The Noel Stranger Read online

Page 4


  Dear Bryan and Leisa,

  Thank you for your thoughtfulness during this difficult time. It means more than you know.

  Sincerely,

  Maggie

  I put my coat back on, walked across the street to their home, and pushed the doorbell. A moment later I heard footsteps, then the door unlocked. A dowdy middle-aged woman in a jumpsuit answered. “May I help you?”

  Even though she didn’t look familiar, I didn’t know the Stephenses well enough to know if the woman was Leisa or not. I assumed she was. “Hi. I wanted to thank you for what you and your husband did for me this morning.”

  “I think you’re mistaking me for my sister,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. Is Leisa or Bryan home?”

  “They left half an hour ago.”

  The exchange felt awkward.

  “Well, I brought them some cookies.” I offered the plate. “They’re still warm. I just wanted to say thank you. Bryan shoveled my driveway and walk.”

  “He would do that.” She took the plate from me without looking at it.

  “Do you expect them back soon?”

  “Not until Thursday. They’re going to be up in Logan a few days.” Then, after a pause, she added, “Their son was killed yesterday in a snowmobiling accident.”

  The pronouncement stunned me. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s a tragedy. He has four children, and his wife already suffers from depression.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Finally, I said again, “I’m sorry.”

  “Who should I say came by?”

  “I’m Maggie Walther,” I said. “My name’s on the note. I’ll reach out next week.”

  She thanked me vicariously for the Stephenses and shut the door. I turned and walked back to my house. I was moved by the couple’s circumstance. As appreciative as I had already been for their kindness, now I was astounded. In the midst of such heartbreak, this good couple had reached out to me in my pain. For the first time in a long while, I felt hope in humanity.

  CHAPTER

  Eleven

  I went to find a Christmas tree. I found something else.

  —Maggie Walther’s Diary

  When I got home, I walked around the house opening the blinds, then turned on the radio. Not surprisingly, it was set to one of the local talk stations. I immediately started pushing other presets, stopping at a station playing Christmas music.

  Christmas music has always been healing to me. I thought again of my good neighbors and their ability to transcend their grief. You don’t find light looking in the dark, and consciously or not, for the last six months I had resigned myself to the dark, scurrying from light like a cockroach. I was ready to at least try to lift myself out of it. Maybe lifting the blinds had been a literal manifestation of that.

  Burl Ives sang “Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas.” I smiled, which was another groundbreaking achievement. When was the last time I’d smiled? Carina was right, I needed to change my environment. What would be more fitting than a Christmas tree?

  I finished cleaning my kitchen, put on my long wool coat, and went out to my car. I drove to the Kroger’s where I’d noticed a Christmas tree lot on the south corner of their parking lot.

  In Salt Lake, like in most big cities, Christmas tree lots started springing up around November—usually in the corner of a mall or supermarket’s parking lot. I remembered, as a girl, a place in Ashland where one of the Christmas tree lots had a fenced-in corral of Santa’s reindeer. It was one of the few truly magical memories that had somehow survived the trauma of my childhood.

  The traffic was light; it took me less than ten minutes to reach my destination. The Christmas tree lot was about a half-acre square and surrounded by a portable chain-link fence. Long rows of colorful Christmas lights hung over the lot, strung from white wooden posts that were wrapped with red ribbon–like peppermint sticks.

  There was an aluminum-sided trailer parked near the lot’s entrance with various-sized wreaths hanging from pegs on the front of it, all marked with price tags.

  Music was playing from a PA system, but it wasn’t Christmas music. It was seventies rock. “Take the Long Way Home” by Supertramp. Who still listens to Supertramp?

  Business seemed light (who shops for a Christmas tree at three in the afternoon?), and there were only a few cars parked outside the fence.

  I walked through the front entrance into the makeshift forest. There were four other customers inside the fenced area, an elderly couple and an older man with what was likely his grandson. A young, skinny man wearing a denim jacket over a hoodie passed by me dragging a tree toward the entrance. He was followed by the elderly couple.

