The parking lot was busy when Quinn and I got there around five o’clock, in part because folks were busily coming and going at the end of the work day, but also because some of the usual parking spaces were now filled with pines, firs, and spruces mounted on rows of one-by-sixes. Seely’s was sprawling; a rambling conglomeration of pavilions, greenhouses, and gardens surrounding an enormous two-story building painted barn red. At this time of year the greenhouse overflowed with poinsettia, cyclamen, and mistletoe in addition to the other hothouse plants and flowers they usually had. A help desk, checkout counters festooned with pine garland threaded with white lights, a florist shop, and anything you needed or didn’t know you needed for a garden occupied the two rooms inside the main building. My favorite, however, was the Christmas Shop, only open at this time of year and filled with ornaments, candles, potpourri, decorations, and trees arranged by theme: old-fashioned Christmas, whimsical Christmas, exotic Christmas, Nordic Christmas, woodland Christmas, under-the-sea Christmas. Any kind of Christmas your heart desired.

“Am I going to lose you to that Christmas room you love so much?” Quinn said, teasing me and taking my hand as we walked over to the tree-filled parking lot. “You’ll be there ’til Easter.”

“And what of it, buddy? I know I’ll lose you to the homemade popcorn and mulled cider.”

“Worse things could happen,” he said, grinning. “That popcorn smells great and I’m starved. I’m definitely getting some before we go. Come on, let’s go pick out our trees.”

It didn’t take long to find a sixteen-foot Fraser fir for the Villa and a twelve-foot Noble fir for the foyer of Highland House. Quinn stayed outside to chat with the crew who promised they’d put the trees aside and give them fresh cuts before delivering them tomorrow. I went inside to order the poinsettias and pine garland Frankie wanted for the Villa as well as what we needed for the house, plus pay for the trees and arrange for their delivery.

When I was done I found Quinn—as expected—at the popcorn-making machine talking to Noah Seely. Even without the Santa suit, Noah still looked the part: snow-white hair that curled over the collar of his plaid flannel shirt, bright blue eyes, bushy beard, and a little Santa belly that hung over the waistband of his jeans. He even wore suspenders with holly embroidered on them and black work boots.

“… the suit gets hot so be sure you wear underwear that breathes,” he was saying to Quinn. “The moisture-wicking fabric they make these days is great.”

“I didn’t think about the underwear,” Quinn replied. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for this.”

“Ho, ho, ho, you two,” I said. “Any chance of a cup of mulled cider, Santa? I’ve been good.”