The Key to his Heart for Christmas

by Rebecca James

  “All right. We’ll go to the tree farm this morning.”

  “A farm? You mean like where you cut them down?”

  Dane smiled. “Yeah, or pick one that’s recently been cut. Is there any other way to get a tree?”

  “Well, there’s the fake ones at the store.”

  Dane made a face. “No way.”

  I smiled. “Is it okay if I do some laundry first? I’ve run out of clean clothes.”

  “Sure. But I’ll loan you something to wear so we can leave soon. I’ve got a couple of errands to run.”

  I took a quick shower and donned the jeans and blue sweater Dane had left on my bed, the clothes slightly large on me but fitting well enough. I’d lost some weight in the past couple of months while on the road, and my own clothes were a little loose on me as well.

  After putting my few items of clothing in the washer and turning it on, I went to find Dane.

  “You ready to go?” he asked, looking up from where he sat at the dining room table gluing a piece onto a model airplane. He wore a navy and cream-colored sweater and blue jeans that hugged his long legs and gorgeous ass. Down, boy. The man was married to a woman. He’s most likely straight.

  “Whenever you are.”

  The tree farm was only a five minute drive away. The snow had started falling again in the night but was lightening up. It was damn cold. I should have headed to Florida, but I loved this part of the country too much to leave it. Dane’s kindness and hospitality were refreshing, and the easy friendship we were building was nice. I’d let myself have this small window of happiness before returning to my bleak life.

  “Ever go hunting?” I asked him.

  “Nah, I’m not into killing animals.” He glanced at me. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be judgmental or anything.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t hunt. I just wondered.”

  “I can’t imagine killing anything so beautiful as a deer, or anything else for that matter. I like to study nature. Watch it. I could do it for hours—and sometimes do.”

  “I respect that. I have an uncle who’s much the same. He once got chased by a cougar when mountain biking. Got away because the cougar slipped and scrambled off the side of a steep incline. All my uncle could talk about after was how worried he was about the cougar. I’m surprised he hadn’t stopped to see if it needed help.”

  Dane laughed with me and told me about an encounter his cousin once had with a bear.

  When the truck pulled into the parking lot of the tree farm, Dane and I climbed out of the truck and began wandering around. There were so many to choose from, I knew I was going to have trouble deciding.

  “How about this one?” Dane pointed to a spruce in the middle of the first row.

  I cocked my head to the side, trying to picture it in Dane’s cottage. “Too small. You have those nice, high ceilings. Might as well get one to fill up that space.”

  “This one?” Dane suggested, indicating a taller, much fuller tree.

  I looked at him to see if he was kidding. He didn’t seem to be. “It looks like a bush. We’d be lucky to see each other around it.”

  Dane eyed the tree, shrugged, and we moved on to the next row.

  “This one?”

  Was he just pointing to any old tree? I walked around the white pine, sizing it up. It wasn’t too bad, but I was sure there were plenty of better ones. I glanced at Dane, who shrugged and smiled, eyes dancing.

  “I swear, they all look alike to me.”

  I smiled back. “No, they definitely don’t. You have to think about whether or not the branches will hold ornaments well. Do you prefer long or short needles?” I asked him.

  “I don’t know. Liz always picked out the tree.”

  “Then you’ll have to trust me.” We continued on. I stopped in front of a Douglas fir, liking its basic shape. There didn’t seem to be any gaps in the branches, and it both smelled and looked fresh.

  “This one,” I said.

  “Are you sure?” Dane asked, still looking amused. “We haven’t looked at every tree here yet.”

  “I’m sure, dickhead.”

  Dane burst out laughing and patted me on the shoulder.

  One of the nursery workers helped us get the tree into the back of the truck, and we were on our way.

  We stopped at the grocery store, and I had a moment of embarrassment that I couldn’t help pay for the food, but Dane kept up a steady stream of conversation while we checked out that didn’t leave room for an awkward moment.