  “Can I help you with something?” he asked as he walked by.

  “I’m looking for a tree,” I said.

  “Be right with you.”

  “I’ve got it, Shelby,” another voice said.

  I turned to see an attractive man walking toward me. He looked to be about my age, early thirties, with striking brown eyes beneath thick eyebrows. His hair was dark brown, short but combed back, half-hidden beneath a wool cap. His face was covered with a partial beard, kind of an extended goatee, though along his jawline it was not more than stubble, as if it had either just started to grow or he was trying to look like Hugh Jackman.

  I had never seen Clive with facial hair. I’m not even sure he could grow a beard. Once when I’d suggested he attempt to grow one, he said, “No one trusts a politician with a beard.” When I countered that Lincoln had had a beard, he replied, “Yeah, and look how that turned out.”

  Frankly, when it comes to facial hair and politicians, it’s the mustache that should be feared. Stalin and Hitler had particularly memorable lip hair.

  He smiled as he approached me. “Hi, I’m Andrew. May I help you?”

  I felt butterflies. “Hi. I’m . . . I need a tree.”

  “I suspected that,” he said with a half smile. “Not that I’m psychic.”

  I felt stupid. “I guess most people coming here want a tree.”

  “Unless they’re lost,” he said. “What kind of tree are you looking for?”

  “Kind?”

  “Most people have a favorite. It’s usually what they grew up with. Norway spruce, Nordmann fir, blue spruce, Fraser fir, Douglas fir, lodgepole pine . . .”

  The names were lost on me. I pointed to the one closest to me. “What kind of tree is that?”

  “That’s a Fraser fir.”

  “Is it good?”

  “All the trees I sell are good.”

  “I mean, are some better than others?”

  “That depends on what you’re looking for. Like, do you want a tree with a nice smell or something that’s a little lower-maintenance?”

  “Lower-maintenance is good. I don’t need anything dying on me,” I added. “Enough has died in my life this year.”

  He looked at me empathetically and said, “Low maintenance. Then we’ll stay away from this one.” He stepped away from a nearly perfectly cone-shaped tree.

  “But I liked that one,” I said.

  “You won’t after you get it home. That’s a Norway spruce. It’s a pretty tree, but it has sharp needles, which it loses fairly fast. Unless you like vacuuming every day, but you said you wanted low maintenance.”

  “Definitely low maintenance,” I said.

  “How tall a tree were you thinking?”

  “Just regular.”

  His brow fell. “Regular. How high is your ceiling?”

  “I don’t know. Normal.”

  He grinned lightly. “Regular and normal. Is your ceiling eight or nine feet?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “What year was your house built?”

  “What does that have to do with my tree?”

  “Before 1995 most ceilings were eight feet. In the next decade, they changed to nine. Is it a new home?”

  “It’s an older house. I think it was built in the seventies.”

&nb
sp; “The golden years. So, you need a six-foot tree. You want to allow room for a star.”

  “I don’t have a star.”

  “Or whatever. Not everyone puts a star on top of their tree. I’ve seen spires, cones, snowflakes. I’ve even seen a Death Star.”

  “I was just thinking how much I wanted a Death Star on my tree,” I said sardonically.

  “I might have a Yoda topper. Put me on a tree, you will.”

  I grimaced. “Was that your Yoda imitation?”

  “Sadly,” he replied.

  “I want a tree that’s sturdy,” I said. “And cute. Not one of those asymmetrical ones. Something well-rounded.”

  “Cute, sturdy, six foot, and well-rounded. You’re still describing a tree here?”

  “Yes.” I smiled, a surprising blush creeping down my neck. I pointed at a tree. “How about that one?”

