The Woake family had lived in Bencher’s Valley for three generations now and were as delighted as ever with their original purchase.  Their investment had returned to them tenfold in the form of lumber, game, and easy living. The soft benchwood trees that populated the valley were cheap to cut down, and more importantly, their extraction required no interaction with humans whatsoever, making the job extremely lucrative. Trees don’t argue back.

In 2005 the ownership of Bencher’s Valley passed to Mrs Woake. She mourned appropriately for her dead father, wore dark colours, and accepted consolation from her husband and son. After a week of socially acceptable grief she began planning changes to the estate. Changes that, countless times over the years, the old so-and-so had refused to approve. Forms and proposals were sent off in the mail to be confirmed by prospective buyers. When their affirmative responses returned the development would begin in earnest.

At the same time, a slightly different type of proposal was being prepared for by Mrs Woake’s son. Jared Woake’s spare hours were spent writing and rewriting lines that had to be perfect: his half of the vows. Grandpa Woake didn’t approve of this proposal either, but Jared Woake was patient. His sweetheart was aware of the need for diplomacy and was happy to wait. On Sunday, at noon, when it was too hot to work and Grandpa was in town buying cigarettes, Jared would meet Cam in the benchwood forest to talk. Their meeting-tree, marked with their initials, was in the far side of the forest from where the Woake’s employees worked; not a single soul but them knew about their meeting, and the forest could be trusted to keep their secret.

They sat next to the initials-marked benchwood tree, where the colours were brightest, and laughed about it all.
“But it’s Romeo and Juliet all over again, isn’t it?” said Jared sadly.
“Yeah, minus the poison and stabbing,” replied Cam. Jared sighed.
“If Grandad catches me with this,” he said, holding up the small black box, “there will be no shortage of either.”
“So hide it here.”
“What?”
“Hide it here,” said Cam.

Monday arrived with a cacophony of thudding axes from outside and sharp words from his mother. Leaving at the first opportunity, Jared left the noisy world of the loggers behind as he walked slowly from the parked and overly expensive BMW into the forest. Springy soil pressed gently against his feet and the underbrush crumpled under his heavy work boots without complaint. The soft breeze was pushing Grandpa Woake’s arguments and Mrs Woake’s nagging away, to be replaced by that soft green-yellow presence and the occasional chirp, and suddenly he was able to breathe.

Jared’s mind was blank with calm by the time he reached the small natural clearing. Half in a trance, it took him a while to bury the ring and his half of the vows. Couldn’t have Grandpa finding those, could we. Even if they were protected by a $30 sealed box. The forest, on the other hand, would look after his belongings for as long as he liked. Once the hole was covered over, he could leave it for two, five, ten years and know it was still there. The forest never changed.

Now it was Sunday again, but Grandpa Woake was dead a month and years had passed since the box had been buried. There was no need to talk in hushed whispers under a canopy of trees miles from the house. They didn’t have to pretend they were strangers when they were in town. Jared visited Cam to share the good news. Then it was back to the benchwood forest to get the ring.

Jared whistled as he drove home. His phone beeped a message from dear old mumsy: she wanted to talk about something. Oh well, that was fine. Not the end of the world. He slowed the car as the enormous house loomed closer.
“Hey,” he called cheerily, rolling the window down. The front door opened and Mrs Woake ran to the car.
“There’s some work going on at the moment,” she told him excitedly. No “How are you?”, no “Hello son, it’s good to see you”.
“Is there now,” Jared said, humouring her. Of course there was work going on. There was always the constant background noise of thuds and swearing.
“Imagine the profit! I organized it,” Mrs Woake said proudly. “Me.”
“Er… congratulations, mu– I mean, Mrs Woake.”
Having gotten what she wanted, Mrs Woake immediately ran back to the house. Jared watched with raised eyebrows, shook his head, and continued down the almost completely unused track that led around the forest.

As he passed the usual work area Jared noticed that there were more people there than there strictly should have been. There also seemed to be a large, yellow bulldozer, which was particularly odd; but so was Mrs Woake’s enthusiasm. Jared thought it depressingly empty that the only thing she enjoyed about the forest was its profit potential. Trees were just trees – Grandpa Woake had drilled that into him as a teenager – but he couldn’t imagine trading the meeting-tree and the bright memories he had of it, and Cam, for any sum of money. In a way, it reminded Jared of the terms under which he and Cam had decided to make their vows. As beautiful as the concept of traditional vows was, they were just words. It was the time spent writing their own words that made an old tradition meaningful.

Jared drifted out of his reverie as he watched the work zone stretch further. The back of his neck prickled: perhaps Mrs Woake really was being serious about the work going on. And she was only ever serious about one thing – Jared would probably see a new car, new diamonds, and renovations on the house appearing over the next few months. No more trees, though.

In an attempt to distract himself from this miserable thought, Jared squinted at a white sign tied to one of the trees the workers were hacking at. He could just make out the words “Land purchased for development by Plastic, Inc.”. Jared frowned. Something as big as selling their land should have been a family decision, but that wasn’t what worried him. It was that he was already halfway across the forest but the work zone still stretched on. A disturbing possibility occurred to him, but he wasn’t inclined to think about it immediately. Glancing at the car clock, he was annoyed by how long it was taking to get to the meeting-tree. Surely the drive didn’t usually take this long?

What if they had found the meeting-tree?

Jared suddenly couldn’t wait any longer. He pressed down the accelerator, heart thumping with a rising sense of dread. By the time he had made it to the opposite end of the forest the sweat was pouring off him.

The car screeched to a halt. Jared fumbled with the keys, hands shaking, as he glanced fearfully at the bulldozer chewing trees behind a safety barrier. Giving up, he sprinted towards a man wearing a hard hat.
“Jared Woake– I left something here– you’ve got to let me in,” he gasped rapidly.
The man smiled. “No worries, boss,” he said easily, bending down to get something at his feet, “we found this in our preliminary search. S’got your name in it.” And wonder of wonders, he gave Jared the $30 box. With a sigh of relief Jared opened it– and stopped. There was the small black box, with the ring inside, and that was it. No papers. No vows.
“There were some… papers… here,” said Jared, fighting to keep his voice steady.
“Oh, that rubbish?” the man responded carelessly. “I threw it out. Kept the valuable stuff though,” he said, gesturing towards the black ring box with a wink, “see?”

A loud splintering wince interrupted Jared’s reply. He looked up, horrified, as the bulldozer crunched into a tree. Barely visible amongst the broken branches was the inscription “J + C”, enclosed in a heart.