Tree Expert

 

Source: Pinterest

By: Celvieez

 When a squabble over tree land Sienna a handsome man in her house, can she complain?

 

The gravel crunching under the tires of Sienna’s ancient Subaru Forester was a sound that belonged to her childhood just as much as the crackle of a fireplace or the opening notes of The Nutcracker. It was a specific, rhythmic grinding frozen earth meeting rubber that signaled the beginning of the only day that truly mattered in December. The sign for "Miller’s Evergreen Acres" was faded, the green paint peeling to reveal grey wood beneath, but to Sienna, it was a beacon. She parked in the same muddy lot she had been parking in since she got her license, and her parents had parked in before that. The air here was different. It didn't just smell like winter, it smelled like sap, woodsmoke, and the aggressive, sharp perfume of ten thousand pine trees breathing in unison.

Sienna stepped out, her boots sinking slightly into the mixture of snow and sawdust. She took a deep inhale, letting the cold burn her lungs. This was The Ritual. It was sacred. Some families went to church, Sienna’s family went to Miller’s on the second Saturday of December to find The Tree.

It couldn't be just any tree. It had to be a Balsam Fir, Sienna was a purist and it had to have a specific density. Not too fat that it blocked the television, not so skinny it looked like a green pipe cleaner. It needed a strong leader branch for the star and sturdy lower boughs for the heavy glass ornaments her grandmother had brought over from Germany.

She adjusted her red cashmere scarf, grabbed a rusted bow saw from the communal bin near the entrance, and marched into the rows. She was alone this year. Her parents were on a cruise in the Mediterranean, a betrayal she was still processing but Sienna refused to let the tradition die just because they wanted sunshine instead of frostbite

 She walked past the "Pre-Cut" lot with a sneer of disdain. Those were for amateurs. She headed deep into the field, past the erratic families dragging screaming toddlers, past the teenagers taking selfies, until the noise of the crowd faded into a hushed, snowy silence. She hiked for twenty minutes. Her breath puffed in white clouds. Her cheeks stung. And then, she saw it. It stood alone in a clearing of stumps, bathed in a shaft of weak winter sunlight that had managed to pierce the grey cloud cover. It was magnificent. A seven-foot Balsam, perfectly symmetrical, with needles a deep, rich emerald. It looked proud. It looked waiting.

"Hello, you," Sienna whispered, a thrill of victory shooting through her chest.

She quickened her pace, the snow crunching loudly under her boots. She was ten feet away. Five feet. She reached out a gloved hand to claim the trunk, to feel the sticky reassurance of resin. At the exact same moment, a hand clad in worn brown leather shot out from the other side of the tree and grabbed the trunk. Sienna froze, she peered through the dense branches. A face peered back. It was a man. He had a jawline that could cut glass, stubble that looked about three days old, and eyes the color of a winter sky pale, icy blue. He was wearing a flannel jacket that looked like it had actually seen work, not just the inside of a trendy boutique, and a beanie pulled low over dark hair.

"Excuse me," Sienna said, her voice sharp. "My tree."

The man blinked, looking at her through the needles. "Your tree? I don't see a tag on it."

 "I was walking toward it," Sienna stated, trying to project authority through the foliage. "I’ve been tracking this tree for ten minutes."

"Tracking it?" The man scoffed, a puff of air escaping his lips. "It’s a fir, lady, not a wounded deer. I’m touching the trunk. Possession is nine-tenths of the law."

"My hand is also on the trunk!" Sienna argued, tightening her grip. A blob of sap stuck to her glove. "And I have the saw." She raised the rusty bow saw threateningly.

The man stepped around the tree, bringing him into full view. He was tall annoyingly tall. He looked down at Sienna with a mixture of amusement and irritation. "I have a saw too." He held up his own rusted tool. "And I have a truck parked on the fire road right there. Logistically, I’m the better candidate."

"Logistically?" Sienna felt her blood pressure spiking, warming her faster than the hot cocoa ever could. "This isn't a supply chain issue. This is a spiritual claim. I have come to this farm for twenty-six years. I have a connection with this land. This tree spoke to me."

The man rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "It spoke to you? What did it say? 'Please save me from the crazy woman in the red scarf'?"

"It said, 'I belong in a home that appreciates symmetry, not some frat house where It’ll be decorated with beer cans,'" Sienna snapped.

"I’m thirty," the man retorted, offended. "And for your information, I have vintage ornaments. I have a tree skirt. I have a plan."

"I don't care about your plan! Find another tree! There are literally thousands of them!" Sienna gestured wildly to the surrounding forest.

"None of them are this one," he said stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest, the saw dangling from one hand. "This one has the perfect density. No holes."

"I know! That’s why I chose it!"

