The Magic of Christmas Tree Farm Read online

  THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS TREE FARM

  Erin Green

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About The Magic of Christmas Tree Farm

  The scent of pine fills the crisp air as local villagers select their perfect tree. Picking the tree is the easy bit, creating a perfect Christmas is a bit trickier…

  Nina has the most magical job in the world, matching customers with their perfect Christmas tree. Working at Christmas Tree Farm is always fun and full of laughter but the weight of past tragedy bears down on her. Her admirer is a great distraction, but is he the right man for her?

  Holly is just trying to be a normal teenager, having to deal with the mean girls in her class. But then the most handsome boy at school takes an interest in her. Have all her Christmases come at once?

  Angie is trying to bring her family together and save her broken marriage. It’s not something she can force, but it’s the only gift she craves. Will her Christmas wish come true?

  It’s the season of goodwill, and at Christmas Tree Farm anything could happen…

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About The Magic of Christmas Tree Farm

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Erin Green

  Also by Erin Green

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  Dedicated: to that precious moment when your stomach flips

  One

  Nina

  Saturday, 8 December

  The Christmas trees loom overhead dominating the morning’s inky skyline, as I trudge along the farm’s muddy driveway towards a busy eleven-hour shift.

  The dawn chorus hasn’t started yet; there’s nothing around at this hour, apart from a stray fox on his morning prowl, as the birds prepare their opening notes. Despite the serenity, my heart feels like a lump of coal wedged behind my ribs.

  My torch bumps against my leg as I walk the lonely track even though I don’t use it. It’s purely for emergencies, as I know the route like the back of my hand. The farm dominates the local area providing a green and pleasant boundary to our tiny village of Baxterley.

  The air is thick with the fragrant smell of the Norway spruce planted each side of the dirt track. Mature trees planted decades ago resemble giants; their outstretched branches hang low as if greeting my early arrival to work.

  A flash of red catches my eye: there he is, my fat robin bouncing on a spruce bough, his head twitching and his beady eye watching me, before taking flight. I say ‘my’ – he’s one of many living amongst the Christmas trees, but I pretend there’s only one, mine.

  ‘Welcome to the Christmas Tree Farm,’ I whisper to him as he perches on the farm gate. The farm’s wooden five-barred gate bears a decorative sign overhead proudly declaring ‘Grower of the Year – Champion Tree’, which we won at the British Christmas Tree Growers’ Association’s annual competition – the equivalent of a five-star accolade for any restaurant or hotel, an award my boss is eager to promote to the public.

  ‘Our Christmas trees are categorised by species and cut to size. Please ask if you can’t find the spruce you require.’ After nine years, I don’t need to practise my selling spiel but do purely through habit.

  I release the metal latch and tether the gate open, and enter in preparation for a busy day. It’ll save someone having to run down later to unlatch it.

  I’m permanent all year round. There are not many of us – Boss Fielding hires and lays off a crowd of casual workers each year. Thankfully, I proved myself to be a hard worker long ago, so get to enjoy the beauty of this farm all year round.

  I sat my exams in June 2009, left school and a week later started work here – who’d have thought Christmas trees needed nurturing in July? That was nine years ago; couldn’t say how many trees I’ve sold in that time.

  An icy wind blows. The forecasters have been threatening snowfall across Warwickshire – such a prediction is guaranteed to make my boss happy. Snowfall increases Christmas tree sales as a sunny day increases ice-cream sales. Though, for us farm workers it means working in snow drifts and blizzards. It’s one thing breaking your back to sell spruces to the general public, but another game clearing tonnes of snow prior to a shift to make the farm safe for public access.

  I continue along the rutted but lengthy track, wide enough for tractors, which can be dark and gloomy at this time of year, yet I’m never lonely here. How can anyone ever be lonely whilst surrounded by nature, and her ever-changing beauty? Each season delivers its own delights – winter is simply the pinnacle of our year.

  I’ve learnt that if my hands are busy, my mind is occupied too. That’s the magic of Christmas Tree Farm – there’s always a warmth and excitement which helps me to forget… A lengthy shift filled with chaotic families browsing, selecting and, sadly for some, arguing over their choice of Christmas tree is what I need. You wouldn’t believe the time taken by some families to choose their tree and we only sell four species: Blue spruce, Nordman fir, Norway spruce or a Fraser fir.

  Even when the type of tree is selected, some argue about the height: a teeny weeny, a standard or the ultimate jolly green giant. Most families buy just one so I understand their desire for perfection. Their perfect spruce can equal their perfect Christmas. Occasionally, some families purchase multiple trees: one for the lounge, another for their hallway and a tree with roots that can be planted in the front garden. We charge by the foot, so it can be an expensive purchase and cost can be the deciding factor. At some point today, I’m bound to hear the age-old remark, ‘Or should we leave it and dust off the old plastic one from the loft?’ I’ll smile, pretend I didn’t hear and hope they don’t ignore our range of beautiful spruces. In my opinion, you can’t beat a real Christmas tree – guaranteeing seasonal cheer and a gorgeous fragrance. If push comes to shove and they are still contemplating the dusty artificial one in preference to our beauties, I’ll swiftly move the family towards a Norway spruce and accidentally charge the wrong price. Call it what you will, Christmas spirit or seasonal kindness, the boss will never know. Let’s face it; life’s too short to worry about money. Our spruces will be bare, brown and beside the dustbin come 6 January, so you need to enjoy them while you can.

