Every season in New York City has its own unique delights, but I have to admit that Christmas time is my favourite. As soon as Thanksgiving approaches and the store windows begin to feature festive themes I get a sparkly sense of excitement all through me. I’ve had it ever since I was a child—even though many of my childhood Christmases were tinged with sadness after Dad’s betrayal of our family. Mum always managed to keep the season light for us, which I think also helped her to cope with the time of year. She would spend weeks preparing, baking cakes and biscuits and then, the week before Christmas, she would busy herself filling the house with roses and poinsettias, winding holly and ivy garlands around every flat surface in the house.
I remain such a fan of the season that I even enjoy the annual struggle to single-handedly lug a six-foot spruce tree up three flights of stairs to my apartment (because I refuse to pay $25 extra to get the tree delivered or choose an imitation tree instead). A real Christmas tree is something Mum always insisted on when we were growing up, and I’ve carried on the tradition ever since.
So this was how I came to be standing, as I had done for the past five Christmases, at Chuck’s Festive Tree Yard, on an impossibly cold Saturday morning, two weeks before Christmas, wearing about twenty-seven layers to keep warm and stamping my feet to retain the circulation in my toes. Having chosen my tree—a gorgeously bushy Blue Spruce—I was now waiting for none other than Chuck himself to net up my purchase so I could drag it home.
Chuck is something of a local hero where I live. He started selling Christmas trees out of the back of his father’s pickup truck in 1953, on the car lot of the old Realto Picture House, three blocks down from my street. The crumbling 1930s cinema was demolished in the late eighties and, by then, Chuck had earned enough to buy the plot. During the year, his business is a small city nursery, selling pot plants and window boxes, but every Thanksgiving he transforms the entire area into the Festive Tree Yard, packed to capacity with every imaginable variety of pine tree. Now in his early seventies, with both his son and grandson working alongside him, Chuck strolls proudly around the yard with a fat wedge of cigar stub hanging permanently out of one side of his mouth, which bobs up and down comically as he proffers his wise advice to customers.
‘Nah, you don’t want that one, lady. That one is for homes less classy than yours. Trust me, I know. What you need is a tree like this. Now, don’t you go worrying about that price tag. That price is for customers I don’t like, see? You, I like. So, you can have this classy tree, we’ll call it a straight fifty and it’s yours. What d’ya say, huh?’
The Festive Tree Yard was always busy, but this morning it appeared that everyone in a five-mile radius had decided, like me, to buy their tree today.
‘I like the Norwegian Pine myself,’ said a voice by my ear, making me jump. I spun around to see Ed standing there, a large cotton shopping bag from Zabar’s slung casually over one shoulder and a huge grin on his face. ‘Happy Holidays!’
‘What are you doing here?’ I smiled.
‘Same thing as you. Looking at over-priced, half-dead trees,’ he smirked. ‘So what sorry specimen did you go for this year?’
‘Blue spruce,’ I replied, jutting my chin out defiantly. ‘And I happen to think that a real tree is essential for Christmas.’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, lady,’ grinned Chuck, appearing from the forest in front of us and handing me my tree. ‘Blue spruce—a fine choice for a fine woman. Don’t you agree, sir?’
‘If you like that kind of thing,’ Ed replied nonchalantly.
Chuck’s wrinkled brow furrowed further. ‘Is he referring to the tree or to you?’ he asked me, clenching the cigar between his teeth as he spoke.
I smiled. ‘Non-believer.’
Chuck let out a big throaty laugh. ‘Aha, I see. Well, Happy Holidays, lady—and to you, sir.’ And with that he disappeared back into the trees.
‘So how are you getting this back home?’ Ed asked. ‘Hailing a cab?’
‘No, walking it back.’
Ed surveyed the tree and then me, eyes wide. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘Nope,’ I replied, picking up the end of the trunk and dragging the tree behind me, leaving a pine-needle-studded trail in the snow. ‘It’s all part of the magic.’
Ed wasn’t convinced. ‘Right…Here, let me help.’ He scooped up the other end of the tree, cursing as the needles broke through his gloves, and hooked it under his arm. ‘Onward, Duncan!’
Laughing and joking, we walked the three blocks back to my apartment block, enjoying the snow flurries as they patted against our cheeks and landed on our clothes. The sky above us was the colour of melted marshmallows—pale pink and white—as butterscotch-hued clouds heavy with snow drifted slowly across the tops of the skyscrapers. Everyone we passed seemed to be smiling, as if the tree we carried was some kind of talisman that broke through the usual barriers of propriety and endeared us to our neighbours.
I have to say that manoeuvring the tree up to my apartment was a lot less tricky with two people—albeit with one of them moaning incessantly throughout. After much twisting and turning to navigate the narrow stairwells, we reached my front door and, with one final decisive effort, triumphantly delivered the spruce to its desired location. Ed let out a long whistle and collapsed on my sofa, while I made us celebratory coffee to mark the occasion.
‘So,’ I said, flopping down beside him, ‘how come you were up here today?’
‘I was just in the neighbourhood.’
‘You’re never in this neighbourhood.’ I surveyed him carefully.
‘Yes I am,’ he protested.
‘When you come to see me.’
‘Yes. And also when I just happen to want to visit the Upper West Side.’
‘You hate the Upper West Side.’
‘I do not.’
I turned to face him, now highly suspicious. ‘Yes, you do. You always say it’s full of people with more money than brains who view shopping as some kind of vocation.’
