My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(39)

She flinched. She’d walked right into that one. “I’m sorry.”

His voice flattened. “I used to. It took a concentrated effort to stop.”

They crossed into her apartment complex, and she re-pointed out her building. North groaned. “Right,” he said. “Of course it’s the one in the back.”

“So why’d you stop?” she asked, nudging a return to topic.

“Because city folk keep a-callin’ it ‘the boonies’ and makin’ assumptions about mah intelligence.”

This was not going well.

North thunked down the tree at the bottom of her stairs. He let out a singular, exhausted breath. “You. Help.” He leaned the tree on its side. “Take that end.”

She lunged forward to grab ahold of its top half. With their significant differences in height and strength, it took several uncomfortable steps to get their rhythm down. “Of course you live in the back building,” he said. “Of course you live on the top floor.”

“Of course you’re going to make me”—Marigold grunted—“regret your help forever.”

They navigated awkwardly around the small U-shaped landing between the first and second floors. “Can’t you move a little faster?” he asked.

“Can’t you be a little nicer?”

He laughed. “Seriously, you’re like a sea cucumber. Which I assume are slow, because they’re named after a vegetable. Which don’t move at all.”

They reached the second floor, and Marigold almost dropped her end. North kept moving. “Sorry,” she said, scuttling to keep up. “It’s hard to get a good grip.”

“It’s a tree. Trees have great grip. Their whole body is made for gripping.”

“Well, maybe I could get a decent grip if you weren’t pulling so hard.”

“Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to pull so hard if you could carry your fair share of the weight.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.” Marigold slammed her elbow against the railing on the next stairway landing. “Ow.”

North shot forward, wrenching the tree completely from her hands. “AHHHHH!” He yelled like a gladiator as he ran full throttle up the last flight of stairs. He dropped the tree on the third floor, and it skidded forward several feet.

“What the hell was that?” Marigold shouted.

North grinned. “Went a lot faster, didn’t it?”

“You nearly took off my fingers.”

“Looks like I didn’t need your help after all. Because you weren’t any. Help, that is. You weren’t any help.”

“I didn’t even want a tree.” Marigold glared at him. Forget it, enough. The voice work was out. “You talked me into this. This is your fault.”

“Then next time, pick someplace else to loiter.”

She heaved the tree into a standing position and shuffled it toward her door. “I wasn’t loitering.”

“What’s going on out here?” a sandpapery voice called from below.

Marigold cringed. “Sorry, Ms. Agrippa!”

“I knew it was you! I knew you were up to something!”

North raised one eyebrow.

Marigold leaned the tree against the wall beside her door, shaking her head. “I’m just bringing home a Christmas tree, Ms. Agrippa. Sorry for shouting.”

“You’re not putting it on your balcony, are you? I don’t want it dropping down needles onto mine. I don’t want to have to clean up your filthy mess.”

Both of North’s eyebrows rose.

Marigold dug through her purse for her key. “It’s going inside, Ms. Agrippa. Like all normal Christmas trees,” she added under her breath. The door below slammed shut.

“She’s a peach,” North said.

Marigold was done with this whole irritating escapade. Finished. The end. “Well, thank you. I appreciate you carrying this home for me, but I’ve got it from here.” She opened her door and turned on the light. “Good night.”

But North wasn’t looking at her. He stared past her with widened eyes. “And how, exactly, do you plan on carrying a tree into that?”

*

Furniture and bags and boxes were stacked to the ceiling. Literally to the ceiling. Even with the overhead fixtures turned on, the apartment was still dark. The towering, shadowy objects blocked most of the light. And there was only one pathway through it, straight ahead, barely wider than a person.

“You’re a hoarder.” North’s voice was amazed and incredulous.

“I’m not a hoarder. And neither is my mom.”

“Then what’s with all the hoarding, hoarder?”

Marigold’s chest tightened like a Victorian corset. “It’s a temporary situation. We’re … between houses.”

“Why isn’t this stuff in storage?”

“Because storage costs money, and we’re saving it for the new house.”

North didn’t have a comeback for that one. An abashed expression crossed his face, but it disappeared quickly. Purposefully. Maybe he understood. “So … where am I supposed to put the tree?”

“I told you. I’ve got it from here.”

“Clearly you don’t. It can’t even fit through there.” He gestured at the narrow pathway. “And where’s your end game? Where do you plan on putting it?”