  Today is the opening day of the season, 8 December. If it’s anything like the last nine Christmas seasons, I’ll dash between families, trying my very best to fetch, carry and answer every plausible question thanks to my extensive knowledge of each species. I’ll smile sweetly, serve mulled wine and warmed mince pies and greet everyone as they arrive at the farm.

  *

  The farm’s yard spreads before me. Lit by overhead floodlights, it’s a vast open space dedicated to spruce sales. Already ‘Little Drummer Boy’ is festively par-rum-pum-pum-pumming through the tinny speakers conveniently positioned out of reach of disgruntled staff. I haven’t heard the tracks for an entire year, but I can recall the sequence of twenty songs from previous years.

  ‘Nina!’ cries Bram, dressed in his thermal coat and steel-toe-capped boots, as
I turn the corner of the first log cabin, affectionately known as the cashier’s cabin. ‘Have I got a treat for you!’

  I smile as his deep voice greets me. Bram, the eldest of the boss’s identical twins, thinks that every time he asks me out on a date it will be the time I accept. What he fails to remember is that we are close friends. We’ve been best friends for life since our year seven maths class. A tight friendship, which includes his younger twin Zach. Their characters are like chalk and cheese, or rather a Blue spruce compared to a Norway spruce. Both are strong, sturdy specimens, well nurtured and in their prime.

  The transition towards dating either of them feels a bit icky; the anomaly of mixing business with pleasure doesn’t feel right. The twins have grown up on the farm, amongst the vast fields located on the north, south and east side of their sturdy farmhouse.

  ‘Morning, Bram, let’s hear it!’ I drag my beanie off my head, ruffle my mousy-brown locks and watch as his animated features deliver yet another exaggerated plan, probably concocted last night after four pints of Stella in The Rose, the village’s only pub.

  ‘Nina… don’t give me that look… I was thinking we could…’

  I don’t hear his suggestion. His grey eyes dance with excitement, long blond lashes flutter like butterfly wings and his mouth, well, it doesn’t stop moving. His dad, Boss Fielding, calls him Motor-mouth behind his back and the work force laugh at the age-old joke. Abraham loves being the noisy, over-the-top, competitive twin. ‘It’s better than being Zach!’ is his usual comeback.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ He falls silent and waits, pushing his blond fringe back and into shape. My answer will be the same as it always is.

  ‘Oh, Bram… what can I say?’ I whisper, flattered that he still finds the energy to chase me after so many rejections. He’s offered me numerous dates: candlelit dinners, hikes up Snowdon, a weekend at V Festival, breaks in Barcelona and even skiing in Austria. Funnily enough the weekend spent fly fishing was an easy ‘no’.

  I head towards the snug, our designated staffroom, another log cabin positioned alongside the cashier’s cabin.

  ‘Come on, Nina.’ He strides after me; he knows my routine. ‘I promise, I’ll be a true gent… treat you like a lady.’

  I dash up the wooden steps, push open the heavy door and am greeted by the warmth of the snug’s wood-burning stove. An eclectic mix of donated sofas, armchairs and coffee tables make for a cosy room.

  ‘You’ll wine and dine me, you say?’ I ask, unzipping my jacket.

  ‘I swear, I’ll treat you like a lady!’

  ‘Abraham! You amaze me…’ I say, a coy smile escaping my pretence. I can’t pretend I’m not flattered and I admire his determination.

  ‘So, what’s it to be, Nina?’ he asks, giving a cheeky wink.

  ‘Bram… we’d ruin what we have.’ I cross to the coat racks and remove my jacket. Bram follows me.

  ‘We won’t. What do you say?’

  I hang my jacket on my named peg, decorated with a carved plaque; an honour only bestowed upon permanent staff members. Some staff have already arrived and changed into their work scruffs but Shazza’s peg is empty – she’ll arrive with seconds to spare. Kitty’s quilted mac is already hung up. Beneath each peg sits the owner’s plastic box of clothing, personal items brought from home in which to dress and build layers against the cold.

  ‘I say, we’ve been mates for thirteen years and I value our friendship!’

  ‘I don’t. You’re the crappiest friend a guy could have… you don’t do drinking games, you hate football and you never agree to my plans.’

  ‘Just think what a nightmare I’d be as a girlfriend, then. I’d be complaining all the time, texting around the clock and demanding to know your whereabouts on the hour every hour. There, does that feel better?’

  ‘No! It feels like a sodding rejection again…’

  Bram shakes his head, leans against the old battered couch, as I grab my designated storage box to dress in my additional layers.

  We’ve been through this same routine a million times since day one. He’s not leching – that’s not his style. We never feel uncomfortable around each other. Bram and Zach are my best friends, and that’s how it’s going to stay.

