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

  But the calendar was on his side now, and the ring had been cleaned and appraised. They could have a little dinner, visit the gazebo, and come back to the farmhouse for some dancing. He would need to double-check with Papa to confirm he could spend some time at Mrs. Shaw’s apartment.

  He walked to the farmhouse and studied the cloud pattern in the sky.

  At least it’s not raining—at the moment.

  He needed to order the sales tags for the upcoming season and check their quantities of herbicide—as well as pick up his new suit downtown. He was cutting it close having the alterations done and picking it up on the day of, but by the time he’d found a place to do it, there hadn’t been much choice.

  The phone rang. Mrs. Simmons wanted to talk to him right away.

  “Good news. Are you ready for this?” She sounded out of breath. “A representative or two of the Massachusetts Historical Commission want to visit your farm today. Can you believe it? Neither can I. This is good news, Mark. They only meet quarterly, so I called them after you stopped by. It’s a good thing I did.”

  “Today?” Mark asked, concerned his schedule would now be too tight.

  “That’s right. They wouldn’t send someone out unless they thought the property deserved consideration. This means they will likely put it to a vote.” Her voice reached a higher pitch as she finished, sounding like the property was as good as listed.

  “Do you know what time?” He closed the equipment catalog on his desk, stood, and paced around the office. “What will I need to do?”

  “The woman said three o’clock. That’s okay with you, isn’t it? I hope it is, since I already told her it was. Their meeting is next Friday, and they only had certain days for field visits. Are you getting a sense of what a miracle this is?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Simmons, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “Mark?” Her voice was now more intense. “Will you be ready to give her a tour? Do you have your criteria ready?”

  “My criteria?” Mark stopped pacing and looked up at the trees through the office window.

  “Please tell me you did your research. You do realize they will want to know your reasons.” She sighed a heavy sigh. Mark could picture her in front of his English class again, like he’d gotten an assignment wrong—that he hadn’t even turned in!

  “Do you have something to write with? Between now and three o’clock you’ll need to have an answer for these questions.”

  She spoke hurriedly. Mark scrawled the questions onto some note paper, asking her to repeat phrases only when absolutely necessary.

  “How is the property associated with events of significant contribution to our history?”

  “How is the property associated with the lives of significant persons in our past?”

  Or was it “our significant past?”

  Mark was trying to keep up. “Embodiment of distinctive characteristics,” he wasn’t sure he was spelling any of this correctly. “Yielding information significant in history.”

  At that, Mark felt the National Register possibility slip away. His voice had to have shown it as Mrs. Simmons began to be more encouraging.

  “The farm only has to meet one of those criteria, Mark,” she said, sounding pleased with herself. “Good luck, and tell me how it goes.”

  After the call, Mark sat back down at his desk and reread his notes.

  This could take a while.

  Deep into the history of Sutton and absorbed by the story of Rufus Putnam, a Revolutionary War soldier who helped defend Dorchester Heights and forced the British to abandon Boston, Mark was startled by the phone.

  “Shafer Tree Farm, Mark speaking,” he said with his eyes still on the computer.

  “Checking in with you. I’ll be in Sutton tomorrow. Have you had time to think about my offer?”

  It took Mark a second—or less—to recognize John Jackson’s voice. He was about to simply hang up, but something prevented him.

  “John? Yeah, not sure what offer you’re talking about, so no. I’m busy at the moment.”

  “I have an interested buyer. Not gonna lie—hard to come by with rumors flying about the expansion. And they aren’t offering as much as you could have made last year. But given the circumstances, I can almost guarantee you’ll make more than you would if you have to settle with the state.”

  Mark closed his eyes. He tried to breathe and count but didn’t want to give John any more airtime that he already had.

  He answered calmly. “The farm is not for sale, John. Not last year, not this year. And there won’t be any settlement. I have good reason to believe the state will need to change its recommendation about the farm.”

  John scoffed. “Mark, do you hear yourself? The Department of Transportation gets whatever it wants around here, or haven’t you noticed? I can save you a lot of grief. My buyer can meet—”

  “Your buyer can go visit the Blackstone Street Bridge.” Mark didn’t raise his voice, but he could feel his temper rising. “The farm is being considered as a historic property, to be listed on the National Register.”

  Mark wished he’d hung up at the start. He didn’t relish giving John any details, but he was determined to be done with his harassment.

  “Are you kiddin’ me? You think that’s gonna happen?” John laughed—not a polite laugh. “Did you know Massachusetts has the most historic places listed on the National Register of any state in the country? Well, second to New York, but half their properties were probably bribes. Anyone can figure it out. They don’t want any new listings from this state. There are over four thousand already. Ask me how I know. I’ll tell you, selling real estate around this place, they’re like landmines—everywhere you turn there’s another place on the NR.”

  Mark listened, staring at his notes from Mrs. Simmons and the other notes he’d made from his research and doubted any of it would be enough.

  “Unless you have, I don’t know, Noah’s ark in your backyard. I hate to be the one to tell you, but you don’t have a chance.”

  Right. He loves being the one to tell me.