  He put gas in the truck at a nearby station, and we headed back to his house in the woods.

  Before I could shed my coat, Dane sent me out to the shed for a tree stand. I noticed a couple of sleds standing against the wall. How fun would it be to try those out? I hadn’t sledded since I was a kid.

  When I returned to the house with the tree stand, I held the trunk of the Douglas fir as Dane screwed it in place, lying on the floor, his sweater bunching up to reveal the soft-looking skin at the base of his back. I attempted to keep the tree straight, but every time we thought we had it right and Dane would crawl out from under the limbs so we could back away to look at it, it would be leaning to the left.

  “I think the damn trunk is crooked,” Dane finally said, looking frustrated.

  “Fuck, and I thought it was perfect,” I said, ridiculously disappointed.

  Dane studied me a moment, then grabbed a piece of notebook paper, folded it into a small square, and tucked it under one of the legs on the right side of the tree stand.

  “How about that?”

  “That’s actually, pretty good,” I said, surprised. “Nice job!”

  Dane threw himself onto the couch. The smell of pine saturated the room, bringing back memories of childhood Christmases that left me a little melancholy.

  “You have decorations, right?” I asked Dane. He looked rumpled, warm, and oddly inviting sprawled on the couch like that.

  “In the attic, yeah.”

  I took pity on him. “We can decorate later, when we’ve rested. Why don’t you let me cook dinner tonight.”

  “You cook?” Dane looked so hopeful, I had to laugh.

  “Just because I live on the side of the road doesn’t mean I’m a barbarian.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mean—” Dane started to sit up.

  I held up my hand. “I’m just playing with you.”

  Dane fell back against the cushions, dramatically covering his eyes with his arm. “Maybe I’m just half-dead from searching for the perfect tree and then spending the past hour trying to make it stand straight.”

  “I was the one holding it up. All you had to do was screw it in.”

  “Yeah, about fifty times.”

  I rolled my eyes at him and headed for the kitchen. After looking through the refrigerator, I called out, “How does spaghetti sound?”

  “Perfect,” Dane said, and I set about making it.

  I put together a salad and found some French bread to toast with butter and garlic while Dane dozed on the couch. After the meal, we sat in front of the roaring fire with a bottle of red wine.

  “This would be even nicer if the tree was lit,” I said.

  “Yeah. That’ll have to wait for tomorrow night when I get off, though, unless you want to do it on your own. I’ll pull the boxes out of the attic before we go to bed, just in case.”

  Dane leaned in and topped off my glass with the last of the wine.

  I sat watching the fire crackle and spit, enjoying the warmth and companionship and the novelty of having a full belly. Boone laid his head on my knee, and I patted his head. I’d never had a dog.

  “I’d be freezing my ass of right now if it weren’t for you,” I said quietly.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” He sounded like he meant it, but I turned to look at him just to make sure.

  His warm brown eyes met mine. “Really. It’s nice having someone around for a change. Boone’s great, but he can’t talk. And you can cook. Anyway, I was always taught
to lend a hand when people needed it. I couldn’t leave you sitting out in the cold beneath that underpass. And I promise you—I really wasn’t looking forward to spending another Christmas alone.”

  “You don’t have any family to spend it with?” I asked.

  “My dad passed away several years ago. It’s just Mom, and we haven’t been on good terms in a while.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said, wondering what could have driven a wedge between them. Dane seemed like he’d be the perfect son. Knowing he wanted me there felt good. Christmas was a difficult time for people who were alone.

  “I’ll have the lights on the tree by the time you get home tomorrow and dinner made,” I told him, figuring I’d contribute as much as I could as he was doing so much for me. “We can hang the ornaments together when you feel like it.”

  The warm pleasure in Dane’s eyes filled some of the dark hole that had formed inside me the past few months. I felt almost human again.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dane

  When I entered the living room the next morning, the tree was lit, the small clear lights twinkling in the dim room. Glancing out the window, I saw the snow had started up again with a vengeance.

