The Tree Keeper's Promise: A Novel (A Shafer Farm Romance Book 2) Page 10

  Is this why he hasn’t proposed? Did he ever think I could fit in at the farm?

  “This isn’t Providence,” he’d said. Only there wasn’t defensiveness in his voice. He’d said it plain and proud. Angela had left Providence a long time ago, in more ways than one. And never cared to go back. Still, his words felt as much like a rejection as anything could.

  Doesn’t he know I love him?

  Tears spilled over her cheeks. Angela swiped at them with an impatient disgust.

  Useless tears.

  Not wanting to admit her anger was a cover for sadness yet, she hit the accelerator as she approached her house.

  “I’m not Tarzan,” he had declared.

  Well, I’m not Jane, she thought. And I’m not Ashley Porter.

  Chapter 10

  Mark didn’t watch Angela leave. What was there to see? Another hope that wouldn’t work out? He walked up the porch steps, heard her start the truck. It sputtered. He paused, but the engine engaged, then the wheels crunched over the gravel. He opened and closed the hand-carved door behind him. No reason to make it harder than it was.

  Had he been fooling himself? Like he had with Natalie? Seeing what he wanted to see, instead of the obvious? Not that Angela was anything like Natalie or Ashley, but how could someone accustomed to so much money and comfort be happy at the farm?

  She said she was. She even said she would be.

  How long would it be before she realized it wouldn’t get any more exciting?

  Mark walked to the cabin, pulled out his guitar, pushed some boxes he’d brought over, and started strumming, automatically playing Angela’s song. Only instead of lifting his mood, it worsened it.

  He changed the chords. He changed the words. He put down the guitar.

  He wandered over to Donna’s barn and surveyed the room. Mrs. Shaw had taken the shelving down and rearranged the floor plan. Now it was shopper-friendly, with new endcap spaces for larger displays. And the cash register had been moved to the side of the large room, giving customers more merchandise to look at while they stood in line.

  All good changes.

  What the barn didn’t have was Donna. Mark wanted to find her with a box of new craft supplies. He would have offered to help unpack it, pretending to know what she did with all that wire, glue, and beads. He would have been able to ask her about Angela and what he should do.

  Mark walked through the newly designed area until he reached the back of the room. On the wall next to her favorite window hung Donna’s picture in a craft frame she’d made herself.

  He didn’t often pause here. He didn’t linger over her memory, at least not in the barn where it had the power to overwhelm him.

  The barn door opened, startling Mark. Papa brushed the rain from his arms as he walked in.

  “Thought it might be you. Saw the light on from my place and knew it wasn’t Dorothy.”

  “I’m checking—uh, looking at—the new layout. Mrs. Shaw’s done a lot of work here.”

  “This time a’ night?” Papa scratched the back of his head. “Looks to me like you’re lovesick,” he said with some frustration. No smile, no gentle laugh.

  “I wouldn’t call it that.”

  “Doesn’t matter what ya call it. The only cure for it is asking her to marry ya, and the sooner the better.”

  Somehow having this conversation with Papa wasn’t nearly the same as having it with Donna. Mark turned on his heel, taking in the scope of the room, and let his eyes catch Donna’s smile. She was getting a good laugh at this, he was sure.

  “It’s not like that, Papa. I’m worried she might not end up liking the farm as much as she thinks she will.”

  “That so?” Papa walked to the back, closer to Mark, and pulled out one of the register stools. “This have anything to do with her friend showin’ up and prancing around?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Angela seems like she knows her mind. She’s had plenty of time to see what goes on ’round here. What did she have to say about it?” Papa’s forehead furrowed.

  “I didn’t ask. I mean, I told her it wasn’t too late if she wanted out.”

  “What kind of an offer was that?” Papa sat up straight, setting one of his feet hard against the edge of the stool. “Of course it’s too late. You two are young lovebirds out there around the trees. You love her, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but ...”