  Mark glanced at the clock. It was approaching three.

  “We’ll see about that, John.”

  The rain had held off for most of the day, but the ground was saturated and water levels in the surrounding lakes were at record highs. At least the representatives of the Massachusetts Historical Commission didn’t have to carry umbrellas.

  Two men and a woman arrived in a Jeep. They all wore jeans, raincoats, and boots. Ready for the terrain. With John Jackson’s words and laughter echoing in his ears, Mark greeted the group and invited them inside the farmhouse first. Maybe he could relax. If only John’s call hadn’t come before their inspection. If only it hadn’t rattled his nerves.

  The representatives were gracious and appeared genuinely interested in the farm. One of the men asked Mark how long he’d worked there, delighted to hear he was the descendant of the original settler. He saw the woman making notes. It didn’t surprise him, but it didn’t put him at ease either.

  Once outside, he led them to the back lot of trees, avoiding the sales lot and Donna’s barn. He wanted to downplay the commercial aspects of the farm. Based on Mrs. Simmons’s questions, he thought that might count against him.

  He spoke rapidly about tree varieties, planting schedules, and weather patterns. He detailed the types of herbicide they used, their procedures for controlling rodents, and even the best methods to ensure seedling survival.

  When their eyes appeared glassed over, he began rambling about the several years of drought that had likely contributed to a large fire one year.

  “My parents died in that fire,” he said unintentionally.

  At that, he stopped talking, stunned into silence at the thought that he had shared too much about the care of the trees and his personal life. They stood by the back of the farmhouse, having come full circle around the property.

  He vaguely remembered the questions Mrs. Simmons had given him to research. H
e couldn’t recall even one of them or an answer that might meet the listed criteria.

  Finally, the woman slipped her pen into her raincoat pocket and said, “I’m sorry about your parents. That must have been very difficult for you. I’m sure it would please them very much to know you’re taking such good care of the trees.” She smiled and looked to the other gentlemen.

  Mark exhaled. He hadn’t intended to appeal to their sympathy. His nerves must have gotten the better of him.

  “Can you tell me about your sales? You sell the trees for the holiday, right?” one of the men asked.

  “Yes, we do. We have a small lot up front, to the side. We open after Thanksgiving and have a good number of families who return each year.” Again, Mark wondered if any of this would hurt the application.

  “Can you tell us about the cabin structure?” the other man asked.

  Mark answered the few things that came to mind but regretted not finding out more before they came.

  “And what about—was it your great-great-grandfather? Can you tell us more about him?”

  Mark’s mind went blank. He was failing not only the historical portion of the test but failing to answer the only question that mattered.

  He saw Mrs. Shaw and Papa walk out of the side door of the farmhouse. Not wasting any time, he called to them and led the group to where Papa was.

  “Papa, before you go, I’d like you to meet these visitors from the State Historical Commission.” Mark handled the introductions and then repeated the last question he’d been unable to answer.

  Knowing Papa, this could go either way.

  “You mean Hans?” Papa clarified. “Sure, what do you want to know ’bout him?”

  “Anything that might be significant relating to the history of the state or, if not, whatever you can tell us,” the man said.

  “Let’s see, Hans Shafer was one of the first German settlers of Sutton. Wasn’t easy, I suppose, with all the Englishmen already established around here. He had a kind of vision,” Papa said.

  Mark froze for a moment, hoping against hope he wasn’t going to try to share keeper stories in place of historical facts. Then he remembered something Papa had told him. “He was one of the first commercial Christmas tree farmers, not only in Massachusetts but in the country. Right, Papa?”

  “Yep, about 1920, ’21. Took years before he made any profit. He was a man before his time.”

  The woman pulled out her pen and took more notes while the men exchanged satisfied looks. They talked with Papa about some of the development he had witnessed as a resident of Sutton for over seventy years.

  They told Mark they would send the nomination form in and he would either get a letter from the National Park Service or a call from Mrs. Simmons. Then they excused themselves and were on their way.

  Papa turned to Mark. “You mighta just saved the trees. And good thing. Don’t you have a dinner to get to?”

  Mark looked at his watch: 4:45 p.m.

  Chapter 13

  Angela parked her truck in the driveway of her home and tapped the steering wheel.

  Thank you, thank you!

  Forget redoing her hair. She’d barely have time to tame it. Apartment inspections in the rain had soaked it into a near-unmanageable mess. Add to that the fact that six days of rain and the resultant humidity had taken her naturally curly hair to new heights, very frizzy heights.

  She heard her mother arrive and Caroline’s chatter. She put on another layer of gloss and felt a twinge in her stomach. She refused to entertain the idea of Mark proposing.

  I’m being ridiculous. This is just a date. So what if it’s Thursday? And he asked to pick me up early. And said my little black dress would not be too formal. I have no reason to be nervous. Right?

  With that unconvincing train of thought, she pulled out a different pair of heels. Slightly higher with straps. She stared at her feet in the mirror, one foot sporting a patent-leather bow and sturdy, low heel, and the other, the obvious winner, some eye-catching bling.

