Page 74 of Holiday Pines

Jake closed the laptop. He sat there for a moment, feeling the adrenaline dissipate. He had just bet his career on a small town and a Christmas tree farmer.

The door burst open. Barb and Cassie rushed in, holding trays of orange juice and champagne.

“We were listening!” Cassie squealed. “Totally eavesdropping!”

“We knew it!” Barb cheered, handing him a mimosa. “I told Cassie the minute you walked in here, I said,‘That boy isn’t leaving.’”

The Workshop

2:00 PM

Wes was sweeping sawdust in the workshop when he heard the driveway gravel crunch.

He looked up to see Jake’s rental car—a new one, delivered by the agency that morning to replace the one currently being towed out of the ditch—pull up.

Jake walked into the shop. He looked lighter. The tension that usually held his shoulders tight was gone.

“Everything okay?” Wes asked, leaning on his broom.

“Better than okay,” Jake said, closing the distance between them. He kissed Wes—a quick, happy peck. “I got the promotion.”

Wes’s stomach dropped. “Oh. That’s—that’s great, Jake. VP, right? In Atlanta?”

“VP.In Spoon.”

Wes blinked. “What?”

“I convinced them to let me open a satellite office. I’m renting the space above Brody’s bakery. Spoke with him about it yesterday.” Jake grinned. “You’re stuck with me, Farmer.”

The relief hit Wes so hard he had to steady himself against the workbench. “You’re staying? For real?”

“For real. I’m not going anywhere.”

Wes laughed, a sound of pure joy. He pulled Jake into a hug, burying his face in Jake’s neck, inhaling the scent of him. “Good. Because I have your Christmas present, and it would have been really awkward to mail it.”

“You got me a present?”

“I made you a present.”

Wes led him to the back of the workshop, to a sculpture covered by a canvas tarp. He hesitated. “My mom... she always said the wood tells me what it wants to be. It’s the piece I showed you in the early stages. I just didn’t know what it wanted to be until a couple of days ago.”

Wes pulled the tarp away.

It was the carving in cherry wood, the figure of a man. Only now, the man was stylized, smooth and modern, leaning against a fence post, and looking out toward the horizon. The face was abstract, but the posture—the set of the shoulders, the quiet confidence—was unmistakable.

It was Jake.

Jake reached out, tracing the grain of the wood. “Wes?—”

“It’s you,” Wes said softly. “Looking at the future. Instead of the past.”

Jake looked at him, eyes brimming. “It’s beautiful. You’re an artist, Wes. Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re just a farmer.”

“I’m both,” Wes said. “I think I can be both now.”

The Town Square

Christmas Eve Night