  I snap closed the press studs on my red tabard, rummage in the large front pocket to ensure no one has nicked my marker pen, notepad or woollen gloves. Today, I’m in luck.

  ‘Nina Salloway… you’ll be the death of me.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ I jibe, grabbing my thermal coat complete with the company logo and my Christian name embroidered across the back, and pull it on. ‘Come on, race you to clock on.’

  ‘Nina!’

  ‘Stop it, Bram. The conversation is over.’ I head towards the door as Shazza hastily enters like a blonde whirlwind, muttering a greeting plus a brief excuse about younger siblings hogging the bathroom. ‘Morning, Shaz. Anyway, Bram, I bet you “White Christmas” starts playing after this track.’

  Bram shakes his head, purses his lips and follows me from the snug. ‘You love me really.’

  ‘With all my heart.’

  *

  Angie

  ‘Can we talk?’ I ask into my mobile phone. Nick’s silence lengthens. This doesn’t feel promising. Having spent a ten-minute drive thinking, practising and repeating a lengthy speech to forget it all the minute I park at Christmas Tree Farm, I have just one task for this morning: to choose my tree. So why am I calling him? ‘Nick?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  ‘Angie, I heard you but… I really don’t know what to say.’ His voice is monotone, untrusting and sadly, lacking in eagerness to please me. ‘What is it you want to discuss?’

  ‘Us.’ Christ, could the man make it any more difficult? Throw me a line here, please.

  I can hear his breathing, a series of sporadic sighs laden with uncertainty.

  During my solo practice run-through, he jumped at the chance of my suggestion, ended the phone call and was mid-journey heading my way.

  This isn’t supposed to happen. Aren’t I granting him what he’s repeatedly asked for throughout the last eleven months? And yet, he’s now stalling. I obviously don’t know the man as well as I thought I did. Pity.

  ‘Look, Angie, what more is there for us to discuss?’

  ‘Nick…’ My words run dry. My prepared speech has fallen flat and now my own cogs are failing to connect and produce a viable explanation. ‘Can we go for a drink? Tonight?’ I hastily add, not wanting him to choose something midweek, forcing me to relive this episode morning, noon and night whilst waiting for our prearranged meeting. ‘Please?’

  He is thinking, still.

  What is there to consider? Surely, you jump in with a ‘Yes, I’d love to’ or an ‘Of course, name the place and I’ll be there.’ Even an unexpected, ‘Your place or mine?’ would be better than this.

  But no, total silence.

  ‘Shall we say eight o’clock outside The Rose at Baxterley?’ I say, battling the fear of rejection. Surely neutral territory away from our home town of Atherstone is a reasonable suggestion? I preferred the good old days when mobile lines crackled and broke up – it was better than this humiliation.

  ‘OK. Eight.’ The line goes dead from his end.

  I look at my screen to confirm: he’s gone.

  ‘Bloody hell, Nick. Thanks for nothing,’ I screech. I have a good mind to call him straight back and cancel, but fight the urge, knowing I’d be causing hurt to only one person. I fling my mobile into my handbag before I can speed dial.

  I undo my seat belt and then sit back. A brief glance in my mirror confirms that my roots need touching up, though my messy bun is forgiving for my age.

  Crowds of excited customers bustle past my car bonnet: old, young, couples, families, children holding hands, skipping – all festive and cheery on a Saturday mid-morning. Here I sit alone chastising myself and nursing a bruised ego; only yesterday I vowed to remain single.


  Could this be any more depressing.

  I sit watching the happy families through a misty windscreen, which is rapidly diminishing my view, waiting for my annoyance to subside. But it’s impossible to escape the replay in my head when I asked… or perhaps I begged for a date at The Rose.

  How has this happened? Surely, I should be like the passing parade of happy, smiling people, focusing on creating the perfect Christmas. It should be me sauntering along the rows of pre-cut, netted trees, with a beaker of mulled wine in hand, nibbling on a warmed mince pie. In previous years, I have spent more time at this farm than I care to remember – seeking out the perfect spruce. Each year I have wrestled a tree home, decorated and watered it. My tradition repeated on the first day of sales every year since I’ve owned a house… so, seventeen, no eighteen years! Bloody hell, where has the time gone?

  I want to return home. Do I truly deserve to be denied the annual traditions just because this year, my all-important ‘fabulous at forty’ has been the crappiest year of my life? And now, Nick. Does he have misgivings too?

  I wish I hadn’t called.

  And now, I wish I hadn’t driven to Christmas Tree Farm either. As I observe the irritating festive spirit surrounding me, I sink deeper into my car seat.

  *

  Nina

  ‘Nina!’ calls Zach, handing out the hot drinks during our tea break. ‘Do you fancy sprinkles or marshmallows on your hot chocolate?’

  ‘Neither,’ I reply, knowing my answer will spark a reaction from the other ladies.

  ‘Are you serious?’ asks Kitty, her delicate features shooting up to view me. ‘Are you feeling OK?’

  ‘I need to start cutting down on sugar.’

  ‘Seriously, there’s nothing of you…’ Kitty gives me a head tilt and a tender look. Her gentle blue eyes are seriously telling me off.