 They stood there in the snow, a standoff over a vegetable. The silence of the forest was broken only by the caw of a distant crow. Sienna looked at the tree it was perfect. But looking at this man, with his smug eyebrows and his stubborn stance, something inside her fractured. This was supposed to be her moment. Her peaceful, sacred tradition. Now it was tainted by testosterone and entitlement. If she cut it down now, every time she looked at it in her living room, she’d remember him. She’d remember the fight. The magic was gone, evaporated like steam. Sienna’s shoulders slumped. The anger drained out, leaving a cold, hollow sadness in its wake.

"Fine," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

The man blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in her demeanor. "What?"

"Take it," Sienna snapped, though there was no heat in it anymore, just exhaustion. She threw her saw onto the snow near his boots. "Take the damn tree. I hope it drops all its needles by Tuesday." She turned on her heel and marched away.

"Hey, wait," the man called out, his voice sounding confused. "You don't have to we can flip a coin or something!"

"Keep it!" Sienna yelled back without turning around. She walked faster, tears pricking her eyes stupid, angry tears. She stomped all the way back to the parking lot, ignoring the other trees, ignoring the scent of pine. She got into her Subaru, slammed the door, and cranked the heat up to max. She drove home in silence, the radio off. The apartment was dark when she arrived. The empty corner by the window, usually cleared and ready for the tree, looked like a gaping wound in her living room. She ordered takeout Thai food, ate it straight from the carton standing over the sink, and went to bed at 9:00 PM, wishing she could skip December entirely.

The next morning, Sunday, broke with a brilliant, blinding sunshine that felt mocking. Sienna woke up with a headache and a stiff neck. She dragged herself out of bed, wrapped herself in her oversized bathrobe, and shuffled to the kitchen to make coffee. She was just pouring the water when a loud, rhythmic rumbling sound came from the street. It sounded like a diesel engine idling. Sienna ignored it, stirring sugar into her mug. Then, the doorbell rang. She frowned. She wasn't expecting anyone. She wasn't expecting packages. She tightened the belt of her robe, ran a hand through her messy morning hair, and padded to the front door. She peered through the peephole. All she saw was flannel. She opened the door a crack, leaving the chain on. Standing on her porch was the Tree Bandit. He looked different today. Less combative. He was holding a takeaway cup of coffee in one hand and looked surprisingly sheepish. Behind him, parked in her driveway, was a beat up Ford F-150. And in the bed of the truck, tied down with orange twine, was The Tree. Sienna undid the chain and swung the door open."How did you find me?"

"Old Man Miller," the man said. He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "I described you. 'Small, fierce, red scarf, drives a Subaru that sounds like a lawnmower.' He knew exactly who you were. Said you're the only person who inspects the needles with a magnifying glass."

"I don't use a magnifying glass," Sienna lied. "Why are you here? Did you come to gloat? Show me how good it looks in your truck?"

"No," he sighed. He gestured to the truck. "I brought it to you."

Sienna stared at him. "What?"

"I felt like a jerk," he admitted. He looked down at his boots. "I watched you walk away yesterday, and… look, I love Christmas, okay? But you looked like I just kicked your puppy. I couldn't take the tree. It felt… haunted. By your anger."

"Haunted by my anger," Sienna repeated, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself.

"Yes. A very specific, scary kind of haunting," he grinned, and the expression transformed his face. The arrogance vanished, replaced by a boyish charm that made Sienna’s stomach do a traitorous little flip. "I’m Declan, by the way."

"Sienna."

"Well, Sienna, this is your tree. I cut it, I baled it, and I hauled it. Consider it a peace offering. And an apology for being a pine-blocking jerk." Sienna looked at the tree in the truck. It really was magnificent. Then she looked at Declan. He was shivering slightly in the cold morning air.

"You cut it down for me?" she asked softly. "I did. And I didn't even steal a branch." Sienna opened the door wider. "Do you want to help me bring it in? I can't lift it by myself. And… I have coffee. Fresh pot."

Declan’s eyes lit up. "I would love nothing more." Getting the tree into the apartment was a comedy of errors. Sienna lived on the second floor of a converted brownstone, and the staircase was narrow.

"Pivot!" Sienna yelled as the branches smashed against the banister.

"I am pivoting!" Declan grunted, holding the heavy trunk end. "This thing weighs a ton. Are you sure it's a fir and not a lead pipe disguised as a tree?"

"It’s dense! That’s a sign of quality!" They finally wrestled the beast into her living room. The scent exploded instantly, filling the stale air with fresh, sharp pine. They managed to hoist it into the red and green metal stand Sienna had set up

 "Is it straight?" Declan asked, lying on the floor under the branches, tightening the screws.

Sienna stepped back, squinting. "Tilt it left. No, my left. Your right. Okay, too much. Back a bit. Stop! Perfect."

Declan crawled out, his hair covered in needles, pine sap on his cheek. He stood up and brushed himself off. "It fits the room perfectly." It did. It grazed the ceiling, filling the empty corner with life.

"Coffee," Sienna said, remembering her manners. "Sit. I'll get it." When she came back with two mugs, Declan was looking at the boxes of ornaments stacked on her sofa.

