I take another sip of my cocoa, letting the bourbon warm me. “Perfect Pines was supposed to be a low-key side gig. A few of the regular customers, seeking the ‘authentic’ Christmas experience of chopping down their own tree.”
“Instead, you’ve got the entire town breathing down your neck for their picture-perfect pines,” Finn finishes.
“Mayor Reynolds told me I needed to ‘step up and serve the community.’ Wanted me to bring in chainsaws, hire a crew, clear-cut sections of the forest to meet regional demand.”
“You’re kidding,” Gabe says.
“I wish. He said Perfect Pines is the only viable operation in the county, so it’s my ‘civic duty’ to supply everyone. When I said no, he got… unpleasant.”
“What’d he say?” Finn asks.
“That I was putting my ‘sentimentality’ above the needs of hardworking families. That my grandfather would’ve done whatever it took.” My jaw clenches at the memory. “He doesn’tunderstand. This isn’t just a business. My grandfather planted these trees. My father taught me to use an axe, not a chainsaw, for a reason. We take what we need, sustainably. We don’t strip the land bare.”
“So you told him to shove it,” Finn says with satisfaction.
“In more polite terms. I told him I’d handle Snowflake Valley, but I couldn’t possibly supply the entire county without compromising everything Perfect Pines stands for.”
Gabe nods approvingly. “Good.”
I snort. “Yeah, well, we had no time to prepare. No trees are cut or trimmed. I keep saying we’re at capacity, but when a mom shows up with three kids desperate for a Christmas tree from a neighboring town… I can’t turn them away. So I sell them one anyway, and we fall further behind on Snowflake Valley orders.”
“You can’t save everyone,” Gabe points out. “I know. Doesn’t make it easier.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Finn says. “And Gabe’s…” He trails off.
“Taking time off,” Gabe supplies, his tone brooking no further discussion.
I know there’s more to that story. Gabe hates his job in “equity management”—whatever that means—but never talks about it.
“The timing couldn’t be worse,” I say, gazing into the fire once more. “With Granny May in the hospital and this being the busiest time of year for my rental management business…” I trail off, not wanting to sound like I’m complaining.
“How is she doing?” Finn asks gently.
“Better. They’re moving her to the Snowflake Retirement Home for recovery. She’s not happy about it.”
“She’ll adjust,” Gabe says with the quiet confidence that makes him such a steadying presence. “It’s temporary.”
“And I’m sorry about the cabin,” I add. “If I’d known, I never would have rented it out. Now you’re stuck in my tiny bedroom while Mom and Charlie have taken over Granny’s room.”
“And you’re on the couch,” Finn points out. “We’re not the ones getting a raw deal here.”
“The cottage wasn’t built for so many people.”
When my father died and left me the property, I built the Grand Cabin as my dream home with six bedrooms, cathedral ceilings, and a kitchen that would make any chef weep. But then Granny started forgetting things, leaving burners on, wandering outside in her nightgown. I moved into her cottage instead and converted the cabin into a vacation rental to help with expenses.
Finn leans forward. “Do you hear that?”
We fall silent.
At first, there’s nothing but the fire’s crackle and an owl’s distant hoot. Then, carried on the night air, comes the distinct sound of… singing?
No, not singing.
Caterwauling.
“Is someone being murdered?” Finn asks, eyes wide.
“Worse,” Gabe winces. “Someone’s singing.”