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.
Shit.
They realized it at the same time.
“You don’t have a car,” he said.
“No.”
“You walked here.”
“Yes.”
They stared at each other for a moment.
“It’s okay,” Marigold said. How could she have forgotten that she’d have to get the stupid tree home? “I can carry it.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s okay. That’s my place. Right there.” Marigold pointed at the only black window in the neighboring apartment complex. All of the others featured prominently displayed trees or menorahs. Every balcony had strings of lights wrapped around their railings or large illuminated candy canes or plug-in signs blinking Merry Christmas.
“That’s yours?” he asked. “The dark one on top?”
“Yep.”
“I’ve been staring at that apartment for weeks. It’s a real downer.”
“You should see the inside,” Marigold joked. Because no one saw the inside of her apartment.
“I guess I’ll have to.”
“What?” Marigold was alarmed. “Why?”
“You wouldn’t even make it halfway. This tree is heavy. Unwieldy.” To demonstrate, he shifted the tree in his grip and grunted. The whole tree shook. But Marigold was enthralled by the way he said the word unwieldy. A fantasy flashed through her mind in which he dictated an endless list of juicy-sounding words.
Innocuous. Sousaphone. Crepuscular.
Marigold snapped back into the present. She hated feeling helpless, but she did need this boy’s help—and now she needed it in two ways. She dug her arms between the branches and grabbed the trunk, wrestling it toward herself. Hoping he’d wrestle it back. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve got it.”
“Let go.”
“Seriously, I’m stronger than I look.”
“Let!” He tugged it, hard. “Go!”
Marigold let go. She pretended to look put out.
“Sorry,” he said, after a moment. He actually did look sorry. “But it’ll go faster without you dragging it down.”
Marigold kept her hands surrendered in the air. “If you say so.”
“I’m a lot taller than you. The balance, it’d be uneven,” he explained. She shrugged as he called out to his mother, “I’ll be back in fifteen!”
His mother’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “You’re taking your break?”
“I’m helping a customer.”
“You’re taking your break?” she asked again.
He sighed. “Yeah, Mom.”
Marigold trotted behind him as he struggled out of the lot. She felt like an idiot. She also felt a strong surge of guilt. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t.”
There was a gust of freezing wind, and Marigold pushed up her knitted scarf with one hand and held down her woolen skirt with the other. She was glad she was wearing her thickest tights. “Thank you,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”