Page 60 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Remy scowls again. “It’s annoying, is what it is. We sell more cider donuts than trees some weekends. Then we move onto hot cocoa and other treats, if I can hire some more help for that.”
We pass by rows of baby pines, each one no taller than Junie, and I notice little hand-painted signs tucked into the earth.
Junie’s Grove – DO NOT TOUCH – unless you’re me or Dad.
I smile. “She has her own grove?”
“Of course she does. Kid’s the boss around here. I just work here.” He laughs.
He’s not wrong. Even at five, Junie runs the place as if she owns it. But this morning, she looks less CEO and more stir-crazy. She’s still on the porch swing, dragging her unicorn slipper in the gravel, watching us like she’s waiting for something to happen, and not in a good way.
Remy notices, too. His shoulders drop just a little.
“She’s been struggling without her mom,” he mutters, tugging on a pair of worn leather gloves. “The upcoming holidays make it worse.”
“She misses her mom?” I ask carefully.
He shrugs, but his jaw tightens. “This time of year is hard. Every year, she promises to visit, but she never shows up. A lot of empty promises.”
I shake my head, and we work in silence for a while, trimming some of the lower branches off trees marked for early harvest, hauling piles of cuttings to the discard pile. The cold works its way through my flannel, but it’s not unpleasant. Notwhen the sun peeks through the trees and the whole place lights up gold and green.
The trees stretch on for what feels like forever. Remy explains them all to me, and I know I won't remember everything, but I've got most of it. Fraser firs, blue spruces, and white pines, each with their own tags, are carefully logged and cataloged. The nursery section is tucked behind a weathered picket fence, full of pots and planters of winter berry, holly, and rosemary. Wind chimes made of copper and pinecones sway from the beams of the prep shed. Everything is organized chaos, a blend of workhorse and wonderland.
I can see why Remy fights to keep it running. It’s not just a business. It’s a legacy for him and Junie.
“Wasn't this your uncle's?” I ask, pausing beside one of the larger trees.
“Yeah. Uncle Carl. He ran it for decades until cancer got him suddenly four years ago.” Remy’s voice is quieter now. “He was here one day, gone a few months later. Didn’t have kids. Left it to me and Finn. Finn didn’t want it, so I bought him out. I didn’t know the first thing about running a tree farm, but…”
“But you're doing a great job,” I finish. “I mean…look at this place. It’s incredible, man.”
He shrugs. “When I took it on, Junie’s mom had just left. I needed something solid. This was it. She wanted nothing to do with the tree farm or us.”
We work a while longer, and even though we don’t say much, I feel the weight of it, the pride, the grief, the fierce love that got built into the dirt of this place. Every nail in the barn, every plank on the farmhouse porch, Junie’s fingerprint on every part of it—it’s all part of Remy’s fight to build something lasting for him and her. I love that for him. This place is special.
Just as I’m about to ask if he wants help organizing the wreath station, a familiar voice calls out from the driveway.
“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite lumberjacks,” Donna says, stepping out of her car with a big tote bag slung over her shoulder and lipstick already perfectly applied. Tucked behind her ear is a pencil, which I've noticed she usually has.
Junie bolts up from the swing like her little butt was spring-loaded. “Nana!”
She runs to meet her, unicorn slippers flapping wildly, and I swear Remy’s whole face softens at the sound of her laugh.
Donna scoops Junie into her arms and twirls her in a little circle. “You ready for our girls’ day, sugarplum? I brought the glitter glue and the Christmas cookie sprinkles. And guess what I rented?”
“Frozen!”
“No, something better.Practical Magic. I think it’s time.”
Remy groans. “She’s five, Mom.”
Donna waves him off. “Emotionally, she’s thirty.”
“Whose fault is that?” He grumps. “You let her do whatever she wants.”
Junie wiggles in her arms. “Are we gonna make mermaid cookies again?”
“You bet your frosted sugar cookie we are, Juniebug.”
