A couple of hours later, everyone is cold and wet, but full of smiles, Christmas songs and bad cracker jokes that make us all laugh because of how bad they are. Everyone heads back towards the house to dry off in front of the fire, but I grab Noel’s hand and hold him back.
‘How bad do you think the damage is?’
He makes a face. ‘It’s impossible to tell at this stage, but I think you’ve lost a fair few Balsams and some Blue spruces. Judging by how wet the ground is, I’d guess at six or seven hundred trees, maybe more if the rest of it doesn’t drain quickly.’
‘That’s pretty much all the Balsam firs.’ There’s a pang of dread in my stomach. It’s a big chunk out of the six thousand trees that are here, and I’m well aware that stock is likely to be short in the next few years without this blow too.
‘We can cut some of the Balsams from the far end and sell them at the market, but that’s it. You’ll have to close the whole Balsam field this season. You can’t let the public wander around with these trenches threaded throughout the field in case someone slips.’
I groan, but I’d already planned on doing it anyway. The ground is too wet and dodgy to let people in.
‘There are chains for the gate and “keep out” signs in the barn, and one of your first expenses needs to be getting a flood wall built. It won’t be cheap, but it’ll stop this ever happening again.’
I groan at that too. More money outgoing, and even less incoming.
‘It sounds like a lot, but we can deal with it.’ Now we’ve got a bit of privacy, he presses his lips against mine again. ‘I promise. It’s just a blip. One of many that we farmers get chucked at us by Mother Nature, but we overcome them as and when they crop up, and sometimes they lead to even greater things that we never expected.’
He waggles both eyebrows and I tangle my hands in his hair and pull him down, losing myself in the heat of his mouth against my cold skin as his piercing presses against my lips in a spine-tingling sexy way, and the shivers running through me have nothing to do with the wet clothes and hammering rain.
I don’t even notice that the heavy drops of water have changed to light flakes until I register the iciness settling on my back.
‘Snow!’ I squeal against his mouth, and when we pull apart, his eyes are dancing with a lightness that was missing earlier.
‘Snow is good.’ He pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around me and squeezing tight as we stand there, ankle-deep in mud with water still pooling at our feet and gentle snowflakes landing on us. ‘It’ll freeze the ground and give the river a chance to drain, and it’ll be amazing for people walking around. You’re still opening on Saturday.’
‘Even after this?’
‘Even more so after this. We need to assess the storm damage and clear up any trees that have fallen before then, and grit the paths on Saturday morning, but you can’t let this change anything. It’s not great, but it could’ve been so much worse.’
The snowflakes come down thicker as we walk back hand in hand. It’s already starting to settle and the ground starts to crunch underneath our feet before we’ve reached the house. The outside world is covered in a blanket of white again and the wind has eased from the howling gale of earlier, making perfect white snowflakes dance around us. Nothing has ever felt more magical than standing on this perfect farm, in this perfect place, with this beautiful man, surrounded by beautiful Christmas trees, with new friends and a community that I never thought I’d be part of, and I’m happier than I’ve ever been.
Chapter 17
I follow the track on foot, walking behind a family with three children excitedly carrying their chosen Christmas tree that I’ve just cut down. It’s Saturday morning, the last day of November, and the farm is buzzing with people on opening day. The sun is bright in the sky after the storms of the week, and I’m surrounded by the sound of dripping as the snow starts to melt from branches all around me. The elf hats are pinned to intermittent Christmas trees, glittery footprints are spread between the trunks, and the silver bells hanging in the branches jingle with every wisp of the gentle breeze. I swing the saw by my legs as I walk, humming along to the strains of Frank Sinatra’s version of ‘Little Drummer Boy’, which is playing from a speaker on the roof of the caravan. The track around the farm is frozen earth, surrounded by the snow that has settled again, and all around me are the excited screams and laughter of children as they dash around, playing hide and seek behind the Norway spruces, and their squeals of disappointment as the crunch of their shoes in the snow gives away their hiding places too easily, interspersed with the good-natured arguments of families who disagree on which type of tree to get and how high their living room ceiling is.
When we get back to the wide open driveway, the family drink hot chocolates and watch as I run their tree through the netting machine. I take it to their car, parked on the verge halfway along the main road because there are so many cars here that they couldn’t get any closer. A huge thrill goes through me as they hand over the money and thank me profusely, promising to be back next year.
Noel’s serving hot chocolates in the caravan and he leans forward and beckons me over when I get back. I stand up on tiptoes so I can hear him.
‘Congratulations. That was your first sale on your own little Christmas tree farm. You’re now officially a Christmas tree farmer.’ He leans out of the window and presses his lips to my cheek, taking advantage of the brief lull between customers. The hot chocolate stand was definitely a good idea. But then again, when isn’t hot chocolate a good idea?
Fiona and Fergus are chatting to customers, and Glenna and Gizmo are organising the queue to Santa’s sleigh, although Gizmo is arguably more popular than Santa himself. It’s the little elf outfit that does it – the stripy red and green jumper with fluffy white edges, complete with a tiny jingly hat, his own pointy ears sticking out through holes in the top, the hat moving every time his ears stand to attention. And while Noel’s pouring hot chocolates, he keeps whistling the tune from Gremlins to get his attention, delighting everyone nearby as Gizmo cocks his head from one side to the other every time he hears it. He’ll be viral before tonight given the amount of videos people have taken of him.