  “But nothing. What’s she supposed to say to that? Don’t go laying your insecurities at her feet. You’re not giving her the credit she deserves. She’s nothing like that gussied-up friend of hers. And if you can’t see that, she’s probably going to get tired of reassuring you all the time before she ever gets tired of the farm.” Papa stopped talking and sat there, staring across the room.

  Mark leaned against the wall and slid his hands into his pockets.

  “What? Ya surprised I know a word like insecurities?”

  Mark laughed. “No, but maybe that you knew I had some.”

  “Pshaw, everyone has ’em. But don’t go letting ’em ruin a good thing.”

  A good thing. Mark thought of Angela before she left. She hadn’t had an answer for him other than to ask if he thought she was so similar to Ashley. He banged the back of his head against the wall hard enough to rattle whatever was hanging on it.

  “What about Nana?” Mark asked. “I know she loved the trees when I was boy, but how did she feel about them before you got married?”

  Papa shifted his weight. He looked out the window, though there was nothing to see in the black of night except the rain running over the glass. “A remarkable woman, your nana. She grew up closer to downtown. Her father was a schoolteacher. She liked those books. But she and her father and her brother came out here in the summers for work.” Papa’s lips began to curl up in a playful smile. “I never did know if she fell in love with me that summer, or the trees.”

  “I remember her by the fire, reading. She told me more than once that a book and a tree could see her through the toughest of times,” Mark remembered.

  “Like I said—remarkable,” Papa said. “Now that we’re talking about it, I did make her a promise when we got married.”

  “You mean your vows?”

  “No, a promise. I promised to love her. And even if she didn’t love the land, I promised to love it so our children and our children’s children would have a home and a place to grow and know what it meant to work hard and be loved.” Papa met Mark’s eyes for a moment. “That was enough for her.”

  “That ought to be enough for anybody,” Mark said, still pondering it.

  “Aw, just ask her, will ya?”

  “You don’t think it’s too soon?”

  “Too soon is better than too late.”

  The next day, Papa brought over the space heater Mark had ordered and set it beside the bed. Mark thanked him. Papa didn’t leave but stood with his hands on his hips looking about the room.

  “When you asked to trade places, I wasn’t quite sure how it would go,” Mark said.

  “I know you thought I was crazy.”

  “No, but you and Mrs. Shaw hadn’t even dated.”

  “Well, we will soon.”

  Mark suspected this, but he paused, waiting to see what else Papa would say about it. He moved the space heater to the other side of the room. Papa didn’t say more.

  “Thanks again for bringing this over.”

  “You sure you don’t need an extra blanket? Nights will be getting colder.”

  Mark felt the quilt already on the bed. Thick and heavy. He’d be fine.

  “And are you still planning to propose, then?” Mark asked.

  “’Course I am. I wouldn’t be helping you move for the fun of it. I don’t rightly like the idea of moving myself. This here cabin has been good company.”

  “You know, Papa, I’ve been thinking. If Angela isn’t fed up with my ‘insecurities,’ I’m planning on asking her soon. Tomorrow, actually. But I still don’t know when
we’ll set a date.”

  “Now then, you need to defer to your bride-to-be when it comes to that.”

  “I’m trying to get the timing right,” Mark said. “Do you have a place you want to go after ... after Angela and I get ...?”

  “Go ahead. It helps to say it out loud—get married.” Papa finished his sentence for him. “And, yes, I’ve thought about it.”

  “You know, I could see about adding another bedroom, another master. You were happy with our contractors.” Mark paused here. Papa walked through the door of the bedroom. “That’s sure to be too much money. How about you give me some notice when you think you might be needin’ the place. Things have a way of workin’ out.”

  Mark followed Papa out of the cabin. They stood on the steps outside the front door. “The wedding may not be for another year,” Mark offered, trying to soften what felt more awkward than he’d imagined.

  Papa eyed Mark. “Ask her. Then we’ll talk.”

