Page 12 of The Holiday Exchange
Blooming Acres is located just beyond a row of tall pines that borders the fields where we grow berries and flowers in the warmer months and harvest trees for the holiday season. Besides the rows of pines for sale, there’s a storefront that sells anything from gardening supplies to seasonal decorations. Space on the gravel driveway is limited, so cars are parked anywhere the customers can find a spot.
“Wow, this place is hopping,” Dawson says as we wind around a line of cars parked in uneven rows.
“Yeah, the week before Christmas is a bit chaotic.”
“But we love it because it keeps us busy—and afloat.” Mom pats his shoulder, then makes a beeline for the store, no doubt to step behind the counter and help our staff.
I point out our pines for sale and explain how we get them ready for transport once the customer decides which they want.
“Do you grow all these trees on your property?”
“Most, yes. For every tree we sell, a new one is planted.”
His eyes grow wide. “That’s amazing.”
Or to use his word,magical? Yeah, maybe it is. Been so long since I thought about it.
“Grab some work gloves, boys,” Dad says from behind us. “Some families need help choosing their trees.”
I wince even though I’m not surprised. Dad can be very business oriented during peak times. “Do you mind?” I ask Dawson. “I can just?—”
“I told you, I’d love to help.”
Donning our gloves, we head toward the rows of trees for sale, and Dawson listens as I describe the different options to a family of four. “This one is a Fraser. It’s a bit pricier, but the branches are sturdier, so needles won’t fall off as fast.”
Dawson follows one of the sons to another tree nearby he seems intent on.
“And that one is a balsam, which will give off that strong pine smell people love. The branches are more flexible for hanging ornaments.”
Once they make their decision, I direct them to pull their car up front. Dawson helps me carry the tree to our barn, where we wrap it with netting and twine. “Wow, you’re good at this.”
I grin. “Years of practice.”
We tag the tree with the family’s name, hand it off to one of our seasonal workers herding the line of cars, and head back to help another family. Dawson seems to revel in chatting with the folks, and I suppose that’s true of him in his shop in Boston as well. He’s so personable, he’d likely fit in well anywhere. Except maybe the corporate world.
Turning toward a slew of new customers, I freeze. “Oh shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Dawson asks as he looks in the direction of two men heading our way.
“That’s Mark with his husband.” Mark looks virtually the same with his dark hair and freckles dotting his nose and cheeks. His husband is fair skinned and handsome.
“At least you’re getting it over with early,” Dawson mutters as they approach.
Mark stops in front of us, seeming speechless before forcing out, “Briar, hey.”
“Hey there…long time no see.” I glance toward his husband, who offers a tight smile. “Um, you here to pick out your tree?”
“Yep. Helped Mom a few weeks ago, and we’re finally getting around to putting ours up.” He rubs his hands together, maybe from the cold or to give himself something to do. “Though it feels a bit late.”
“It’s never too late,” Dawson interjects, and just like that I snap out of my daze. I straighten my shoulders and look Mark in the eye with as much confidence as I can muster.
“Oh, um, this is Michael,” Mark says, introducing his husband. I try not to notice how nicely dressed he is in his khakis and wool overcoat. Mark seems to have taken some cues from him with his expensive-looking hiking boots and fine-knit cap.
“Nice to…uh, meet you,” I stutter before turning to Dawson. “And this is my…Dawson.”
“His boyfriend.” Dawson winds his arm around my waist, and holy shit, this is actually happening. We’re pretending we’re together. Not that we weren’t with my parents, but this makes it feel more real. The proximity, his fingers gripping me right in front of Mark.
I notice Mark’s surprised expression, possibly because he wasn’t given the heads-up through the town gossip mill about my bringing anyone home. “So how is it—being back here?” I ask him.