Iain and the two farmhands are spread out around the fields somewhere, cutting trees down and carrying them for customers. I stand in the driveway which is now lined with piles of netted trees and trees in pots arranged in size order from my tiny little thirty-centimetre tall ones to much larger six-foot ones. Some are flashing with fairylights and sparkling with tinsel for decorative purposes, but most are potted up for sale, and I’m watching the supply diminish fast. It’s going to be hard work after everybody leaves tonight to restock the ready-to-buy ones for tomorrow. There are wreaths hung up along the fences, and bunches of freshly cut mistletoe tied with ribbon dangling all around, and Noel’s made the most beautiful chalkboard signs and put them up at the junctions of the road on either end, and people just keep coming.
‘Well, this is a bit better than the ugly plastic thing in our loft,’ says a voice behind me.
‘Chelsea!’ I jump on her and Lewis catches us both. ‘I thought you weren’t coming unless it magically turned into a vineyard on the French Riviera.’
‘Couldn’t let my best friend’s opening day go unnoticed, could I?’ She hugs me back. ‘You can still send me a little one to test its survival in the post, but we’re not leaving without your finest Christmas tree. Lewis has even put the roof-rack on the car for it.’ She pulls away and holds me at arm’s length. ‘Why do you look so different? Your skin’s all glowing and you look so healthy and fit.’
‘Lugging Christmas trees around will do that to you.’
‘Or the healthy glow of love.’ She scouts around for my hot Scot pumpkin farmer, and I catch Noel’s eyes and beckon him over.
Fiona takes over making hot chocolates and manning the chestnut roaster, and Noel comes over carrying a cardboard tray of four hot chocolates for us.
‘Oh my
god, is this him?’ Chelsea says loudly, fanning a hand in front of her face. ‘You said Luke Evans, you didn’t say Dracula Untold-style flaming gorgeous Luke Evans multiplied by a thousand degrees of hotness.’ She turns to him before I can even introduce them all properly. ‘Please say murder.’
Noel laughs enough to cover his blush and obliges, deliberately elongating the Rs, and Chelsea makes him teach Lewis how to say it properly.
‘It’s beautiful up here.’ She sips her hot chocolate as she looks around. ‘I’d be disappointed if it was a vineyard on the French Riviera now. This is much better.’
If that’s not a cracking endorsement, I don’t know what is.
‘And now you know it must be special because no one’s ever heard me saying I prefer anything over wine before.’
I hug her again before she and Lewis go off to wander around and meet Gizmo, Glenna, and everyone else.
Noel wraps his arms around me from behind, pulls me against his chest and we stand there watching the comings and goings of customers and Christmas trees.
‘They’d be proud,’ he whispers in my ear.
I know who he’s talking about without him saying it. And for the first time since they died, I think they would. I can imagine Mum here, serving hot chocolate and dishing up roasted chestnuts from the oven, and Dad would be in his element stomping around amongst the Christmas trees, talking the ears off of anyone who’d listen about the pros and cons of different species. I never thought losing them would lead to something positive, but I know that this is what they’d have wanted in their absence.
Noel squeezes me as tight as he can without jogging the cups in both our hands, and I lean back and reach up to kiss his cheek.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper against his skin, warmed by the sun despite the chill in the air.
‘Thank you, beautiful,’ he murmurs back. ‘You’ve changed my life too.’
He suddenly stops and turns us sharply towards the caravan, or more specifically, towards the two pensioners lurking at the edge of it. ‘I told you we’d catch them snogging behind the bike sheds one day.’
Glenna’s taken over from Fiona on the food and drink in the caravan, and Fergus has given up trying to foist mince pies onto unsuspecting customers when our backs are turned – and the two of them have stopped for a tea break, except there’s not much drinking-of-tea going on, but there is quite a bit of kissing.
I turn into his chest to muffle the squeal and he’s almost bouncing up and down with joy.
‘It’s taken them long enough,’ he whispers.
‘I know you put that mistletoe there. Actually, I know you made a huge show of putting it up this morning when you knew Fergus and Fiona were watching because I wondered what you were up to. And now I see.’
‘All right, so I meddled a bit, but look at how happy they are. They’ve been in love for years, but the magic of Peppermint Branches is what’s finally inspired them to take that final step. I keep telling you, there’s something about this place.’
I watch as Fiona twirls a lock of her lilac hair and Fergus giggles like a child, both of them looking decades younger than their years. Maybe he’s got a point. Everything does feel just that little bit special here.
Gizmo’s obviously getting under Glenna’s feet in the caravan because she appears in the doorway and sends him over to us, and he comes trotting across, his tail wagging as his lead trails behind him.
I bend down to pick him up and he greets me with a licky kiss as ‘Oh, Christmas Tree’ starts playing on the radio.
‘That’s pretty fitting, isn’t it?’ Noel’s voice is low in my ear when I stand back up. One of his hands leaves my waist and slides upwards so he can stroke Gizmo as well and he squeezes the both of us tighter.
