As I put the familiar buildings in my rearview, I swallow the knot in my throat. Maybe I should have let Hank have the cabinthis year. Maybe I should have stayed in San Francisco and put in overtime at the gallery. Maybe I should have rethought every decision I’ve made in the last three years.
Soon, I follow the twisty road up, up, up. High above the jagged mountain in front of me loom tall, dark clouds. Though the ground is clear of snow for now, those clouds sayjust wait. Silverwood is known for its infamous Christmas blizzards, so I need to get to my destination fast.
When the road forks to a narrow dirt road, I turn right. As the rental car bumps along, the familiar signs that guide folks toward the Blue Mountain Ranch and Christmas Tree Farm dot my periphery, looking dingier than usual. I make a note to send Hank a sternly worded text message, instructing him to clean them up for next season.
Hank.
My stomach twists into a knot of nerves at the thought of my ex-husband. With another deep breath, I remind myself that he’s safely on the other side of the ranch with the animals. There’s no reason to think I’ll run into him. He knows it’s my year.
According to the cabin custody clause we worked out in our divorce contract.
Hank got it the first year.
Then me.
Though we agreed to alternate years, we made a little adjustment when we came to the arrangement. On my thirtieth birthday, I get it.
I may have walked away from the ranch and from the town I loved, but I couldn’t give up my cabin.
Everything else, we divvied up as fairly as we could. He kept the ranch and the tree farm and the dog. I got the car and our small savings.
At the time, arguing and dividing up assets patched the gaping hole in us, but nothing will ever fix what we lost.
After another mile, I finally break through the trees. And there, in the middle of a shimmering emerald pine forest, is a bright red barn.
Blue Mountain Christmas Tree Farm. A choose-and-cut farm that’s been a staple in Silverwood for more than fifty years.
I break into a true smile for the first time in what feels like forever, though I quickly tamp down on the excitement stirring inside me. This isn’t home. Not anymore. And I have to remember that.
The scene is straight from a Hallmark card. Two massive Clydesdales—Bonnie and Clyde—haul a tree on a sled, their bells jingling, while customers stand nearby, watching with bright smiles. The lights and the plastic candy canes that line a path to the Christmas tree farm are testaments to the Blue way. Year after year, they make Christmas magical for every customer.
The air goes out of me when I see Silas “Papa” Blue, Hank’s father, stepping out of the barn, hand on the brim of his Stetson. It makes sense that he’s here; he owns the farm, after all. But suddenly, I’m hit with the inexplicable urge to break down and cry.
Before I can punch the gas and roll by, he spots me, his head lifting. So I brake gently and turn the wheel with white knuckles, gliding into a makeshift parking spot.
You can do this, Bellamy. Dry your eyes first, then stiffen your body.
I exit the car and drink in the scent of Fraser fir, concolor fir, and white pine. A gust of wind whispers through the trees, ruffling my hair and sending goose bumps erupting along my skin. The sun dips lower as I follow the footpath up to the barn to meet Papa Blue.
“I wouldn’t believe it if I didn’t see it.” He’s a little less athletic than Hank, and his cowboy hat is dusty, as always. The man is physically incapable of spending time indoors, no matter the weather. “Bellamy Blue here to stay.”
I ignore his craggy smirk and the use of that last name. He’s correct anyway. It hasn’t changed.
Curling my arms around him, I sink into his strong hug and sigh. He smells like pipe and apple cider. “Not stay. You know that, Pops.”
He makes a sound of dubious refusal in the back of his throat, releasing me. “What are you doin’ in town then?”
“It’s my year for the cabin.” I brush a strand of hair from my face. “My thirtieth.”
“That so?” His eyes widen, then he chuckles. “Must have forgot.”
I lift my chin and survey the farm. Nearby, an employee hands a little girl a candy cane. A mitten-clad couple buys cups of peppermint hot chocolate from a food truck.
Mouth watering, I turn back to my former father-in-law. “How’s the farm? Business looks booming.”
“It’s keepin’ on.” His brow furrows, thick fingers hooking into his belt loops. “How ’bout you, honey?”
“Oh, you know,” I say, forcing a smile, “doing the same.”