  “I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I thought I’d do the lights.” Sayer looked up at me from the floor where he’d rolled himself in a fleece throw like a burrito. His head rested on Boone’s flank, and his feet encased in thick woolen socks stuck out the other end. My dog seemed totally happy to be our guest’s living pillow. “Oh, and I took Boone out and fed him.”

  I shuffled toward the kitchen and the smell of coffee. “You know you’re making me feel really lazy.”

  “It feels good having something domestic to do,” Sayer said loudly enough for me to hear him in the other room. “It’s been a while.”

  “You want another cup?” I called to him. I’d noticed his sitting empty by the chair.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’ll feel human in a minute,” I said, returning with my full mug.

  Sitting in my chair, feet resting on the ottoman and half my coffee drunk, I felt awake enough to survey the tree. I realized I’d missed having one up. “It looks good. Lights make all the difference. Putting them on has always been my least favorite job.”

  I glanced at Sayer, who was in the same position he’d been when I’d walked in. I was sure he didn’t realize he was staring at the tree with a yearning that was hard to witness. I felt so bad for the guy; he’d lost everything and had nothing to look forward to but more searching. I wished there was more I could do to help him.

  I realized the house felt different. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was a subtle change in the atmosphere.

  “The firehouse is selling fresh garland. Maybe I’ll buy some for the mantel,” I found myself saying, although I’d had no intention of doing so before.

  Sayer smiled. “That would be nice. My grandmother used to put it everywhere and then light dozens of candles. It was beautiful.”

  “She’s no longer living?”

  “Died when I was fifteen.” Sayer looked at me. “You don’t mind my being here by myself while you’re at work?”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “But you don’t know me from Adam. If this experience has taught me anything, it’s that you can’t trust people.”

  “That’s really sad,” I said. “That’s not been my experience at all, but then I’ve never been through something like you’re going through. I promise you can trust me.”

  Sayer went back to staring at the tree, a cloak of melancholy settling over him.

  I had almost finished my coffee when he spoke again.

  “So, you’re a firefighter.”

  “Yeah. I studied business at college, but I like this better.”

  Sayer turned his head toward me. “Saving people from burning buildings by day and rescuing the homeless by night.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t make it out to be more than it is.”

  Sayer’s expression was serious. “Don’t make it out to be less. You’re risking your life every day to help people. Taking me in like you did was a risk.”

  “You keep saying that.”

  “Because it’s true! I worry about the wrong kind of person taking advantage of your kindness.”

  “You don’t even know me,” I said, embarrassed at the big deal he was making. “And I’m a good judge of character.”

  Sayer looked genuinely worried. “I hope so.”

  “More importantly, Boone’s a great judge of character.” I flicked my finger toward my dog happily snoring beneath Sayer’s head.

  Sayer smiled, and my heart did a weird dance in my chest.

  I stood and stretched and excused myself to take a shower.

  Sayer made oatmeal, and we ate at the kitchen table before I headed to work.

  “Be careful on those roads!” Sayer called to me when I was leaving, and I chuckled to myself, thinking it was like I was married again. Only the scene seemed much more right than it had when I’d been with Liz.

  When I told the guys at the firehouse I’d picked up a guy off the side of the road and was letting him stay at my house, they thought I was crazy.

  “He could be a murderer!” Zack, the youngest in the group, bounced a red rubber ball off the wall of the day room and caught it before doing it again.

  “He’s not a murderer. And Boone loves him.”

  Rod shook his head. “I guess if he was gonna kill you, he would’ve done it by now.”

  I laughed, and then the alarm went off, and we were galvanized into action.