  He walked over to it. “This would be a good choice for you. It’s a balsam fir. It’s a classic tree with a nice scent and it doesn’t lose its needles as fast as some of the others. Its only downside is that it’s not great for heavy ornaments because its branches aren’t real thick.”

  “I don’t have heavy ornaments. How much is it?”

  He pulled out a tape measure and measured the tree. “They’re nine dollars a foot, so this is fifty-four dollars. I’ll make it fifty even.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

  He reached in to the tree’s trunk and lifted it. I followed him as he carried my tree to a long worktable surrounded by piles of sawdust.

  “I’m going to give it a fresh cut. That will help it live longer.”

  “I could use a fresh cut,” I said beneath my breath. He furtively glanced over at me, then placed the tree up on the table with the tree’s trunk hanging over the side. He donned plastic safety glasses, then fired up a chainsaw, its squeal drowning out all other sound. Cutting trees was something my father was always doing. I tried to imagine Clive holding a chainsaw, but I couldn’t. His hands were too soft.

  Andrew cut off the bottom three inches of the tree, then killed the chainsaw engine and brought the tree over to me. “She’s ready to go.”

  “The tree is three inches shorter now,” I observed.

  “Yes?”

  “That’s like two dollars’ worth of tree.” I was only joking, but he didn’t catch it.

  “I’ll make it forty-five,” he said. “Do you need anything to go with it?”

  “Like what?”

  “Do you have a tree stand?”

  “I think so. It’s probably in our shed. If I can find it. I’m not sure where my husband—my ex-husband kept it.”

  He nodded calmly. “Well, you’ll need one. If you want, I can get you one, then you can bring it back when you find yours.”

  “That works.”

  “What kind would you like?”

  “Just pick one for me.”

  From the side of the trailer he lifted a large green stand that looked like an impaled plastic pail with aluminum pole legs. “I like these; they’re big, but they hold a lot of water, so you can water every few days and not worry about it drying out. Do you need lights?”

  “No. We’ve got a million of them. I mean, I do. Now.” I sounded stupid.

  “All right.” He added up the amount on a tablet. “That will be fifty-five dollars with your discount. With tax, that’s fifty-eight forty-three. The stand was ten.”

  “Thank you, but you don’t really have to give me the discount. I was just kidding.”

  “It’s done,” he said. I pulled out my wallet and handed him my credit card. He ran it through a card reader, then handed me the iPad. “If you’ll autograph that. You can use your finger to sign.”

  I signed it and handed it back.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You’re parked out front?”

  “Just outside your gate.”

  “If you’ll take the tree stand, I’ll carry the tree out for you.”

  I took the stand, which was heavier than I expected. He grabbed a ball of twine, got my tree, and followed me to my car. As I unlocked my front door, he stopped about ten feet behind me.

  “That’s your car?”

  I was used to people taking jabs at the size of my vehicle. “Yes.”

  “It’s a little . . . little.”

  “I prefer fun-sized. Besides, it gets forty miles to a gallon and I can park it anywhere.”

  “That’s good,” he said, “because parking it would be a lot safer than driving it. You could hit a squirrel and total it.”

  I bit back a smile. “Now you’re mocking me.”

  “Mocking aside, tying the tree to your car isn’t going to work real well. And by real well, I mean it’s not going to work.”

  “Well, it’s all I’ve got. Maybe I should have gone with one of those fake trees you can pull apart.”

  He shook his head. “Fake trees are for underachievers. Do you know anyone with a truck?”

  “The FedEx guy.”

  A smile flitted across his face. “Where do you live?”

  “About four miles from here. Over by the Target.”

  He glanced back at the lot. “We close at eight tonight. If you don’t mind waiting, I can drive it over after we close. If that’s not too late.”

  “How much will that be? To deliver it.”

  “A cup of coffee.”

  I liked the price. “Deal.” I wrote down my address and handed it to him. “I will see you between eight and eight thirty. After that, I’m indisposed.”

  The corners of his mouth rose. “Then I’ll try to be there before you’re indisposed.”

