Page 25 of A Merry Mountain Christmas

“They’re not all idiots,” she says, looking away, and her words strum something in my chest.

“Oh? Which of them has caught your attention?”

I’m not sure why I’m asking something I don’t want her to answer, only I’ve never been smart when it comes to this sort of thing. It’s like I was born with my romance button broken, or so my sisters tell me. Like there was only so much of it to go aroundbetween us Mayberry siblings, and my portion was the romance equivalent of a few grains of salt.

“I don’t want to talk about the guys,” she says. “Why do you spend so much time on set if you think the show is stupid?”

There’s an awareness in me—of her, her head tipped toward me, those big eyes soaking me in from behind their dark shields like I’m her Prince Charming—but I muffle it. Because I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be looking at me like that if she knew I’m the cause of all the little accidents and mishaps that have been happening on set. The inconveniences that have caused the guys to grumble. Turning her orange, however temporarily. So I look away.

“She’s my grandmother, Kennedy.” I take another strike at the trunk, savoring the burn of my muscles, because this, at least, is something I can do.

“So you’re loyal to her?” she asks in a quiet voice.

“No, I’m loyal to my sisters. If she weren’t calling me, she’d be calling them, and she’s already fucked up their lives. She doesn’t get to me.” I pause, swallowing, and examine the trunk. “Besides, even though she’s a battle axe, she’s a little old lady. It’s our job to take care of her, or at least to make sure she’s eating and taking her medication. When our mother walked out on us, she left us with our grandmother. Nana wasn’t the kind of woman who’d give us band aids and make it all better, but she did at least keep us.”

I can feel her looking at me, a not-unpleasant burn.

“You’re loyal.”

“I’m pragmatic,” I say, making another strike with the ax.

“You don’t like compliments.”

“Not undeserved ones, no,” I say, finally looking at her. She’s studying me over the top of my cup, her gaze pointed. A few strands of her hair have escaped the knit cap and are playing in the slight breeze.

“I’m starting to think you’re deserving of a few,” she says. “Setting aside the whole strumpet thing.”

“You can compliment me on my choice of beverage,” I tell her. “I’ll accept that since you’re drinking it.”

“Because you gave it to me.” She puts a finger in the air. “Takes care of difficult old ladies.” Another finger. “Feels sympathy for women who’ve had close brushes with terrifying Santas.”

Before her smile can wash over me and make me lose my will, I turn back to the tree. Another couple of strikes, and it’ll fall.

Holly’s going to like this one. It’s full and tall, but there’s a slightly sparse spot in the back that makes it look less than Hollywood ready. There’s such a thing as too perfect, after all.

“It’s about to come down,” I tell Kennedy. “Make sure you’re standing back.”

I’m hit with an image of her being struck by a branch. It would be a hell of a thing for her to have to go to an emergency room when she’s not even supposed to be here.

It’s not really possible for her to get hit where she’s standing. Even so, I say, “Come over here next to me.” There’s an unintended huskiness to the words, and I give myself a mental shake.

She hustles over and stands near me, the heat of her like a beacon. She smells slightly of apple and whiskey.

“Aren’t you cold without your coat?”

“No,” I say, adjusting to her proximity. “Physical work keeps you warmer than any coat.”

She makes a little sound, and I realize there’s another possible interpretation to my words—one I didn’t mean but was maybe thinking about anyway.

“I’ve always loved fresh Christmas trees, but this is kind of sad,” she says in a soft voice.

“Too late to turn back now,” I tell her. “Besides, they’re grown for this purpose. If you didn’t choose one, it wouldn’t be fulfilling its purpose.”

“But wouldn’t it be nice not to have any purpose to fulfill? To just exist?”

There’s a thread of longing in her voice, and I look at her in spite of myself. It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind her that they’re Christmas trees, for fuck’s sake, but I know she’s not really talking about the trees.

“People are allowed to be wildcards sometimes,” I tell her. “Not Christmas trees.”

---