All I Want for Christmas (Underlined Paperbacks) by Wendy Loggia

Author:Wendy Loggia [Loggia, Wendy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2020-11-02T18:30:00+00:00

Wait a hot minute. Marleys’ Christmas Tree Farm? Is that just a coincidence? I hold on to Dickens as we turn in to the lot, the Ford’s tires bumping over frozen mud. “A tree farm?” I exclaim, looking at him and then out at the scene in front of me. “This is so cool!” There’s a large green barnlike building where groups of people are congregating. Jacob pulls over and parks the truck in a muddy makeshift parking area.

“I thought you’d like it,” Jacob says as we get out. I put Dickens on the ground. He shakes his body and begins trotting, sniffing the ground. “This way,” Jacob says, heading in the direction of the barn.

“Aren’t you working today?” an older man in a blue baseball cap, sweatshirt, and faded jeans yells over to us as he and a boy around our age tie a tree on top of an SUV. The young family who had purchased it looks excited.

“I took this weekend off, Uncle Billy,” Jacob calls over.

The man shakes his head and puts his hands on his hips, where a giant ring of keys jingles when he walks. “How you managed to talk your mom into that, I’ll never know.”

So it isn’t a coincidence. “Hold up. You work here…and so does your uncle? And your mom? And it’s called Marleys’?”

Jacob cracks his knuckles and gives me a sidelong grin. “That’s a lot of ands.”

“And,” I say, “that’s a lot of trees.” We pause next to the barn, looking down into a picture-perfect winter scene. Snow is falling softly, and people are milling about in winter coats and hats. In the distance are hundreds and hundreds of pine trees. I inhale a deep breath of fresh, piney air. “It’s like Christmas on steroids!” I blurt out, grabbing his hand.

Then I freeze. Did I just grab Jacob’s hand?

“I’m sorry,” I say, shocked. I try to retrieve my hand from Jacob’s grasp.

But his bare fingers interlace with my gloved ones. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those girls who apologizes for things she doesn’t need to apologize for.”

“I’m not,” I say, feeling my face flush. “I just…I guess something came over me. I’m…”

“Not sorry,” Jacob finishes for me, swinging my hand forward. “Because I’m not.”

“Oh. Okay,” I say, fully aware that I’m blushing. I try to remain nonchalant, as if I always traipse through tree farms holding hands with boys.

“So, to answer what I think you were getting at,” Jacob says, “my family has owned this farm for two generations. Hopefully I’ll be the third.”

I gaze around in wonder. “Your family owns this place? You own a Christmas tree farm?”

“Indeed we do,” Jacob says, gesturing to the barn and the land. “My grandfather built it from the ground up, and when it got too much for him, he sold it to my dad and my uncle Billy.”

He pulls me toward the green barn and explains how it works. Once you pick out your tree, the workers put the tree in this loud orange contraption that bags the tree in netting.

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