  They hadn’t done anything this formal since Valentine’s Day and that was just for fun. She twisted her necklace around her neck, adjusting it needlessly. Saved from the endless, last-minute fussing by Caroline’s voice calling from the front room.

  “Mom? Isn’t Mark supposed to be here now?”

  Angela grabbed her wrap and purse and headed for the door. If only she could exit without passing the inspection crew.

  No such luck.

  “Ooooh, you’re so pretty.” Caroline jumped up from the sofa, staring at her mom in wide-eyed awe.

  “I’m glad to see you haven’t gotten rid of all your formal wear. I haven’t even seen those shoes before. Are those Zanotti or Blahnik?”

  “Please, Mom. These cost me $40, not $800.”

  “That might have been why I couldn’t place them exactly. At least they are subtle.”

  Subtle?

  In her younger years, her mother would say “If you can’t wear designer, at least don’t call attention to it with anything loud. No need to advertise the imitation.”

  “Somehow I don’t think Mark will be worried about the shoes I’m wearing,” Angela said, mostly to herself.

  “Where are you off to, then?” Cathy asked.

  “Dinner. An early dinner.”

  Though he did mention dancing.

  The low heels were sounding much better.

  “An early formal dinner,” Cathy said as she smiled.

  “I have no idea. It could be an anniversary of ours I haven’t thought of yet.”

  “You didn’t know Mark last September,” Caroline piped up innocently.

  Angela opened the refrigerator and pulled a few things from the back. She was still talking about what they could eat for dinner when Caroline opened the door and Mark walked in.

  No, he didn’t walk. He strode. He moved so smoothly and easily into the room and yet filled up the space with his suit-covered shoulders in such a way that Angela could not see anything else.

  Or hear. Or think. Or do anything other than focus on her lungs to be sure she didn’t stop breathing altogether. Not that she was thinking about any of this, but she was pretty sure she needed to keep breathing.

  Mark smiled in her direction. She returned the smile but became awkwardly aware of the leftovers in her hand. Setting the containers down on the table, she greeted Mark.

  “I’m ready. I was making sure Caroline and Mom would have plenty for dinner, but I’m ready to go.”

  “Go, then,” Cathy said. “We’ll be fine. Caroline has already taught me how to use your microwave. We might even try popcorn tonight.”

  Mark reached out his hand and Angela automatically reached out hers. She walked to his side as if they were the only two people in the room.

  He kissed her cheek and said not too quietly, “You’re beautiful.”

  What was going on here? Angela had gotten used to their Saturday-night dates. Casual, predictable, reliable. They had a good time. They were getting along fine. But this—what had changed? And it couldn’t be just the suit, could it? For all her impatience with Ashley and the girl’s obsession with men’s fashion, she had to admit it had an effect.

  “Is something wrong?” Mark asked.

  “No. Not at all. I was um ...” Angela looked down to Mark’s feet and back up to his eyes. “I was admiring your suit. Have I ever seen you in this one?”

  Mark laughed. “Ha. No, this is new for the occasion.”

  “And what occasion is that?” Cathy asked.

  “Angela didn’t tell you?”

  All eyes were on a bewildered Angela. Mark held his lips together in a deliberate grin.

  Finally he relented.

  “It’s the autumnal equinox,” he said and whisked Angela out of the door before her mother or Caroline could ask any more questions. “And we’ve got reservations.”

  The restaurant had been quiet—not surprising for a weeknight. Mark dodged any questions about the equinox comment. He
seemed happy but nervous, talkative but quick to change subjects.

  Angela, though hungry from the longer-than-expected day she’d had, found she couldn’t eat as much as she wanted. So what if he’s in a suit, she told herself, and acting funny. That doesn’t mean anything. I have no reason to be nervous.

  His cell phone rang. She sipped her drink.

  “We have to go,” he said, waving to their waiter and standing up. He reached for cash from his wallet.

  “What? Now?”

  Was this part of the plan for the night? Did he have a surprise party waiting for them or something?

  But Mark was alarmed, frantic almost. “The farm. The rain. Brett said there might be overbank flooding from Lake Singletary.”

  “Isn’t that ten miles away?”

  “About that far. He said they don’t know where the water’s coming from, but a new channel of water has cut through the two-year-old’s lot.”

  “Isn’t that behind Donna’s barn?”

  “That’s exactly where it is.”

  They both jumped out of Mark’s truck as soon as he pulled up to the front door of the farmhouse. A quick glance at the ground and they could see that most of the water was rushing behind the house.

  Mark pulled off his suit coat and threw it back into the truck. He did the same with his tie. He took the keys and put them in Angela’s hand.

  “Head inside. See if anyone else has been called. If you want to change into dry clothes”—he paused when they heard the sound of snapping branches—“there aren’t any women’s, but help yourself to anything dry that fits.”

  He bolted around the house. Angela stood for a moment, watching him go. Thunder cracked above her head. It shook her ribs and sent her running inside. She pulled off her strappy-heels, which were now useless, and made a beeline to Mark’s bedroom only to see Papa’s clothes in the drawer.