Page 57 of Mistletoe and Christmas Kisses
“A good thing, that. Nothing charming about the most charming of the Garretts at the moment.” Elle took a last, erasing rub at whatever wisdom had been on the blackboard. “Tree trimming. My house, Tuesday. He’ll sneak off to the shed out back like he’s always doing lately, and you can catch him there.”
Heavens, catch him and dowhat?
“You said you’d help. In any way,” Savannah reminded her with a none-too-subtle head tilt, her pinky knuckle-deep in tea.
Macy released the leaflet in defeat. “I meant the women’s league, as you well know.” She laughed and pinched the bridge of her nose to ward off an impending headache. “Naturally, I will speak to him. To preserve the sanctity of the Hippocratic Oath. Although I have one question before I encroach on his private life. Am I allowed to tell Caleb my intervention was requested by his interfering sisters-in-law?”
Elle knocked the eraser against her palm and coughed as dust rose around her. “Do that, and it’s a complete bust.”
Savannah frowned. “He won’t listen to a word you say if he knows we sent you. Stubborn as the devil when he sets his mind to something.”
Macy put the pencil to her lips and recalled the enticing little dimple that pinged Caleb’s cheek when he smiled. How difficult a challenge, she wondered, to get him to set his oh-so determined mind toher?
CHAPTER THREE
Standing in the middle of a forest searching for the perfect tree was a reasonably mind-numbing activity for a man who didn’t reallylikeChristmas.
Caleb had never told anyone because it wasn’t a sentiment you voiced.I loathe Christmas. Comparisons to Dickens’s Scrooge and all that. Also, the reason behind his abhorrence would break Zach’s heart if hedidvoice it. And this time was a busy one for the Garretts; Zach was the benevolent town constable and someone in the family had to represent at holiday functions. Or so his brother reckoned. So, Caleb plastered on a smile and ate Nora Dorson’s sugar cookies even though they tasted like bilge sludge and smelled a bit like vinegar. He danced with women old enough to be his grandmother at Lilian Quinn’s musicale, her minuscule parlor feeling like Zach’s lone jail cell by the end of the evening. He sat through Reverend Tiernan’s midnight service, where napping was impossible because his brother made them siton the front row. He sang carols and wrapped presents and helped tack garlands to posts while striking through the days on his calendar.
Caleb shoved his hands in his coat pockets and rocked back on his heels. This one, he decided, gazing at the towering fir. Or maybe it was a pine. He tilted his head, debating. An evergreen of some sort. Maybe a cypress. This is what love did to a man, he figured and released a groan that fogged the air around him. Had him in a forest, arguing with himself about a damn tree.
But he did love them. Zach and Noah, little Rory and Regina, Savannah and Elle. To his core. So, he’d find the best tree in Pilot Isle if it would make them happy. One sturdy enough to hold Elle’s homemade doodads. Savannah’s expensive ornaments from New York. His mother’s tattered garland that should have hit the rubbish bin years ago, but no one could bear to part with.
The dank place inside him that grew to immense proportions when the air began to smell like cinnamon and peppermint washisproblem. He need not tell Noah, and especially Zach, why Christmas caused a dart of unhappiness to center deep in his belly. In his heart. Zach had been piloting when it happened and any mention of turbulence at home while he’d been gone set off the guilt alarms.
Noah, thank God, had been too young to remember.
Christmas should have been a wonderful time when he was a kid. Full of candy sticks and wooden trains, magic only a child can take in and hold. He’d seen how wonderful Zach, and now Savannah, were making it for Rory. And soon, when she was old enough, Regina.
Instead, his father had made it a nightmare.
“This one, huh?” Noah halted beside him, ax slung over his shoulder like he knew what to do with it. A marine biologist and the town’s resident genius, he hadn’t had many opportunities to split wood, Caleb guessed. “Fraser fir. Excellent choice. I researched the best to go with before we headed out.”
“Of course you did,” Caleb said with a sigh. A breeze ripped through the trees, sending his coattail flying and the scent of the ocean into his nostrils. Thank God for something reassuring out here.
“The limbs tip, which helps hold ornaments. Excellent needle retention, too, so it’ll last until the new year. Similar to a balsam, but I believe this one is a fir. The pyramid shape is unique. Although some scientists suggest the two were once a single species, so you can see the confusion.” Noah lowered the ax to his side, and Caleb sidestepped just in case. His brother tended to swing like a man who was trying it out for the first time, every time. “Isn’t that fascinating?”
Caleb glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Not in the slightest.”
Noah picked a piece of bark off the trunk and sniffed. “Definitely a fir.”
Zach caught up to them, hat askew, coat partially buttoned, jaw shadowed and in need of a shave. His breath was leaving his mouth in misty puffs. “This it?”
Caleb tugged off his glove with his teeth and grabbed the ax from Noah. He knew who was gettingthisjob. “Reckon so.”
“Perfect,” Zach said and moved to the closest tree they weren’t set on cutting down, propped his back against it, slid to the ground and closed his eyes. Tugging his hat over his face, he slipped into what looked like deep and immediate slumber.
Caleb thrust the ax in his direction. “Really? This was his idea!”
“Newborn baby.” Noah flipped the bark between his hands, shrugged. “Regina eats every three hours. And the penalty for marrying a reformer, the husband has to share the workload. He’s even changing nappies.”
“Better get used to zero sleep and lots of poop yourself, Professor. Your little reformer is about to spit one out, too.”
Noah skipped the bark over the stalks of chalky, winter-white grass like he would a stone across a lake. “That’s passably vulgar, even for you. And you know I hate that nickname.” Although a broad smile took hold of his face. Any mention of the baby sent him into joyous spasms.
Caleb ran his fingertip along the blade, determined it would do just fine, and took a test swing. “While you’re classifying saplings and Zach catches up on sleep, how about I chop down a Christmas tree so beautiful it will make your wife weep.” Holding the ax between his knees, he jerked his glove back on.
“Elle’s more of a shouter”—Noah laughed and dodged the kick Caleb sent in his direction—“but okay. Actually, nothing like pregnancy and a Fraser fir to bring on a nice crying jag. So, go to it.”