  I got in my car, glanced at him in the rearview mirror, and pulled out onto the slushy street. I was glad he was coming to my house.

  CHAPTER

  Twelve

  I invited a man over for coffee. His name is Andrew. He is a pleasant stranger.

  —Maggie Walther’s Diary

  Indisposed? Where did that come from? I’m not sure why I said that. It’s not like I had plans. I supposed that I was protecting myself, but I wasn’t sure from what.

  I stopped at the grocery store on the way home and bought some coffee, chocolate biscotti, and a few other necessities I’d put off buying. Actually, I ended up with a cart full of groceries. I hadn’t really been shopping in a while.

  I went home and put everything away, then straightened up the house in anticipation of his arrival, even lighting the candle my neighbors had brought me. It made my front room smell like wassail.

  I dragged an upholstered chair from the corner of the front room to make space for the tree, then went out to the garage to see if Clive had left our tree stand there. I couldn’t find it, so I placed the new stand about where I figured the tree would go.

  I thought about the man at the tree lot. Andrew. He was beautiful, really. But especially his eyes. There was something mesmerizing about his eyes. They were clear but soulful, maybe even sad—an irony in light of his obvious sense of humor and contagious smile.

  I made myself a vegetable omelet for dinner, started a fire in the front room’s gas fireplace, then picked up a book and sat down on the couch to read as the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed six.

  It was two hours past dark when a red truck with a yellow snowplow stopped in front of my home, backed up, and then pulled into my driveway. I could see Andrew inside. I opened the door and walked outside without my jacket, my arms crossed at my chest to keep myself warm. Andrew looked up at me, shut off his truck, and climbed out.

  “You found me,” I said, my breath freezing in a cloud in front of me.

  “I’m glad you came out. I wasn’t sure I had the right place. It’s kind of hard finding addresses when the curbs and mailboxes are covered with snow.” He walked around to the bed of his truck and dropped the gate. “Should I bring it in through the front door?”

  “Yes. Do you need any help?”

  “No, I’ve got it.” He lifted the tree from t
he back of the truck and carried it up the walk to my front porch.

  “Come on in,” I said, stepping inside. “You can just put it there in the corner. Where I put the tree stand.”

  He stamped his feet on the mat. “I’m going to get your carpet wet. Should I take off my shoes?”

  “You’re okay,” I said.

  He carried the tree in, leaving a light trail of needles in his wake. He lifted the tree onto the stand’s metal peg and moved it around until it fell into place. Then he stepped back to inspect it. “Perfect.” He turned back to me. “It just needs some decorations.”

  “I can handle that. Thank you for bringing it. How much do I owe you?”

  “I think I quoted you a cup of coffee.”

  I smiled. “Would you like to come into the kitchen while I make it?”

  “Sure.”

  “This way.” He followed me into the kitchen. “You can sit at the table.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat down. “You have a beautiful home.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “A little over three years. I’m going to miss it.”

  “You’re moving?”

  “Eventually. This house is too big for just me.” I took the pot and poured two cups. “How do you like your coffee?”

  “Cream and sugar.”

  “I’ve got half and half,” I said.

  “Even better.”

  I carried the cups over to the table. I retrieved a pint carton of half and half from the refrigerator and a tin can with sugar cubes from the cupboard next to it, then brought them over to the table and set them next to the cups. I sat down across from him.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome. How often do you make deliveries?”

  “Not often.”

  “Here’s your sugar.” I slid the tin can to him. “Then I’m lucky.”

  “Yes, you are.” He lifted a sugar cube out of the can. “They’re pink. And heart-shaped.”

  “I made them with rosewater. Then dyed them.”

  “You make your own sugar cubes?”

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  He laughed. “I don’t even know anyone who uses them anymore.” He lifted one between his thumb and forefinger. “These are . . . awesome. Definitely Martha Stewart.”