Page 52 of No Room in the Inn

But Nixon clearly doesn’t see it that way. And I mean, of course he doesn’t. Look what he’s wearing: a Santa suit.

“What do you mean,why?” he says, looking at me blankly like I’m speaking a different language.

“I mean, why do we need a Christmas tree?” I say.

He gets a little crease between his eyebrows as he frowns. “Because it’s Christmastime.”

“Yeah. So?” I say. I pull out a chair too and sit across the table from him.

“So at Christmastime you put up a…” he says, trailing off as he looks at me with wide eyes. “Wow,” he mutters. “You’re a total heathen. Do you really not want a Christmas tree?”

I shrug. “I’m not saying that. I’m just saying we don’t necessarilyneedone.”

Nixon narrows his eyes at me, his fingers drumming out a staccato rhythm on the table. “I really don’t like you,” he says finally.

I grin. “I don’t like you either.”

He shakes his head slowly. Then he sighs. “Come on. We can go pick one out this afternoon after I get done at Santa’s Workshop. It will be fun.”

“It will be cold,” I correct.

“It can be both fun and cold,” he says.

“False. They are mutually exclusive.”

“All right, Scrooge,” he says, shaking his head again. He scoots his chair out and stands. “You’re doing a horrible job with all this Christmas spirit stuff you’ve been going on about.”

“No, I’m not,” I say, although it’s possible he’s right. “I just don’t relish the thought of going out in all this snow to pick a Christmas tree. They all look the same anyway. You go get one if it’s that important to you.”

Nixon folds his arms and cocks one brow at me. “And what if you don’t like the one I pick?”

Please—like I’ll ever know the difference. But I just sigh.

“Fine,” I say. Because he’s sort of right; I’m being a little Grinchy. Finding a tree out in the snow sounds miserable to me, but I guess it’s a big deal to Nixon. “We can go get a tree.”

“Not if you’re going to grumble about it the whole time,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“I won’t grumble,” I say. “But you’re doing the heavy lifting,” I add quickly.

Nixon just nods. “Deal.”

***

Some hours later, I find myself stepping out of the way so Nixon can haul our Christmas tree—which looks just like all the other Christmas trees we saw—through the front door of the inn. I’m pretty sure my blood is frozen in my veins, and I’m feeling distinctly popsicle-like, but Nixon seems happy. He says we got the perfect tree.

This is a lie, because every single one of those trees looked the same. But whatever; I’ll let him have his moment.

While he’s getting the tree into the stand, I go upstairs into Granny’s bedroom. I haven’t been in here since the sobbing-all-over-Nixon incident, but the Christmas decorations are in Granny’s closet. Or they used to be, anyway.

I have to open two boxes before I find the ornaments. My less-than-impressive muscles don’t love how heavy the box is, but I manage to get it down the three flights of stairs with no major injuries.

I mean, I do stub my toe, but that’s not really because of the box I’m carrying. I’m just clumsy.

“All right,” I say as I get to the living room. Nixon has the tree in front of the bay windows, which is exactly where it should go; he has good taste in Christmas tree placement. “I have Granny’s ornaments. I’m pretty sure some of them are homemade by yours truly. You know, popsicle stick reindeer and whatnot.”

“Of course,” he says, nodding and surveying his handiwork. I have to admit the tree looks good.

“What kind of Christmas tree did your family put up when you were young?” I say, setting the box down on the couch with an unflatteringoomphsound. “We always did the tacky colored lights and as many ornaments as we could fit.” I tilt my head, looking at the tree in front of me. “But I think I like the idea of something more subtle now. What do you think?”

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