same illusions, yet determined to make this Christmas everything Holly dreamed it would be, Regan put on her game face and contemplated just how big a tree they could get and still cut through the trunk in the allotted fifteen minutes. Because how many more years would Holly still believe in Santa? In Christmas miracles?
“How about that one?” Regan said, pointing to a beautiful tree toward the back of the row. Holly ran through the column of trees to stare up at it in awe. There was no way she could get it on top of her car, let alone in her house, but if Holly loved it then they could always have it delivered and put it on the back porch.
“Nope,” Holly said dismissively. “Not quaint enough. Plus it’s got a red tag.” Which meant that it had already been sold.
Most people in St. Helena didn’t have to wait for payday to buy a tree. They had come down weeks ago, picked out the best one, prepaid, and still came to the St. Helena Cut and Run.
The Cut and Run was an annual fund-raiser held by the Community Action Committee to fund the Christmas musical, and with a portion of this year’s profits going toward the Safe Return of Randolph fund, nearly the entire town had turned out, which wasn’t a surprise. Regan had begun to understand that St. Helenites loved their town, Christmas, and Randolph. And not necessarily in that order.
She had tried several times over the past week to return the stupid statue. But no matter what time she went, there were always mourners holding a silent vigil. Sometimes not so silent, she thought, remembering Mrs. Lambert of the Grapevine Prune and Clip singing her version of “Ave Maria” while holding a clip-off to help raise funds for Randolph.
“Five minutes left until the Ninety-Third Annual Cut and Run. All contestants please make your way to the starting line.” A voice came over the speaker, which was on loan from the school.
Regan followed Holly over to the next row, the fake snow crunching under her feet. She waved to Jordan, who was too busy draping Ava in her coat to wave back, and said hi to Mrs. Collette who, just as Holly described, smelled like saltines and sounded like she had a megaphone surgically attached to her vocal box.
The deeper they had gone into the Christmas tree patch, the thicker the crowd had grown and the more nervous she had become. There were more people than golden tags. And since only the golden-ticketed trees could be cut in the contest, someone was going home empty-handed.
“Mommy,” Holly cried from two rows over. Regan could hear the excitement in her daughter’s voice and knew she’d found her Christmas tree.
Cutting through the jolly forest, around a scantily clad Ava who, with red-streaked hair and diamond-pierced navel, had managed to lose her mother and the bottom half of her skirt, and sidestepping a woman with a blinking red walker, Regan finally found her daughter. She was staring up at the most beautiful tree on the lot.
It was a shiny hunter green with lots of lush branches and the perfect tip for her mother’s star—a symmetrical goddess. Regan would have to have it delivered, which meant an extra charge, and the tree was a bit tall, but with some heavy maneuvering they could fit it through the door. Now all she had to figure out was how to get it, since the trunk was way more than a fifteen-minute chop.
“She’s a pretty one,” Isabel said, stepping out from the other side of the tree. She wasn’t wearing a rainbow knit cap, a men’s flannel, and holey jeans with gardening gloves dangling out the back pocket. No, Isabel, in fur and lumberjack boots, somehow managed to look runway ready. And in her back pocket was a tall, well-built man with hands the size of watermelons and an ax big enough to chop through Holly’s tree in one whack.
“This is my brother, Paul. Paul, this is Holly’s mom.” Isabel placed a possessive hand on his arm. “He’s home for the holidays and is sweet enough to be my swinging ax tonight.”
“Regan,” Holly’s mom said. “Nice to meet you.”
“It is very nice to meet you.” Mr. Swinging Ax held Regan’s hand until Isabel elbowed him.
“We saw a tree over there with your name on it,” Regan said, placing a possessive hand on her tree. She had actually counted five Stark-ticketed trees thus far.
“Just seeing what else