  Mark watched Papa walk along the path. He ran his hands through his hair and pulled at the back of his neck. He loved Angela more than he thought he could. And he was pretty sure Angela loved him. But did she love the farm? And would she still love it year after year? Did things have a way of working out? Was Papa right?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Mark called Angela on his way to the Historical Society to meet with Mrs. Simmons. A light rain covered the roads. He checked the edges of the horizon for a break in the clouds.

  She answered but didn’t sound too cheerful.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about yesterday,” he said and waited for a response.

  “Go on,” she said.

  That wasn’t the response he was hoping for.

  “I didn’t like the way things ended when you left. I’ve been worried about you and the farm. Most girls I’ve met haven’t wanted anything to do with it.” He started speaking too quickly, so he stopped to take a breath.

  “I’m not most girls,” Angela said with a little more emotion.

  Sitting at a red light, Mark made another attempt. “I know. You’re amazing. That’s why I’m sorry. Maybe Ashley got to me. I know you didn’t like Providence and you moved here and you’re nothing like any of that. And I love you. And Papa said I was too full of insecurities, if you can believe that.”

  “You talked to Papa ... about us?” Angela asked with the most emotion in her voice yet.

  “You know Papa. He could tell something wasn’t right with me.”

  “Did Papa say anything else I should know about?” Angela asked. Mark wasn’t sure, but her tone seemed to be shifting—maybe playful?

  “He agreed I made a mess of things.”

  He also said to not waste time and just ask you to marry me.

  “Well, I’m sorry too. I could have warned you about Ashley. She can be a bit much at first. I don’t know why I got as upset as I did. When you said it wasn’t too late ... I don’t know, it felt like you’d be fine if I left and didn’t come back.”

  “That’s not true. I would not be fine. If you’re not still mad at me, can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?”

  “Thursday?”

  “I know, it’s not like our usual Saturday-night date, but I thought it would be a good night for something special.”

  Something special like the autumnal equinox, which means we’ve officially known each other for four seasons.

  “Okaaay?” Angela answered. “How special—what do you mean?”

  Mark was almost to the Putnam Schoolhouse, where he was meeting Mrs. Simmons.

  “How about I pick you up at five for an early dinner—the Millbury Steakhouse.”

  That way we can make it to the gazebo in town by six thirty—before sunset and before the Astronomy Club arrives.

  “You don’t have to do this because of Ashley. I’m fine.”

  “Has nothing to do with her. Promise.”

  “I’ll be ready at five.”

  “Sounds good. Gotta go, but, hey, Angela? I love you,” he said as directly as he knew how.

  He heard Angela’s nervous laugh through the phone.

  “I love you too, Mark.”

  The white siding of the Putnam building took on a murky gray sheen in the rain. He parked and wanted to ignore the worry creeping in. It had been raining the last five or six days. Did he have any reason to believe it would stop tomorrow? Just because he’s planned a date with Angela?

  I should at least have a backup plan. Maybe come back to the farmhouse if the gazebo is too wet.

  His insecurities returned at that thought. For as much as the farm would be the center of their lives, he wanted the proposal to take place somewhere else.

  He saw Mrs. Simmons waiting by the window, one hand lifting the curtain, watching him approach. She quickly opened the door and ushered him inside.

  “Here, wipe your shoes on this mat. This rain has everything covered in mud.”

  Mark did as instructed, more so because he felt like he’d walked back into his eighth-grade English class than because his shoes were muddy.

  “Thanks for meeting with me today,” he said quickly.

  “Are you the Mark Shafer of the Shafer Tree Farm?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You were a student of mine, weren’t you? I remember you, I do.” She said this while looking about his head and shoulders. He stood about a foot taller than she did.

  “I was afraid of that. Eighth grade might not have been my best year.”

