Page 59 of Must Love Christmas

The rest of the table laughed. Gillian toasted him with her dram of whisky and said, “To the curling community and its Christmas spirit.”

They all drank to that.

* * *

18 Days UntilChristmas

“Can’t we just order a tree online?” Simon asked as he rolled forward onto the bus’s wheelchair lift, trying to ignore the irritated sighs of the other passengers waiting to board.

“Not a chance.” Garen unwound his pine-green scarf, then untucked his hair from the collar of his brick-red puffy jacket. “Christmas-tree shopping is an organic thing. You’ve got to see them face to face.”

“Trees haven’t got faces, lad.”

The lift rose with a hydraulic groan and an agonizing slowness. Simon felt like a piece of unwanted cargo.

Garen stepped up to the bus floor and pointed to the disabled-designated space. “Whose buggy is this?”

“Och, seriously?” asked a young blond woman across the aisle, holding an infant wrapped in a Santa-patterned outfit. “Where am I meant to put it?”

“I don’t care where you put it, hen, but you cannae leave it there.” Garen dragged the enormous yellow baby buggy over to her. “This is a passenger area, not free storage.”

“Sorry,” Simon told her as he maneuvered his wheelchair into the spot, his face heating.

“Whatever,” she said with a sigh, struggling to keep the buggy from rolling away.

Garen helped her secure the baby limousine, then latched onto the pole beside the door just in time for the bus to lurch into the street. “Simon, this Christmas tree—this living thing—is gonnae sit in our living room for nearly a month. Don’t you want to get to know it first?”

“Get to know it? How long will this take?” So far, this odyssey wasn’t exactly living up to Simon’s fantasy of a night out with Garen. “We’re not going to more than one tree shop, are we?”

“I promise we’ll find a lovely Fraser Fir at this place. I’ve done my research.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, examining Simon. “But maybe you’re a Norway Spruce fan? You seem a bit of a traditionalist.”

“If by ‘traditionalist,’ you mean I’ve had the same tree most of my life, then yes.”

Garen swayed on his feet as the bus turned a corner. “Wait. In twenty-five Christmases, you’ve never had a live tree?”

“Artificial ones make less of a mess.”

“It’s true,” said a woman’s voice to his right. Simon turned to see an elderly couple sitting in the nearest row, apparently eavesdropping. “Those living-dead trees drop needles everywhere,” she added.

“Not all sorts,” said the man beside her. “Firs don’t shed as much.”

“That’s why I want one.” Garen raised his voice over the bus’s engine. “Also, their needles are soft. They don’t prick your fingers when you’re putting the lights on.”

“Artificial trees come pre-lit,” Simon pointed out, “straight from the box.”

“And the branches are bendable,” the lady said, “so you can set ornaments however you like and make it perfect.”

“There’s no fun in perfection.” Garen gripped the pole tight as the bus veered around another corner. “Thereisfun in accommodating the unique quirks of each tree.”

“And nothing can replace that fresh evergreen smell,” the old man added.

“Actually, they’ve got sprays for that.” Simon mimed using a pump, making little hissing noises.

“Abomination!” Garen clutched at his heart. “I’ll not have our living room smell like a car air freshener, like those taxicabs driven by heavy smokers.”

Simon tried to smile at him, but it came out strained as a new wave of shooting pains zigzagged down his lower legs. He turned his face away from the couple to hide his wince, then tried to shift his weight in the chair.

Garen had noticed. “All right, mate?”

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