I tell her right away.
“Oh, no,” she says quickly. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” I tell her. “And besides, when your customers love it, you can always point them next door.”
“Really?” she asks, looking excited again.
“Absolutely,” I tell her. “Want to pick one out now?”
“Yes,” she says, hopping up and depositing our plates and leftovers on the bookshop counter.
We pull our coats back on and head out into the night.
Buck is talking with a man and woman who are looking at the biggest trees we have, and I’m surprised and happy to see another customer looking around.
“Hey,” the familiar older lady says. “You have such a nice selection this year.”
I’m technically not on duty, but I don’t want to be rude. I glance at Taylor, and she gestures for me to help the customer.
“Thank you for stopping by,” I say. “Aren’t you Tim Chetfield’s mom?”
“Yes,” she says, looking super pleased. “Tim just told me he’s coming back with the wife and kids for the holidays, and I don’t want him to catch me without a real Christmas tree.”
“That’s great,” I tell her, meaning it. “Tim’s a great guy. What’s he up to these days?”
She tells me all about his success in some kind of tech sales that neither one of us really understands while we choose a noble fir for her that should last easily through Tim’s visit.
“Oh, it’s just beautiful,” she sighs as I ring her up. “I should treat myself every year.”
“Why don’t you?” I ask her.
“Oh, it seems like a lot of trouble just for me,” she says. “And then I have to get one of the neighbor kids to help me get it home.”