  As usual, Boone was waiting for me when I walked into the house that evening. The guys had teased me about coming home to find my house stripped and vandalized; I couldn’t wait to tell them that instead I came home to a delicious-smelling dinner, a clean house, and a fully decorated Christmas tree. Sayer had obviously found time to hang the ornaments, and I was glad; I hadn’t looking forward to looking at them up close, as they’d all been things Liz and I had chosen together.

  “Hey there, boy.” I scratched behind the Leonberger’s ears. “Something smells really good. Where’s Sayer?”

  “Slaving away over a hot stove!” Sayer called from the kitchen. I almost tripped when I saw Sayer standing barefoot in my jeans and shirt and one of Liz’s aprons tied over his front.

  He looked at me, then down at himself.

  “Oh—hey, if this isn’t okay…” he tugged at the apron.

  “It’s fine. Really. You just surprised me.” I took a couple beers from the refrigerator and offered him one.

  “Your dog dragged me down the road and back on our walk.” Sayer took a sip of beer. He looked so damned sexy, I couldn’t stop staring. And the fact he had on my clothes again—that did something to me.

  I sat down at the table before he could notice the boner I was sporting. “Don’t let him do that—the human is supposed to be the leader. Get him to walk beside you.”

  “Right. Don’t let him,” Sayer said wryly. “As if I could get him to do anything. I was lucky to keep my arm in its socket.”

  “Be firm. He’s just a big baby.”

  Sayer smiled. “I hope you don’t mind I decorated the tree without you,” he said.

  “No, I don’t mind. You did a great job.”

  Resting his chin on his hand, Sayer looked out the window to where several colorful birds gathered on the snow-packed bird bath. A yellow-headed blackbird landed on one of the feeders, dipping its vibrant head to pick up seed. “I’d love to paint them.”

  I’d love to watch you paint them, I thought out of nowhere.

  “Do you paint a lot?” I asked.

  “I don’t do it much anymore—well, not at all since I lost my house, but I used to sketch or paint during my leisure time. I have a small sketch book and pencils in my duffel bag.”

  “Can I see what you’ve done?”

  “Sure.” Sayer got up and left th
e room. When he came back, he handed the sketch pad to me and went to the oven to check on whatever he was cooking. “A friend of mine is keeping all my artwork for me. One of the friends with kids I didn’t want to impose on. She thinks I’m touring the country.”

  He sat down again and looked out the window at the birds fluttering about the feeder.

  “Maybe I’ll sketch those. What’s that one with the black mask? I used to see those around my backyard all the time.” Sayer pointed to a bird that had just landed on the feeder closest to the window.

  “That’s a…some kind of waxwing. Hold on, I have a bird book.” I leaned back and reached for Birds of Colorado on the small bookshelf behind me and pushed it across the table to Sayer before turning my attention back to his sketchpad.

  “These are really good.” Some sketches were of wildlife and some were portraits. “I’m not just saying that. You could sell these. Who are the people?”

  “Just random folks I’ve seen while I’ve been traveling. Here,” Sayer pointed to the bird book he’d been looking through, “a Bohemian waxwing.”

  I thought traveling an interesting way to describe roaming from place to place looking for work and shelter, each day bringing more disappointment and increasing despondency. The sketches really were quite good; Sayer had a skill for bringing things to life on paper.

  “I’m serious; I’d buy one of these. My friend Aliyah owns a coffee shop, and I’m sure she’d let you show a few there. Artists do from time to time.”

  “I’m not that good.” Sayer shook his head.

  “I’m telling you, you are. Let me ask her.”

  Sayer looked afraid to hope. And who could blame him? “None of those sketches are good enough to sell. I’d have to paint something, and all my stuff’s back in Woodson.”

  “Well, in that case, I just happen to have what you need.” I stood. “Be right back.”

  I went to the storage closet at the back of the house, gathered the large canvas bag and the folded easel, and brought them to the living room.

  Sayer walked out of the kitchen. “Was your wife a painter as well as a photographer?”

  “No, her sister Ella was the painter, and she left these things here. You can use them.”