A set of cat-green eyes looked up from beneath the voluminous red bun, a spill of curls obscuring her forehead. ‘Of course.’
‘Would you happen to know where I might be able to get a fresh Christmas tree?’
Crystal pinched her cherry lips together. ‘The scouts always have a sale, but those trees are snapped up in thirty seconds flat on December first so that ship has sailed. There is a farm about forty minutes northwest. The road’s a little rough but it’s doable. One of those pick-your-own-type places. Somehow survived the fires. They might have some left.’
A full-sized Christmas tree would absolutely not fit in the boot of her CRV, but it might go on the roof racks.
‘Sounds good. Do you know the name of the place?’
‘Uncle Willy’s Tree Farm.’
‘Uncle Willy.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘As in the man who runs it is named Willy?’
‘Sure is. He has a manager running it for him.’ Crystal’s mouth curled at the corners. A curious glint flickered in her eyes. What was that about? ‘Would you like me to find the address and send it through to you?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ It might be a personal matter rather than a business task, but it would only be churlish to reject the offer.
‘I’m on it.’ As Crystal started typing, the croon of Michael Bublé’s ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ filled the room. Her face fell as she picked up her ringing phone. ‘Sorry, I kind of need to answer.’
‘By all means.’ Personal calls during office hours weren’t ideal but based on Crystal’s stricken expression, this one couldn’t wait.
‘Hi, Mumma. Remember I told you I can’t take personal calls at work?’
A call from Mum. But at least Crystal was trying to shut it down.
‘You don’t need to go to the shops. I made your lunch and it’s in the fridge, all ready for you.’ Crystal’s tone was more like one you’d use with a small child than a parent. ‘That’s right, and I’m going to bring something home for dinner after work.’
She still lived with her mother?
‘No.’
The rebuke was so loud it made Hannah flinch. She really shouldn’t eavesdrop, but the note of alarm in Crystal’s voice was concerning.
‘Do not turn on the stove or the hotplate. Chicken sandwiches don’t require any heating. Just open the cling wrap and they’re ready to eat. I have to go. I’ll see you this afternoon.’
A shadow fell over Crystal’s face as she ended the call. She gave her head a shake, chasing it away. ‘Sorry. My mum. She has early onset dementia and gets a little confused. I freak out every time I hear a siren, thinking she might have burnt the house down.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. It must be hard.’ Hannah had had patients who were full-time carers for people with similar issues and it was no picnic. ‘Do you live with her?’
‘No. We have help come in, and my brother and I tag team visiting her each day and cooking for her. We’re trying to keep her out of care for as long as possible. She’s only fifty-nine.’ Crystal shook her head and wriggled her shoulders. ‘It’s stressful at times but she’s my mum and she raised us on her own after our dad ran off with the neighbour. So now it’s our turn to look after her. It’s why I needed to work part time. My old boss wasn’t exactly sympathetic.’ Resting her elbows on the desk, she leaned forward and peered over the top of the computer, a light sheen glazing her emerald eyes. ‘How about you? Close to your parents?’
A chill shivered through Hannah’s limbs. She inhaled, waiting for it to dissipate. Nothing more than a cortisol surge in response to a perceived threat. ‘Not really.’
The door opened. Her next client. Perfect timing. She flashed Crystal what was hopefully an apologetic smile and turned back to her office. Sharing heart-felt family stories was most certainly not on her list of action points.
Watching the video on the website link Crystal had sent was like immersing herself in an alien landscape: bright happy faces wearing ubiquitous Santa hats jumping out from behind pristine green pines, row after row of them stretching into the distance beneath a sunny blue sky. She scanned the FAQs: no need to book an appointment, just show up, choose your own tree to fit the height of your ceiling, water regularly for a guaranteed three week–plus lifespan, no deliveries but visit any time between nine and five, seven days a week.
She glanced up at the wall calendar. December 4, exactly three weeks until Christmas Day, and only a week until Lenore and Nancy arrived. Between now and then, a jam-packed work schedule, including a two-day online conference this weekend. If she was going to do this she may as well bite the bullet and get the damned tree.
Double-checking the website, she typed the address into the maps app on her phone. At least it wasn’t too far away, and the drive would be pleasant. As long as she didn’t think about the destination or what she would be bringing home.
Crystal wasn’t wrong about the road.
Navigating the potholes took every ounce of concentration. There was no way the CRV would be its usual pristine white after this little expedition. She made a mental note to schedule in a wash and detail as soon as possible. A large part of her had resisted even getting in the car to make the trip but she’d pulled on her big girl pants, reminded herself it was a necessary part of creating a celebratory atmosphere for her guests and pushed through. Despite the length and depth of their friendship, Hannah had never given her old mentor even a cursory summary of why she so vehemently resisted the whole Christmas tradition. Somehow, they’d never been in the same place at the same time at the end of the year so she’d never had to make excuses. She’d been able to quietly disappear sometime around the 22nd and emerge from her bush escape on Boxing Day. In a way, camping over Christmas had become a tradition in itself, albeit a solo one. And it had worked faultlessly.
