Page 30 of Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm
‘It’shadone … I can’t promise it passed.’
‘Noel!’
He laughs. ‘I’m joking. Of course it passed. It’s fine, just a bit of superficial damage, doesn’t affect the running of it. None of us would be roadworthy if that was the case.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Are you coming or are you going to stand there all day? You’re letting the cold air in.’
‘Your window …’ I go to protest that his window’s open so the cold air has come in anyway, but I give up before I can finish the sentence and climb into the truck.
A festive radio station is playing quietly from the dashboard, Bing Crosby singing ‘Silver Bells’, a real old-fashioned Christmas song that makes me shiver with nostalgia. The brown leather of the front is one long bench rather than individual seats, and in the space between us is another travel mug and a paper bag with ‘Roscoe Farm’ printed on it.
‘I brought coffee and breakfast,’ he says as I pull the fraying seatbelt over my chest and snap it into the buckle beside me. ‘Homemade pumpkin spice latte and a pumpkin spice muffin fresh from the oven.’
‘Oh my god, you are my favourite person in the universe right now.’ The blue travel cup has got foxes and autumn leaves on it, and I grab it and sip it.
I feel every part of me relax as that first sip of caffeine hits my system and Noel starts the engine again and backs slowly out of my driveway. ‘God, this isamazing,’ I say, making an orgasmic noise as I take a second sip. ‘And surprisingly strong.’
‘I firmly believe that people who don’t need a strong caffeine hit at this time of day are some species of pod person.’
I sip from the mug again, enjoying every hot mouthful as it warms me up from the inside out. This is literally the best coffee I’ve ever tasted. And Chelsea and I go out for alotof coffee in London. ‘You make your own pumpkin spice for coffee? In big chains, they use syrup, right?’
‘That’s exactly why the homemade version is better.’ We back onto the main road and drive in the opposite direction from the way I came in, towards his farm. ‘And yeah, you mix up ginger, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and allspice, add fresh pumpkin puree and a touch of vanilla extract, and add it to any drink. It’s amazing in hot chocolate too.’
I sip it again. ‘You’re a genius.’
He laughs. ‘With eight thousand pumpkins a year, I’ve learnt how to make the best of them. But thank you, no one’s ever called me that before.’
I go to say that I’m sure he’s being modest, but he interrupts me, and I get the impression he’s embarrassed by the compliment. ‘Try a muffin, my mum’s the baking genius in the family.’
I unscrew the twist in the paper bag and take an orange-coloured muffin out. It’s in a black case with tiny orange Jack O’Lanterns all over it and ‘Roscoe Farm’ emblazoned on the bottom. ‘Branded bags and cake cases too?’
‘We sell this stuff on the market stall along with the pumpkins, and we have a huge bakery stand outside the pumpkin patch when it’s open to the public. My mum’s amazing in the kitchen, her goodies are very popular.’
I can see why. The top of the muffin is all cracked and sprinkled with powdered sugar. It looks like an artisan creation in a fancy bakery, and I almost feel guilty for pulling a lump off and popping it into my mouth. It tastes as good as it looks. The perfect blend of sweet and savoury, buttery, spicy, and warm, the case underneath heating my hand as I hold it. ‘Oh my god.’ I let out another orgasmic noise. Actually, that’s an unfair comparison because I’ve never enjoyed an orgasm as much as I’m enjoying this. It was worth the six-hundred-mile drive just for this muffin.
We’re coming up to his farm and I can see a light on outside, flooding the front with brightness. I can’t help pressing my forehead against the window for a closer look. Glenna is in the huge open driveway outside the farmhouse, and I can see signs leaning against walls and pumpkins piled everywhere. Noel honks the horn again and she stops what she’s doing and gives us a wave. The farmhouse looks as picturesque from up close as it looked in the distance, all old stone bricks and window boxes that were undoubtedly filled with flowers in the summer. There are double wooden gates open wide, and their tarmac driveway is a huge empty space, surrounded on the edges by freestanding stalls covered by orange and white striped awning and decorated with huge vases of brightly coloured autumn leaves.
Glenna is still waving as we pass by and leave her behind. ‘No Gizmo?’
‘You are joking, right? Gizmo doesn’t get out of bed at this time of day foranyone. He’ll saunter out when he’s ready, have some breakfast, a gentle walk, and then snuggle under his duvet on the sofa until lunchtime, and after that he’ll be dragged out to the fields with me while I work, and then snuggle on the sofa until teatime.’
‘Oh, bless him,’ I say. ‘I can’t wait to see him again.’
‘Yeah, he woofed about you all night too. He thought there might have been some really big spiders he needed to protect you from, or maybe a giant ant or something.’
‘They don’t exist, do they?’
‘Dunno. I suppose half the fun is in finding out.’
‘Your definition of fun and mine are quite different.’
His tongue must twiddle the piercing from the inside because the ball starts moving in his lip and my eyes are drawn to it again as the song changes. ‘It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year’ by Andy Williams starts playing, and I wonder if he’s put a festive station on because of what I said on Tuesday night or if he’d usually drive to work listening to Christmas music in October. I don’t think he would, somehow.
At the edge of their farm, as we pass a hand-drawn chalk sign that says ‘Pick-your-own pumpkin patch’ in swirly lettering, there’s a giant pumpkin. It must be at least six foot tall and almost as wide, it’s surrounded by loads of smaller pumpkins, real ones in all shades of orange, yellow, and white. They’re arranged so it looks like they’re pouring out of its mouth in a wave. It’s so striking that I actually gasp at the sight. ‘Did you make that?’
He nods. ‘Wood and plaster and alotof sandpapering. But it’s stood the test of a few autumns now and everyone comments on it. It’s brilliant for visibility from the road. People love stopping for selfies with it.’
‘Wow.’ I look over my shoulder as we drive past. It’s an incredible sight and I can’t believe anyone could make it. ‘You’re incredibly talented, do you know that? Is there anything youcan’tdo?’
‘Maintain a relationship? Greet new neighbours in a reasonable way? Crochet?’