He had to concede that point. ‘One of my particularly favourite personal observations, that one.’
‘Hmm. So why decide to come shopping here today?’
‘I like the cheese at Zabar’s.’
‘You are such a liar.’
‘I am not. It’s a well-known fact that their cheese selection is excellent,’ he replied defiantly. ‘I like cheese.’
‘Be serious.’
He held up his hands. ‘OK, OK, you win, Miss Marple. I happened to be in the neighbourhood because I wanted to make sure you’re all right.’
‘I’m fine. I’ve just got my tree, so I’m happy.’
The Steinmann Stare locked on. ‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘So what are you getting at?’
Ed sighed. ‘I wanted to make sure you’re all right with me.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I owe you an apology. Again. This is becoming a worryingly regular occurrence for me these days.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I feel like I haven’t supported you enough.’
‘Yes, you have,’ I disagreed. ‘Anyway, the shop’s been crazy, we’ve had the students helping out and you’ve been busy.’
‘But you had the David thing.’
‘All sorted. He knows where I stand and I feel better for saying it.’
Ed’s voice became gentler, ‘And—the Nate thing.’
‘What Nate thing?’
‘He hasn’t been around lately.’
I folded my arms defensively. ‘He’s been busy as well.’
‘What—avoiding you?’
‘Ed, that’s unfair.’
‘You like him, Rosie. It’s plain as day.’
‘He’s my friend.’
‘I think he likes you too,’ Ed continued.
‘He’s engaged. As in, getting married to someone else,’ I retorted. ‘And you know how I feel about relationships. You are so way off on this.’
Ed held his hands up. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie. It’s none of my business. And it’s beside the point. I wanted to say sorry for not being there for you, that’s all. It’s just that I’ve—’ He broke off, running a hand nervously through his dark hair. ‘I’ve been a little…preoccupied lately.’
‘Ed, we’re fine.’ There was something in his expression that I couldn’t place. ‘What’s been on your mind?’
He took a deep breath and squared himself to face me. ‘Now this is hard for me because of—you know—the iceberg thing?’
The earnestness of his expression made me giggle involuntarily. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, trying to stuff my laughter back behind a serious expression. ‘Take all the melting time you need—just be sure to clear up afterwards, OK?’
The twinkle had made a welcome return to his eyes. ‘Philistine. All I wanted to say was that I’ve had a revelation, of sorts. You remember when you said to me that the time to start worrying was when you wanted a specific somebody, not just anybody?’
‘Erm, yes, I think so.’
‘Well, start worrying.’
I couldn’t believe it. ‘Really?’
He nodded, a vulnerability suddenly cracking the usual steely exterior. ‘Absolutely. Now is that time.’
I stared at him for a while and—I’m not quite sure why—I began to detect the slightest ripple of sadness deep within me. Maybe it was because someone I had always assumed would be forever single, like me, had made a leap I wasn’t prepared to take. Whatever it was, I mentally pushed it away and smiled my brightest smile instead. ‘Wow. That’s—that’s wonderful. So how did she break through the iceberg then? The sheer warmth of her love melted you, eh?’
Ed raised an eyebrow. ‘You read way too many chick-lit books for your own good. It’s nothing like that. It’s, uh, a bit of an afar thing, actually. She—she has no idea.’
‘Yet.’
‘Sorry?’
‘She has no idea yet. But you’re going to tell her, right?’
He shook his head wildly. ‘Absolutely no way, José. I am not prepared to jump that far. I’ve only just reached this momentous stage in my “melting”. I don’t want to do anything drastic.’
‘That’s fine, but remember Billy Whitman and his watercooler girl. Don’t leave it for ever to tell her.’
He grimaced. ‘I know. I will tell her—when the time is right. It’s just too early for that right now.’
I smiled at him and patted his arm. ‘I’m proud of you. You’re doing so well.’
‘Don’t patronise me,’ he retorted, blushing slightly.
‘I’m not. I’m really pleased. So—who is she?’
‘That information is classified,’ he stated, military fashion.
‘Right,’ I said, grabbing a cushion and waving it menacingly at him. ‘Then I will have to resort to other methods to get it.’
A sparkle of mischief washed over his face. ‘Oh, right, attack first, ask questions later. You are so US military.’ He snatched the cushion from behind his back and swung it at me. Skilfully, I ducked, landing a counter-blow squarely on his chest. ‘Ohho, that’s war now!’ he yelled, pulling another cushion out and pummelling me with both at once. Giggling, I pulled my weapon back as far as I could in order to get as much swing as possible. Unfortunately for me, I lost my balance, toppled backwards and landed in an unceremonious heap on the floor.
Laughing uncontrollably, Ed reached down and helped me up, pulling me to him and wrapping his arms around me as we collapsed into breath-stealing guffaws. Gradually, our laughter subsided—but the embrace remained, his chin resting on my shoulder and my cheek pressed against his neck. It felt safe. Instinctively, we both pulled away and sat facing each other, wide grins spreading across our faces, flushed from the laughter.
Ed checked his watch. ‘Well, it’s time I headed off. I want to check on the Saturday kids on my way home. And you,’ he added, waggling a finger at me sternly, ‘have a Christmas tree to decorate.’
‘Yes, I have,’ I smiled as we stood and went to the door. ‘So, Mr Iceberg…’
Ed walked out into the hallway and turned back to face me. ‘Yes?’
‘Happy melting.’
The wide, crooked grin flashed brilliantly and he saluted me before walking down the stairs and out of sight.