It really is. I snuggle back against him and hold the little dog tighter against my chest.
Nothing has ever been more perfect than this moment, and I can’t wait for what the year ahead is going to bring because, whenever we’re together, it’s easy to believe in the magic of Christmas again.
If you enjoyed Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm, why not try The Little Vintage Carousel by the Sea?
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Acknowledgements
Mum, this line is always the same because you’re always there for me. Thank you for the constant patience, support, encouragement, and for always believing in me. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Love you lots!
Bill, Toby, Cathie – thank you for always being supportive and enthusiastic!
An extra special thank you to Bev for always asking about my writing, and being so caring, kind, encouraging, and for so many lovely letters!
Special thanks to three talented authors, great friends, and supportive cheerleaders – Marie Landry, Charlotte McFall, and Elizabeth Clark, and an extra special thank you to Marie for a million inspirational gifs of Luke Evans!
The lovely and talented fellow HQ authors – I don’t know what I’d do without all of you!
All the lovely authors and bloggers I know on Twitter. You’ve all been so supportive since the very first book, and I want to mention you all by name, but I know I’ll forget someone and I don’t want to leave anyone out, so to everyone I chat to on Twitter or Facebook – thank you.
The little writing group that doesn’t have a name – Sharon Sant, Sharon Atkinson, Dan Thompson, Jack Croxall, Holly Martin, Jane Yates. I can always turn to you guys!
Thank you to the team at HQ and especially my fabulous editor, Charlotte Mursell, for all the hard work and support, and for always knowing exactly how to make each book better!
And finally, a massive thank you to you for reading!
A Letter from the Author
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for reading Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm. I hope you loved reading about Leah and Noel, and their pumpkin and Christmas tree adventures as much as I loved writing about them, and enjoyed a festive trip around Elffield like I did!
This story came about when I saw a Christmas tree farm for sale – instant daydream! I couldn’t make the move myself, but the beauty of being a writer is being able to explore the ‘what ifs’ of lives we’ll never get to lead, and the characters of Leah and her grumpy, gorgeous new neighbour instantly popped into my head! I definitely enjoyed getting to know Noel and his crazy hair, and I think I’ve given myself a bit of a thing for Scottish men with lip piercings! I’d definitely like to own a Christmas tree farm in real life too!
One thing I didn’t expect when I started writing this book was that Gizmo the Chihuahua would turn into a tribute to my own darling little Chihuahua, Bruiser, who died in February. It was therapeutic to write some of Bruiser’s quirky characteristics into a fictional version, and I hope Gizmo made you smile as much as his real-life counterpart always made me smile!
If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a review on Amazon. It only has to be a line or two, and it makes such a difference to helping other readers decide whether to pick up the book or not, and it would mean so much to me to know what you think! Did it make you smile, laugh, or cry? Would you like a neighbour like Noel? Would you give one of Fergus’s mince pies a try?!
Thank you again for reading. If you want to get in touch, you can find me on Twitter – usually when I should be writing – @be_the_spark. I would love to hear from you!
Hope to see you again soon in a future book!
Lots of love,
Jaimie
Turn the page for an exclusive extract from another enchanting novel from Jaimie Admans, The Little Vintage Carousel by the Sea …
Chapter 1
Why does every man in London think that eight o’clock on a warm June morning is the ideal time to remove their shirt and get on the tube? I consider this as I peel myself away from a sweaty back and turn around to find myself face to face with someone’s wet armpit. There’s often a good time for s
hirtlessness, but the middle of rush hour on a crowded train is not it.
I sigh and stare at my feet. Every morning I get on this train and get off feeling like a floppy sardine that’s just been let out of a tin and probably smelling worse. All to go to the soulless office block of the women’s magazine where I work as a fact-checker, and then do the exact same thing at half past five with all the other sweaty, irritable commuters who would really love nothing more than to poke their boss in the eye and run away to a beach somewhere.
Someone stands on my toe and a handbag hits me in the thigh as someone else swings it over their arm. Ow. Only four more days to go until the weekend, and then I can have two whole days of not having to leave the flat and face the crowds of London. Two whole days of uninterrupted Netflix, apart from when Mum calls to update me on my ex-boyfriend’s latest news, which she knows because they’re still online friends even though I deleted him over two years ago.
I jump back as a briefcase threatens to take out my kneecaps. There’s got to be more to life than this.
I look up and my eyes lock on to a man near me. Train Man is going somewhere today. Usually he only has a backpack with him, but today there’s a huge suitcase leaning against his leg, rucksack straps over both shoulders, and a holdall bag hooked over one arm. He’s standing up and holding on to a rail like I am, his attention on the phone in his hand, the lines around his eyes crinkled up as he looks down at it, and the sight of him makes something flutter inside me.
I see him quite often, but he’s always already on the train when I get on, and we’re usually much further apart. Up close, he’s even more gorgeous than I’d always thought he was. He’s got short brown hair, dimples denting his cheeks, and the kind of smile that makes you look twice, which I know because he’s one of the rare London commuters who smiles at others.
Snowflakes at the Little Christmas Tree Farm Page 30