Manny Ruiz, 52, spent most of his days trundling around his 12-acre Christmas tree farm outside Hendersonville, North Carolina, his left knee still stiff from the 2013 lineman fall that pushed him into early retirement, his social calendar so empty he could fit the whole year’s plans on a Post-it note. His older sister nagged him every Thanksgiving that he’d built a fortress out of flannel, pine needle dust, and leftover bitterness from his 2015 divorce, and refused to let anyone even peek over the wall. He’d come to the town’s annual fall craft beer festival only because his childhood buddy begged, offering a free case of his favorite imperial stout as bait, and he’d already been planning his escape for 20 minutes when he spotted her.
He’d seen her three Decembers running, always alone, always in a puffy olive coat, always asking too many questions about the difference between Frasier fir and Balsam before picking a 6-foot tree to haul back to her cottage 10 minutes down the road. He’d never learned her name, never asked, had written her off as off-limits the first time he spotted the thin silver band on her left ring finger. She waved when she caught him staring, weaving through the crowd of flannel-clad locals and tourist families, boots crunching over fallen maple leaves, and he froze mid-sip of his pumpkin ale, wondering if he could fake a sudden knee sprain to bolt.
She stopped a foot away, close enough that he could smell vanilla and cedar shampoo over the pervasive scents of burnt caramel, roasted nuts, and hop fumes floating through the crisp October air. The bluegrass band on the nearby stage cranked up a fast fiddle number, and she leaned in a little to be heard, her shoulder brushing his good right arm, the fleece of her coat softer than he would’ve guessed. “Mara,” she said, holding out a hand, fingers cold from holding a cold cider can. “You’re the tree guy, right? I swear you remember every tree I’ve ever picked.” He took her hand, calloused palm wrapping around hers for a beat longer than necessary, and told her his name, surprised at how rough his own voice sounded, like he hadn’t talked to anyone who wasn’t his border collie in a week.
He noticed the missing ring first, when she pulled her glove off to grab a pretzel bite from the paper bag she held. He stared for half a second, then looked away, heat creeping up his neck, like he’d caught a glimpse of something he wasn’t supposed to see. She laughed, a low warm sound, and held her left hand up like she was showing off a new tattoo. “Grandma’s ring,” she said. “Wore it for years to keep creepy tree lot guys from hitting on me. Got divorced last January, figured I could stop hiding behind it now.” He nodded, not sure what to say, his brain short-circuiting between the part of him screaming to run back to his quiet farm and the part that couldn’t stop staring at the way her cheeks pinked when the wind picked up, the way she tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear every time she laughed.
When a drunk tourist tripped over a golden retriever on a leash and face-planted into a pile of hay bales 10 feet away, they both burst out laughing, and her hand landed on his forearm, fingers pressing into the muscle just above his work boot, for three full seconds. He didn’t pull away. He’d spent eight years convincing himself he was too old, too set in his ways, too scarred from the way his ex left without a note to be worth anyone’s time, but when she leaned in again, her face so close he could count the tiny freckles across her nose, all that noise went quiet.
She asked if he had any Frasier firs coming in early this year, said she was sick of waiting till mid-December to put up a tree, wanted to cut one the first week of November if he was open. He said yes before she even finished talking, even though he usually didn’t open the lot till the week after Thanksgiving. She grinned, and he swore the wind died down for a second, like the whole world was waiting to see what he’d say next. “You wanna get tacos after this?” she asked, nodding toward the neon taco truck sign glowing two blocks over. “My treat. I’ve been dying to ask you what the hell you do on that farm for the other 11 months of the year.”
He hesitated for half a beat, the old familiar voice in his head telling him he’d mess this up, that he was better off alone, that he didn’t have anything interesting to say. Then he nodded, draining the last of his ale and tossing the can in a nearby recycling bin. His knee throbbed a little when he pushed off the fence he’d been leaning on, but when she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow to steady him, the pain faded to a quiet hum. They stepped off the curb toward the taco truck, and for the first time in eight years, he didn’t feel the urge to rush home to an empty house.
