My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(37)

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But did you or did you not ask me for the Peanuts special?”

A thrill went through her, hearing his voice again at such a close range. Superior and aloof, but definitely with that paradoxical underpinning of friendly amusement. It probably allowed him to get away with saying all sorts of rude things.

Marigold could play this game.

“Charlie Brown’s tree was pathetic,” she said, “but it was almost as tall as he was.”

“Yeah. And he was short.”

Marigold couldn’t help cracking a smile. “How about something taller … but with a large, unsightly, unsalable hole? Do you have anything like that?”

The boy’s eyes twinkled. “All of our trees are salable.”

“Surely you have at least one ugly tree.”

He spread out his arms. “Do you see any ugly trees?”

“No. That’s why I’m asking you where they are.”

The boy grinned—a slow, foxlike grin—and Marigold sensed that he was pleased to be verbally caught. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe we have something over here. Maybe.”

He strode back into the trees and led her down the row beside the chain-link fence. They stopped before a tree that was shorter than him but taller than her. Exactly in between. “This one’s been sitting on the lot for a few days. It has a sizable hole down here”—he picked it up and turned it, so its backside now faced forward—“and then this other one up here. But you could put them against a wall—”

“Like you guys did?”

He gave her another mischievous smile. “And it would still look full to anyone inside your home.”

A boisterous, chatty family wandered the row beside them—a mother, a father, and a young girl. The girl pointed at the tallest tree on the lot. It towered above everything else, a twenty-footer, at least. “Can we get that one?” she asked.

Her parents laughed. “We’d need a much bigger living room,” her mom said.

“Do people own living rooms that big?”

“Some people,” her dad said.

“When I grow up, I’m gonna have one that big, so I can buy the tallest tree here every year.”

The words pierced through the air to stab Marigold in the heart. Memories of her own childhood here—of that exact same proclamation to her father—flooded her system. Last year had been the first year that her family hadn’t purchased a tree. Melancholia blossomed into longing as Marigold realized … she wanted one. Desperately. She touched the tall Charlie Brown, letting her fingers fan down its boughs.

“I do like it.…” She turned over the paper card attached to the tree and winced.

“Oh, that’s the old price,” the boy said. “I could knock off ten bucks.”

It still cost way more than her mother would be happy for her to spend. “I’d take it for half price,” she said.

“For a tree this size? You’re crazy.”

“You said it’s been sitting here, unwanted, for several days.”

“I said a few days. Not several.”

She stared at him.

“Fine. I’ll knock off fifteen.”

“Half price.” And when he looked exasperated, she added, “Listen, that’s all I can give you.”

The boy considered this. Considered her. The intensity of his gaze made it a struggle to keep her eyes on his, but she refused to relent. She had the distinct feeling that she was about to get the discount.

“Deal,” he finally grumbled. But with a sense of enjoyment.

“Thank you,” Marigold said, meaning it, as he hefted away her tree.

“I’ll freshen the trunk while you pay.” And then he called out, “Mom! Fifty percent off this orange tag!”

So he was a Drummond.

His mother—a woman with a cheerful face that, regrettably, somewhat resembled a russet potato—sat inside the wooden shack. She looked up from a paperback romance, eyebrows raised high. “Ah,” she said, at Marigold’s approach. “It all makes sense again.”

“Sorry?” Marigold said. A chain saw sputtered to life nearby.

The woman winked. “It’s rare to get a discount outta my son.”

It took her a moment—Marigold was distracted by that pressing question she had yet to ask—but as the woman’s meaning sunk in, the heat rose in Marigold’s cheeks.

“Our customers usually leave with more tree than anticipated.” The woman’s voice was pleasant but normal, though rural in a way that her son’s was not.

“Oh, I wasn’t even going to buy a tree,” Marigold said quickly. “So this is definitely still more.”

The woman smiled. “Is that so?”

“He’s a good salesman.” Marigold wasn’t sure why she felt compelled to protect the boy’s reputation with his mother. Maybe because she was about to ask him a favor. She paid for the tree in cash, eager to escape this conversation while dreading the one that still lay ahead. Her stomach squirmed as if it were filled with tentacles.

She glanced at her phone. It was almost eight o’clock.

The chain saw stopped, and a moment later, the boy headed toward her with the tree nestled in his arms. She was going to have to ask him. She was going to have to ask him right— “Which one is your car?” he asked.