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Most people who want a Norway spruce wait until just before Christmas to cut it, since these trees don’t have great needle retention. It’s still early in the fresh-cut season, so it’s just the two of us and the scent of spruce in this grove. The rasp of the saw moving back and forth reminds me of the rhythm of the “Wellerman” sea shanty.

“There once was a guy who felled a tree,

And the name of the guy was Kash Murray.

That spruce grew tall, till the sawing was done,

And we’ll take that tree and go.”

Kash gives a little chuckle and then joins me at the chorus with a low, rumbly “Da-da-da-da-da.”

I park “Little Blue”—our old farm truck affectionately named after the beloved picture book character—in Mrs. Larson’s driveway and cut the engine. I was obsessed with Little Blue Truck’s Christmas when I was little. The fact that the book had actual battery-powered lights in it was wild to me. Plus, it was all about Christmas trees and we’d just moved to a tree farm. What more could a six-year-old ask for?

Kash and I hop out of the cab. He works on untying the tree while I pull the wreath and a handsaw from the truck bed. Mom made the wreath up fresh last night, and I fluff the red velvet bow as I walk toward the front porch to ring Mrs. Larson’s doorbell.

Mrs. Larson answers right away. “Hello, dear,” she says. Dressed in a thick housecoat and with her hair in curlers, she looks like the granny-next-door. But with her bright red lipstick and glitter-coated ballet flats, Mrs. Larson takes being an octogenarian to the next level.

“Hi, Mrs. Larson.”

Kash hefts the blanket-wrapped spruce tree, which probably weighs around forty pounds, onto his shoulder with a grunt, his gloved hands wrapped around the handle to hold it in place. With his dark hair falling into his eyes and dressed in his work jeans and a flannel shirt, he makes a very sexy Christmas tree delivery boy as he carries the tree up the walkway to her front porch.

“I see you brought some muscle,” Mrs. Larson says with a nod of approval. I hand her the wreath, and she arranges it on the gold metal wreath hook hanging on her front door.

“I did promise you concierge service,” I say, forcing myself not to stare at Kash.

His boots thump up the short flight of stairs, and Mrs. Larson steps back into her house to hold the door open. “Come on in,” she says.

Kash gives me a slow, seductive smile as he passes by. Immediately, my face grows as hot as the wood fire in the farmhouse’s cast-iron stove. I reach out and grab the tail end of the tree, making sure it doesn’t bump against anything in Mrs. Larson’s house as we shuffle as a group to her living room.

She already has a tree stand set up in the corner. I help Kash lay the tree on the floor and then grab the tree stand. I slip it over the handle to make sure there’s enough space for presents underneath the bottom branches, but not so much space that the tree will look unbalanced with too much trunk showing. Mrs. Larson’s stand has a deep well, so the length works well. But Kash cut the trunk at a slight angle, so it doesn’t fit flush on the bottom.

“Okay, we just need to trim it up a bit,” I say, pulling a plastic shopping bag from my pocket. I slip one handle over the trunk so the bag hangs below. It should catch the dust, bark, and bits of spruce when I saw.

Soon, Kash is helping me tighten the screws to hold the tree in place. We tilt the tree until the stand sits squarely on the floor and the tree is upright. Kash helps me unhook the bungee cords and we carefully unwrap the tree, trying to fold the blanket as we go so we don’t get too many needles or bits of bark on the floor.

“How’s it look?” I ask, stepping back.

Mrs. Larson says, “It’s tilting a little to the left.”

Kash holds the tree and the blanket while I adjust the screws until Mrs. Larson is satisfied.

“It looks marvelous and smells just as good,” she says, clasping her hands together. “I know you’re supposed to wait to cut spruce until it’s closer to Christmas, but I simply love the way they smell. It’s just not Christmas for me without a spruce tree.”

That would be a great line for a song.

Kash and I make eye contact, and I know he’s thinking the same thing. I doubt Exit 12S wants Kash to write a Christmas song for the demo, but that doesn’t mean we can’t work on one for a future recording. My heart does a little giddyup at the thought.

Track 20

In the Blink of an Eye

Kash

December 9

The first few days of December pass in a flurry. Between writing music, helping out around the farm, and stealing quiet moments alone with Paisley to just hang out together, the days fly by in the blink of an eye. We’ve managed to finish writing and recording “She’s a Real Country Girl” and “Lonesome Hearts” since I got back from Nashville. Which means we only have two songs left to finish before the end of the year. I’m still worried we won’t meet the deadline, but I’m also grateful to Paisley for helping me get this far. I couldn’t have done any of this by myself.

In our morning writing session earlier, Paisley and I played a bunch of random chord progressions and tossed some melody ideas back and forth, but nothing seemed to stick. It all felt dull compared to the songs we’ve already got. I don’t know if we’ve hit a rut or we just need a little more time for an idea to develop, but we don’t have time to waste. Something has to change.