Merry Market Murder(79)

“I can do that. Oh, Sam!” I’d made it to the kitchen and had finally taken the time to look out a window. “It’s snowing.”

Sam laughed. “A little.”

“That’s perfect; a perfect day for going to chop down our own tree.”

“I agree. The roads aren’t bad, but drive carefully and I’ll see you in about an hour.”

“Good luck with Evie.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s snowing, girl!” I said to Hobbit.

I threw on a jacket and we ventured outside to the chilly air and the lightly falling snow. A dusting of white covered everything, but it wouldn’t last long and it didn’t seem like it would get heavy.

The morning was perfect; Hobbit agreed. Our morning run made both my lungs and toes cold, but the chill was welcome.

Ridgeway Farm was in a hilly pocket of South Carolina. It would probably have been fine to take Hobbit along, but I’d forgotten to ask Denny, Billie, or Ned about their rules regarding pets, and I didn’t want her to have to sit in the truck and look out longingly to trees she’d never be able to explore if they didn’t welcome dogs on the property. Reluctantly, I left her home again, but since it was cooler she chose a spot by the couch inside. If and when it warmed up, she’d use the doggy door and go back outside.

I had another heart-to-heart with her regarding the importance of being aware and being careful. I thought she might be getting tired of the lecture.

She looked at me with one high eyebrow as if to tell me it was time for me to get over being concerned about leaving her alone. We’d had one scary incident but no others.

“Okay, girl, I’ll work on it,” I said before I left, making sure the door was securely locked behind me. I might stop lecturing, but I doubted I’d be able to stop double-checking the door.

As I drove, I sang Christmas carols aloud because I couldn’t find any on my AM-only radio.

Though the concern about Reggie’s killer had returned, it was close to impossible not to be content and downright happy about so many things. My life hadn’t ever been tragic or sad, but I’d made my share of mistakes and had my share of lonely holidays. Both my divorces had become final during the month of November. I’d had two particularly strange Christmases where I didn’t want to be around anyone but myself and, after the second split, Hobbit. And I’d been the one to prompt the separations. Divorce was usually awful, even if it was necessary.

But this year was different and wonderful.

“And, I’m not going to jinx it by dwelling on it. I’m just going to enjoy it as long as possible,” I said in between “Jingle Bells” verses.

The turnoff to Ridgeway Farm from the main highway was marked by two large hand-carved signs. “This way to Ridgeway,” they both read, each with large arrows pointing off into the hills. The borders of both signs were made up of wood-burned pine trees.

For the first time ever, I turned onto the road. I couldn’t believe I’d never been there before. I hoped Denny would let me use the ax to cut down the tree. I hoped I could handle it.

The elevation increased as I drove on, which meant there was more snow, but still not too much, and not enough to be of concern.

The forest on each side of me was full of leafless oaks. I kept an eye out for when the oaks transformed into pines, but it looked like I’d have a number of hilly curves to maneuver before I made it to the farm.

The road was twisty enough that when my cell phone buzzed I pulled over before I answered it.

“Sam? You on your way?”

The only words I heard were, “Yes . . . there . . . careful . . . file . . . Evelyn.”

“I’m almost there,” I said with the hope that he’d understand more from me than I did from him. “The road isn’t too snowy, just curvy.”

“Wait . . .”

“Yeah, I won’t start without you.” I laughed.

The phone went dead, so I dropped it on the seat and put the truck back into drive.

I may have thought that Reggie Stuckey’s farm was spectacular and wonderful in a Christmas card kind of way, but Ridgeway Farm was a whole new level of stunning.

The curvy road suddenly ended and straightened out as though it were an arm gesturing forward. Just take a look at this place.

Ridgeway Farm was a little slice of heaven. The forest of oak trees was suddenly behind me, and after a short, fifty-yard drive, those tall trees weren’t even in my peripheral vision. Somehow I had been deposited into a wonderful and scent-filled pocket of pine, and only pine, in never-ending, neat rows. Because of the slopes and hills I could see that the rows were made up of different-sized trees. I’d ask Denny about harvest time and how long a tree needed to grow before it could be harvested. I’d ask about what it took to take care of the trees. I suddenly wanted to know everything there was to know about growing Christmas trees.