"So," he said, taking the mug. "You mentioned German glass?"

"My grandmother," Sienna nodded. She sat on the floor, and Declan sat opposite her, mirroring her posture. The hostility of the previous day had completely evaporated, replaced by a comfortable, curious tension.

"Let's see them," Declan challenged gently. For the next two hours, they didn't just decorate, they excavated history. Sienna unwrapped the delicate glass pickles and birds, telling him about her grandmother's house in Munich. Declan, in turn, proved he wasn't useless. He had an engineer’s eye for light placement. "You have to start from the inside and work out," he instructed, taking the string of lights from her. "Otherwise, you get no depth."

"Bossy," Sienna teased, handing him the strand.

"Efficient," he corrected, his hand brushing hers. His skin was warm, rougher than hers. The contact lingered for a second longer than necessary. They worked in tandem. He did the high branches while she did the low ones. They put on a jazz Christmas playlist. They argued over tinsel (Sienna was pro, Declan was strictly anti-plastic). Around noon, Sienna’s stomach growled loudly. Declan laughed. "Hungry?"

"Starving. I didn't eat breakfast."

"I saw a pizza place on the corner. Does pine-wrestling earn me a slice?"

"It earns you two," Sienna said. They ordered a large pepperoni and ate it sitting on the rug in front of the half-decorated tree. The afternoon light was fading, casting long shadows across the room. The tree lights were on now, casting a warm, golden glow on Declan’s face. "So," Sienna said, wiping tomato sauce from her lip. "Why were you at the farm alone? You mentioned not wanting a frat house tree, but..."

Declan swirled the dregs of his coffee. "I usually go with my sister and her kids. But she moved to Oregon this year. So, it was just me. I thought about skipping it, just getting a fake one. But..." He shrugged. "Tradition."

"I get that," Sienna said softly. "My parents are on a cruise. They bailed on me."

"Traitors," Declan said solemnly.

"Right? Who chooses margaritas over this?" She gestured to the tree.

"Psychopaths," he agreed.

They laughed, and the sound was easy, intimate. Sienna looked at him really looked at him. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the way he treated her fragile ornaments with terrified reverence, the way he had driven to a stranger's house just to fix a bad day.

"Okay," Sienna announced, standing up and clapping the dust off her hands. "The topper. It’s the final step." She pulled a battered cardboard box from the bottom of the stack. Inside was a star. It wasn't fancy, it was made of tin, slightly tarnished, with one point bent.

"It’s... rustic," Declan observed.

"I made it when I was five," Sienna said defensively. "It goes on every year."

"I love it," Declan said, and he sounded sincere. He stood up and offered his hand. "Do the honors? I'll lift you."

Sienna hesitated, then took his hand. He led her to the tree. He put his hands on her waist firm, strong and hoisted her up easily. Sienna placed the crooked tin star on the very top branch.

"Got it?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Got it," she breathed. He lowered her down slowly, sliding her along the length of his body until her feet touched the floor. He didn't let go of her waist immediately. They were standing very close. The smell of pine and Declan’s woodsy cologne was dizzying. Sienna looked up at him. The air in the room felt charged, electric.

"It looks perfect," Declan whispered, looking at the tree, but then his gaze dropped to her eyes.

"Really perfect." Sienna’s breath hitched. "Thank you. For bringing it back. For... staying."

"I couldn't let you win the argument by default," he murmured, a playful glint returning to his eyes. "I had to prove I was the better person."

"You are," she admitted. "You definitely are."

Declan stepped back, breaking the spell but leaving the warmth. He checked his watch. "I should probably go. I technically still don't have a tree of my own, and the sun is setting."

Sienna felt a pang of disappointment. "Oh. Right."

She walked him to the door. The hallway was cold compared to the cozy living room. Declan put his boots on, lacing them up with efficient movements. He stood up and opened the door. The winter wind rushed in.

"So," he said, lingering on the threshold. "Do you think... maybe you could consult on my tree? Since you're the expert on density and symmetry?"

Sienna leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms to hide the flutter in her chest. "My consultation fees are very high."

"I can pay in pizza," Declan offered. "And maybe dinner? At a place that uses actual plates?"

Sienna smiled, a genuine, beaming smile. "I think we can work something out."

Declan pulled a Sharpie from his pocket who carried a Sharpie? and grabbed a takeout napkin from the hall table. He scribbled a number on it.

"Call me," he said, handing it to her. "If the tree starts haunting you again."

"I will," Sienna promised.

"Merry Christmas, Sienna."

"Merry Christmas, Declan."

He walked down the stairs, whistling. Sienna watched him go until he disappeared around the landing. She closed the door, locked it, and leaned her back against the wood. She looked at the napkin in her hand, then at the magnificent tree glowing in the corner, crowned with her crooked childhood star. It wasn't the Christmas she had planned. It was messy, it was loud, and it had started with a fight in a parking lot. But as she listened to the rumble of Declan’s truck fading down the street, she realized it might just be the best one yet.