Page 26 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell (Wisteria Cove #1)
Tate
I pull into the gravel lot just before eight, tires crunching slowly as the fog lifts over the Bennett Tree Farm.
The air smells like pine needles and damp earth.
I'm nervous but excited to be here. Fishing, I know, but I know nothing about trees.
I do love working outside, though, and I love that feeling when you put in a long day and feel exhausted. Looks like I can get that working here.
Remy’s place sits fifteen minutes outside of town and looks like a damn postcard.Not the cheesy kind, but the kind you keep in a drawer even after the holidays are long over. Like the Hallmark movies that people love this time of year. This place could double as a filming location.
Acres of perfectly spaced evergreens stretch across the land like an army of green, their branches dusted with early frost. Wreaths hang from old wooden posts, waiting to be bought and either shipped or brought home and fluffed.
What looks like a freshly painted red and white barn stands proudly at the end of the parking lot, its roof lined with string lights that haven’t been plugged in yet but still manage to shimmer in the early morning sun.
This is it. This is where Christmas lives. I can see why Remy stays so busy. This place is magical. It's also a huge operation, so it makes sense that he needs more help.
I spot him halfway down one aisle of firs, already deep in work, gloves on, saw over one shoulder, and a scowl like the trees offended him. He’s all business. Grumpy and stoic like he would rather eat nails than ask for help.
So I get why asking me was a big deal; he must mean it. And I'd never let Remy down. He and Finn have always been like brothers to me. We’ve been friends since elementary school.
He straightens when he sees me, brushing pine needles off his flannel and offering a tired but genuine smile that says Thank God you showed up, even if he doesn’t put it into so many words.
“Tate,” he says, exhaling like he’s relieved to see me. “Man, I’m so damn glad you’re here.”
I grin. “You sound surprised.”
“I thought you might change your mind and run for the seas,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “But you didn’t. And I seriously owe you one. Or ten.”
“Don’t get sappy on me yet,” I tease, falling into step beside him. “We haven’t even made it past the first day. You might give me the boot when you realize I know nothing about trees.”
He laughs, the sound low and honest.
“You weren’t kidding when you said this place was big,” I add, glancing over the rows of evergreens stretching toward the horizon.
He nods, eyes scanning the land like it’s both a blessing and a burden. “Yeah. It’s beautiful. And totally kicking my ass.”
“Well,” I say, rolling up my sleeves. “Let’s get our asses kicked together. Tell me about it.”
“We sit on about thirty acres. Fifteen in trees, ten in nursery stock. The rest are barns, prep sheds, and loading zones. Cabins are up that way.” He juts his chin toward the lane.
“Got a little farm stand shop we have year-round. Donna’s idea.
People like their snacks while they wander.
It's becoming a family tradition to come here. Some people come up here every weekend just to get a couple of dozen cider donuts.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That sounds good.”
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.
Not when 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.”
Remy meets his mom's eyes with the kind of expression that says Do not encourage her , but I just grin and lean on the rake I’m holding.
“Sounds like you need a night off, son. Go have some fun.” Donna says to Remy.
“Please, I have so much to do here,” Remy mutters, handing over Junie’s overnight bag.
Donna plants a kiss on his cheek. “You boys don’t forget to have fun.”
And just like that, they’re gone, driving off toward the edge of town in Donna’s Subaru, Junie talking animatedly to her.
Remy exhales as if he has just survived a natural disaster. “I don’t know how she did it, having two of us.”
“Magic,” I say. “Clearly runs in the family.”
He huffs a laugh, surprising both of us.
For a minute, we stand there, watching the wind blow through the trees and listening to the distant sound of a bell chime from the barn. The tree farm is quiet again. Peaceful.
“I’m glad I’m here,” I say finally, voice low.
Remy looks at me. “Yeah?”
I nod. “You’re building something real here. That’s rare. You need the help. And I needed the reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That there’s still good stuff left,” I say. “Even after all the shit. Especially after.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. Just nods once, then jerks his head toward the prep shed. “Come on. Let’s fire up the baler. Got a shipment of wreaths going out tomorrow.”
And just like that, we’re back to work. But something’s shifted.
Out here, among the trees and the frost and the scent of cedar, it feels like I’ve walked into a new chapter. One where the past isn’t the only thing that defines me. One where maybe, just maybe, I can build something of my own.
By the time I leave the tree farm, my shoulders ache in a way that feels earned. My flannel’s damp with sweat, and my hands smell like sap and sawdust, the scent working its way into my skin like it wants to stay, and I want it to.
It’s quieter out here in Wisteria Cove than I remembered. The road curves like old memories, and part of me wants to keep driving past the harbor, then the bookstore and past the weight of everything waiting for me.
But I promised myself I’d stop running.So I turn toward home.Or…what used to be home.