  “Nonsense. You turned your papers in late, but do you know how thankful I was for your first essay? That “What did you do over the summer?” assignment was brutal. Every year I read twenty-five different descriptions of a trip to the beach, the lake, or an occasional trip down to Florida. But you—you wrote about your tree farm. And pruning the trees with your grandfather. And what it meant to you.” She clapped her hands together and walked over to a desk at the back of the room. “An essay like that kept me going for another year.”

  Mark blushed, something he didn’t often do. He could barely remember the essay, but he hoped her favorable memory would only help his cause.

  “What brings you here today? You said something on the phone about the National Register,” she asked, still cheerful.

  “Right. I need to have the farm listed on the register, and from what I’ve read, the property needs to be recommended to the State Historical Society. Is that something you could help me with? Would you be willing to do that?” Mark still stood on the mat, wiping his feet a bit absentmindedly.

  “Where did you read that? No, we—the State Historical Society—we do the recommending of your property to the National Register. Here, come sit down.” She motioned to the chair across from her desk, then sat and began pulling out some file folders. She tapped on her keyboard while Mark took his seat.

  “Is the farm in need of repair?” she asked curtly.

  “Uh ...” Mark had to think about it. “I’d say here and there. The roof will need attention soon. Some touch-up paint in places—”

  “I mean do you plan to apply for a restoration grant? I’ll tell you right now, those are hard to come by and you wouldn’t be the first to go to all the trouble of getting listed only to find out the grants are scarce.”

  The exasperation in her voice triggered Mark’s memories of when she would lecture the class on a round of essays that were subpar.

  “No, I wasn’t even aware of grants. I mean, it’s not money—the farm doesn’t need restoring,” he said.

  Her eyes narrowed. The rain had picked up and was pounding against the frame walls.

  “Advertising, then?” She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms.

  Mark wasn’t sure what she meant by this, either.

  “No.”

  “You don’t want to put up a billboard and maybe a sign or two to drum up more customers?” Her exasperation turned into contempt.

  That’s an idea, he thought, but he noted the look on her face.r />
  “No, let me explain. I’m not sure if you’ve heard about the expansion of Route 146.”

  “Of course I’ve heard.”

  “They’re planning a frontage road right through a section of the farm. And as much as I support the growth of Sutton, I don’t think it should come at the cost of such a historically important piece of land as the tree farm.”

  He wasn’t sure if he could make that claim about the farm being historically important, but the words came rolling out of his mouth that way. Maybe it had something to do with the English-class memories. He waited, listening to the rain and Mrs. Simmons tapping the desk with her pen.

  “We certainly can’t have that,” she finally said. She moved to her computer and began clicking away. “You’ll need my help. We can recommend your property to the National Register. It’s the National Park Service in Washington, D.C. that makes the final review, and if they approve, then it will be listed by the Keeper of the National Register of Historic Places.”

  Mark smiled at the full name.

  “Don’t celebrate yet. It’s not automatic. You can be turned down. But I’ll do what I can. We may need a field visit. They have quarterly meetings and will probably want more information. It’s a process.” She looked at Mark, a bit more warmly now. As if they were on the same side.

  “Thanks. Is there a fee? Do I pay you?” Mark asked as he stood.

  “No fee. And seeing what a fine man you’ve become is enough.” She peered at him over her glasses for a moment. “Any family yet?”

  Mark grinned, not feeling older than the fourteen-year-old boy he was when she last saw him.

  “Soon. Very soon,” he answered, thinking of Angela and the gazebo and the ring.

  Chapter 11

  Angela called to Caroline, “Let’s go. We’ve got to get you to school on time. Are you wearing the right shoes for PE?” Angela asked. “Don’t you have that on Wednesdays?”

  “Yes, Mom. I’m set. What are you doing today?” Caroline asked, slipping on her backpack.

  Angela paused. Working on a surprise for you. “Taking care of some things at the farm,” she answered. “Why do you ask?”

  “Sometimes when you’re going to the farm to see Mark, you’re in a bigger hurry,” Caroline said with a grin.