“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?”
Marigold was overwhelmed by a familiar sense of fear and humiliation. How could she have let him up here? How could she have spent money on something that they’d have to throw out next week? Something that couldn’t even fit into their apartment? Her mother would be furious. Marigold’s heart raced. “I—I don’t know. I was going to put it in front of the sliding-glass door. Like all the others in the building.”
North craned his neck across the threshold. “The balcony door? The one straight ahead? The one behind that china cabinet?”
“Yeah. Maybe?”
“You’re insane. Why would you buy a Christmas tree?”
“Because you’re extremely persuasive!”
North whipped around to stare at her. For a moment, his expression was unreadable. And then … he smiled. It was warm—unexpectedly warm—and it made Marigold feel the teensiest bit calmer.
“So what are you gonna do?” he asked.
“I guess … shift some of this around?” Her expression was as doubtful as her question. After all, she and her mother hadn’t touched anything since they’d moved in.
North took a tentative step inside the apartment. As he scratched the back of his head, Marigold’s chest sunk. She shouldn’t be embarrassed—They had a reason for this, damn it. This was all temporary, damn it—but she was.
“This is madness,” he said. “There’s no way it’s safe.”
“We’ve been here for a year, and nothing has fallen on us yet.”
“You’ve lived in this pit of death for a year?” He slunk into its depths. The pathway led to the most basic and primal living areas—kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms. “I’m sorry, I can’t let you bring my tree in here,” he called out from around the corner. “It would die before Christmas. And that’s only five days away.”
“Doesn’t matter. My tree only has to live until tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow? The day the demolition crew arrives?”
“It’s Yule. The winter solstice.”
North’s head popped out from behind a wobbly stack of dining room chairs. “Are you a witch?”
Marigold burst into a surprised laugh.
“Wiccan, I mean? A Wiccan witch?” he asked.
“No.”
“Pagan? Some kind of … neopagan?”
Marigold shook her head.
“A druid? I don’t know, who celebrates the solstice?”
“Anyone can celebrate it.” She followed him farther inside. “It’s an astronomical phenomenon. Science. The winter solstice is the shortest day of the year.”
“So you and your mother are … scientists.”
Marigold grinned. “No. My mom’s definitely a pagan.”
“And here I am, asking again: why, exactly, did you buy a Christmas tree?”
“Because I like them. My dad”—Marigold stopped herself before continuing uneasily—“He celebrated Christmas. My mom didn’t, but she agreed to make them a part of our tradition, because they’re nice. And nature-y. And, besides, the Christians probably wouldn’t even have them if it weren’t for the pagans who celebrated Yule. Evergreens were their thing first.”
She expected him to call her out on being so defensive—Marigold was always getting defensive—but the lines in his forehead softened. “And where’s your dad now?” he asked.
Dead. He was expecting her to say dead.
“In Charlotte,” she said.
“Oh.” North looked relieved, but only momentarily. “Divorce?”
“They were never married.”
“Siblings?”
“I’m an only child.”
“And where’s your mom?”
Marigold had thought she’d made this clear. “She lives here, of course.”
“I meant, where is she now?”
She felt embarrassed again, which was followed quickly by frustration. “Work. She works a night shift.” But as soon as the words left her mouth, Marigold was horrified. She’d just told a stranger that they were alone. How could she be so stupid?
But North only seemed irritated. “So there’s no one here to help us. Fantastic.”
“Excuse me?”
He slid out a turquoise Moroccan end table from the top of a furniture tower as carefully as if he were playing a game of Jenga. “You’ll have to back up now.”
Marigold’s frustration was growing at a colossal rate. “Sorry?”
“This can all be reorganized, but I’ll need a lot more space to work. Everything in these front rooms”—North gestured his head from side to side—“needs to be moved out there.” He jerked his head toward the outside hall. “You’re in my way.” And then he pushed forward, backing her out of her own apartment with her own Moroccan end table.
Marigold was gobsmacked. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you.” He set down the table beside her Christmas tree. “Obviously.”
“Don’t you have to get back to work?”
“I do. Which is why you’re going to keep doing this while I’m gone. One item at a time, okay?” He nodded, answering his own question. “Okay. I’ll be back when my shift is over.”
* * *
Marigold didn’t understand how he’d talked her into this. For the last two hours, she’d been carrying dusty chairs and dirty cardboard boxes and trash bags filled with linens and laundry baskets filled with tchotchkes into the outside hallway. Ms. Agrippa had yelled at her three times.