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“No thanks.”
“It sounds like you . . .” My brother shrugs. “You’re into him, aren’t you?”
I stare down the road. “Your bus is late.”
“You are. You are!”
I clip him over the back of the head and then yank him into a one-armed hug. “Think you can keep quiet about it?”
He squirms out of my grasp, grinning. “Depends. What’s in it for me?”
“Rascal.”
“Gremlin, actually.”
“What do you want?”
He looks me square in the eye. “That lizard. Get me Dusky, or I’ll blab.”
“You little gremlin!”
He laughs as the bus turns the corner and draws up to the stop. Other passengers start to line up, but Scott isn’t in any rush. He gives me a quick hug. “He’s got a photo album full of Christmas trees,” he says between loud chews. “He seemed into it. Why don’t you make him the best Christmas tree ever?”
“Because it’s his birthday.” I stand and take his suitcase to the driver, who is stacking luggage into the side compartments of the bus. “Christmas isn’t for another eleven months.”
Scott shrugs. “Well then, he’d be surprised.”
I shake my head and send my brother off with a light punch to his arm. “Stay out of trouble.”
He steps onto the bus and snaps his fingers at me. “Get me that lizard.”
It dawns on me as I drive back to Lyall Bay in my truck: Scott is right. Robin would be surprised.
I ease my foot off the gas and do a U-turn, a plan formulating in my mind.
I coo to Tool as I move through the opening door with Robin’s gift. I haven’t wrapped it, save for a plastic stick-on bow that isn’t very sticky and is probably only a minute or two from dropping off.
“You’re the first to arrive, which is uncharacteristic. Lyle is usually early,” he says, glancing to the gift in my hand and raising an excited brow. “That for me?”
“Nope, I just like carrying plants around.”
He steps back and lets me pass. “The barbecue’s out back,” he says. I nod, leading the way.
We step outside, and I turn to face him, my fingers clutching the ceramic pot a little too tightly.
“For you,” I say, jerking the pot towards him. It doesn’t have to travel far; he’s standing close. So close that as the afternoon sun hits his back, I’m in his shadow. “Happy birthday.”
He takes the pot carefully and lifts it, inspecting the Douglas fir I’ve brought him, and then he looks at me through the bristly little branches. “Did you buy me my very own Christmas tree, Jason Kress?” His lips twitch; there’s that mesmerising glint in his eyes again, the one that seems to draw me closer. I lean towards him until green fir needles tickle my nose.
“It’s not just any Christmas tree,” I say, glancing between Robin and the fir. “It’s magic.”
“A magic Christmas tree?” he repeats, as if he isn’t quite sure what to make of that. He moves into his yard, past his surfboard shed and the rotary washing line that swings around in the breeze, all the way to the long grass far back, where there’s space for a tree to grow.
He crouches and sets the plant down. “It’s magical, you say?”
I chuckle and crouch next to him, staring at the little tree. “It won’t grow full-size overnight,” I say, feeling the ground. Nice and warm, and the soil looks rich enough. I glance behind us; I can’t see the back of the house from here. Perfect.
“This is your Christmas tree for this year,” I say. “By the time Santa starts making his rounds, it’ll be as big as your surfboard.”
He looks at me curiously. “I thought they took years to grow? This looks barely thirty centimetres.”
“Twenty-five. And it would usually take years to get to surfboard height,” I say. “That’s why it’s magical.”
Robin glances at me and raises a brow.
“Tell the tree something true, and it will grow. Like reverse Pinocchio.”
“Anything that’s true?”
I shake my head. “The more personal the better. Like, I could tell the tree that I’m really sorry for getting upset at Scott for telling you I can’t swim.” I keep my gaze on the tree, even as I feel him studying me. “And then, while you’re sleeping, the fir will grow.”
Robin’s voice drops to something just more than a whisper. “If I tell it that I really want you to learn how to swim, will it grow?”
I swallow and meet his gaze, just briefly, before wiping my soiled hands on my cargo shorts. “It’ll grow.”
“Does it grant wishes too?”
I swallow. “I don’t know.”
We stare at the little tree as a warm breeze ruffles our hair and worms under our shirts. We only stir at the sound of Robin’s doorbell ringing.
“That’ll be Lyle,” he says, smiling.
“Great.” I wonder if it sounds as reluctant as I feel. “I’ll just plant this here for you. Then I’ll be right in.”
