Andrew was late again. As Beth meandered through rows of pine trees at Ray’s Christmas Tree Lot, she resisted the urge to call her consistently late husband. What good would it do? He’d just apologize as usual, pluck an excuse from the catalog of excuses he kept tucked away in his coat pocket. “Pick out a tree,” he’d say. “And I’m sure I’ll love it.”
Beth sighed, glanced at the time on her iPhone. Two minutes later than the last time she checked.
Ray, the lot owner, tugged at the collar of his plaid shirt as he approached. “So what’ll it be, miss?”
“I’ll take that one,” Beth said. She pointed to a scraggly, glorified twig that looked a bit like Charlie Brown’s pathetic tree in A Charlie Brown Christmas.
“Really?” Ray stared at her. “He’s a scrawny little orphan.” Apparently he’d forgotten all the lessons he learned in Salesmanship 101.
“I like underdogs,” Beth said. “How much?”
Ray scratched his chin. “Let’s see, for a nice lady like you, I can let him go for thirty-five.”
“Twenty-five,” Beth countered. “And you throw in a stand.”
Ray pondered her offer for a beat, then caved. “Deal.”
Beth was covered in pine needles by the time she dragged the little tree three blocks from the tree lot at 86th and Park to the Carnegie Hill apartment she shared with her husband. She’d managed to lose a branch or two along the way and wondered if this miserable little pine wouldn’t be better off left at the curb for the trash collector.
She paused on the sidewalk and looked up at her apartment window. Dark. Well, at least Andrew hadn’t come home and forgotten about her. She rested the tree by the entry door and checked her phone in case she’d missed a text. Nothing.
“Beth, there you are!”
Beth turned to see her husband, Andrew, jogging across the street, his leather carrying case slung over his shoulder, Bluetooth welded to his head.
“There you are!” Beth made no attempt to disguise her annoyance. Andrew held up his index finger, his signal for “I’m on the phone.” Beth folded her arms and glared at him as he finished up a business call.
“Al, just call Kimberly, and she’ll make the travel arrangements. Okay, gotta run.” Andrew clicked off his phone. “Alistair Whitman,” he said. He planted a hurried kiss on Beth’s cheek. But if he thought dropping the name of his most famous literary client would get him out of his wife’s doghouse, he had another thing coming.
“Andrew, where were you? I waited at the tree lot for almost an hour.”
“Honey, I’m so sorry. The end of the year is crunch time for a literary agent. All my deals are closing. I’m swamped.”
“How much effort does it take to send a simple text?” Beth said.
“Beth, I know. I have no excuse.” Andrew appraised the tree. “Wow. That’s our tree?”
Beth glared at him. “Don’t you dare, Andrew Farmer. You forfeited the right to be critical.”
Andrew smiled and picked up the tree. “I know the perfect spot for it.” Beth opened the apartment building entry door, and Andrew plunged through, cracking a branch on the way in.
“Andrew! Careful! Don’t hurt him.”
“Oh, so it’s a him, eh?” Andrew tried to tease Beth into a better mood as he fought his way up the narrow stairwell. “I thought trees were supposed to be female.”
“You didn’t think any such thing.”
Andrew was halfway up the stairwell when Lulu, the yippy beast in 4B, bolted from the landing down the steps and through his legs, nearly toppling him over the railing.
Andrew called out as he regained his balance. “Beth! That little mutt Whatshisname’s out again!”
“It’s Lulu,” Beth said. She scooped the little dog up in her arms. “She’s not a mutt. She’s a West Highland terrier. And it’s Whats her name.”
An old lady’s voice hollered down from the second level, “Luluuuu!”
“I’ve got her, Mrs. Applebee,” Beth called back. She pointed her finger at the dog. “You’ve got to stop sneaking out like that.”
Mrs. Applebee stepped out of her apartment and smiled when she saw Beth cradling her Lulu. “Oh, thank you, Beth. What would I do without you?” Beth lifted the squirming dog into the woman’s arms. “Would you like to come in for some hot cocoa and Christmas cookies?” Mrs. Applebee said.
“I’d love to, Mrs. A, but Andrew and I are just about to trim our tree.” Mrs. Applebee considered Andrew as if noticing him—and the tree—for the first time.
“Oh, your husband’s home. Miracles never cease. Well, some other time then. Bye now, and merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” Beth said. Mrs. Applebee shot Andrew a disapproving look and vanished inside her apartment.
“That woman hates me,” Andrew said.
“She thinks you don’t deserve me,” Beth said. “She might be right.”
Andrew positioned the little tree in the corner by the window. “At least he doesn’t take up much space.”
Beth looked over and smiled. “A little more centered, please.”
Andrew shifted the tree six inches to the left. “There. Perfect,” Beth said. “How does grilled cheese and tomato soup sound?”
“Fine,” Andrew said.
“You know, it’s supposed to snow Christmas Eve,” Beth said. “I’d love a white Christmas.”
“I have a wonderful idea!” Beth said. “After we decorate the tree, let’s light a fire and watch the movie.”
“What movie?” Andrew said. He plucked a pine needle from his neck.
“Well, White Christmas, of course.” Beth sang a few bars of one of the songs from the musical:
If you’re worried and you can’t sleep,
Just count your blessings instead of sheep,
And you’ll fall asleep
Counting your blessings.
Her voice was sweet and perfectly pitched, and Andrew couldn’t help but smile. He always loved to hear Beth sing. Then a guilty knot tightened in his gut. She wasn’t going to like what he was about to say.
“You know, that sounds great,” Andrew said. “But you think we could take a rain check? Or rather a snow check. Huh? See what I did with the whole snow theme?” Andrew chuckled at his lame attempt at humor. Beth wasn’t smiling. “You’re right. Not funny,” he said.
“What is it, Andrew? Another business dinner? Because I thought we were going to spend Christmas together.”
“Beth, we are. It’s not Christmas . . . yet. It’s December 22. We have three more days until Christmas.”
Beth glared at him and then gave him her back. Andrew knew this wasn’t a good sign. Anger was bad, the cold shoulder far worse.
He stopped messing with the tree and walked over to the kitchen counter where she was dumping soup into a pan. Might as well just throw all the cards on the table.
“I have to go to Chicago for a couple days,” he said. “But don’t worry, I’ll be back in plenty of time for Christmas.”
Beth paused for a moment to let the news sink in. She then resumed stirring the soup and refused to meet his eye.
“When?” she said.
Andrew knew that disappointed voice all too well.
“Tonight.”