The Christmas Tree Keeper: A Novel Read online

  Oh, no—what time is it?

  “Can we go? I’m freezing,” she said as he approached her.

  “I’ve got to go back inside to help close and check on Papa. Come with me.”

  Natalie looked steely eyed at the farmhouse. “How long will that take?”

  “Not long, I hope. I have good news,” Mark said.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “I’ll tell you over dinner.”

  Once inside, Mark greeted Donna and Brett. The ever-cheerful Donna had stepped in when Mark’s mother died to lend a helping hand. Twenty years later, she worked at the farm year round. “Where else would I go? All my favorite people are right here.” she’d often say.

  “Craft barn is closed,” Donna reported. “You two look like you’re up to something,” she said as she glanced at Natalie.

  Brett replied before Mark did. “Can’t you tell, Donna? Look at him. I’d say they’re headed someplace—”

  “Expensive,” Donna said, shaking her head.

  “I was about to say boring,” Brett teased. “But I bet you’re right. Expensive, too.”

  “Just a little dinner,” Mark said. “I was going to help with that register, but I think I’ll check on Papa instead.” He shot back.

  “At least tell me what to do with this money,” Bret asked. “This is the sixty dollars that woman wouldn’t take.”

  “Put it in the hospital fund,” Mark answered.

  Natalie dropped into the wingback chair by the dark fireplace. She took out her phone, crossed her legs, and began swinging her foot.

  “I’ll talk to Papa and then we can go.” Mark assured her he’d be quick. He found Papa in the back office staring out the window, as still as a Douglas fir.

  “Hey, Papa, are you watching the trees grow?” Mark offered lightly.

  “I suppose,” he murmured.

  “Customers are gone. It’s late. I was hoping to lock up so I could—”

  “Go already. Don’t keep Natalie waiting. I’ll lock up with Donna.”

  “Papa, why don’t we all leave? You need some rest.”

  “I’ll get my rest. You go. Let me have my peace. That’s all I’m asking for on a day like today.”

  Mark bristled. The developer had called and offered again to buy the tree farm. Papa wouldn’t even consider it. “Not in my lifetime or yours,” he’d said. “We sell our trees, not our land.”

  “How about you come to a late dinner with us?” Mark asked tentatively.

  “Of course not,” he said. “Leave me be. The land is quiet tonight. The wind is blowing in from the north. The trees know there’s a change coming.”

  “Papa.”

  “The trees know it, Mark. I don’t yet. But there’s something.”

  Mark kept his eyes from rolling. The trees this and the land that. He couldn’t reason with Papa anymore. When he talked about the trees that way, Mark wished his parents were still alive. Maybe they’d understand him better, or maybe his dad would be able to explain the trees to him in a way that was at least rational. But that wasn’t possible. He changed the subject.

  “Did we get the name of the generous guy who paid for that woman’s tree?” Mark asked.

  “I don’t show my face at the register, remember? You want me on the lot with the trees, and even that makes you nervous.”

  “Papa, it’s not that. It’s the stories. You have to be careful what you say to the customers. Like tonight—that woman wasn’t happy about the story you told her daughter.”

  “I tell one story, and it’s the truth.”

  “I know you think the trees are special, and to our family, they are.” Mark inadvertently began the tired debate.

  Papa turned and hit the desk with his fist, startling Mark.

  “Are they? Are they special to you, my over-dressed grandson? Do you care about these trees and what they’ve done for our family? What they’ve done for the families in Sutton and all over New England for five generations? These trees saved my great-grandparents from starvation so you could be here today.” Papa grabbed the edge of the desk with his shaking hand. “Now they bring joy to everyone who sees one or buys one. And you plan to sell them to some butcher, to someone who will make woodchips out of them faster than that little BMW of yours can get you to Boston. Go on.” Papa’s voice lowered with unusual fatigue. “Get outta here.”

  Mark backed up to the door and staggered out, stunned. Natalie stopped pacing by the fireplace when she saw him. Mark could tell by her wide eyes that she had heard Papa’s outburst.

  “You okay?” She buttoned her coat.

  “Did anyone else hear him?”

  Natalie shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. Let’s just go.”

  Mark couldn’t dismiss it that easily. He scanned the room to see who remained. Donna focused on the counter and didn’t look up. What did she hear? Did Papa tell her about the developer’s call? Was she as angry as Papa, or just unhappy that he was dating Natalie?

  Donna loved everyone—or almost everyone. Papa took care of the trees, and Donna loved the customers. He didn’t have to ask her opinion of selling the farm—she’d offered it plenty of times. “For Papa’s sake,” she’d say, “keep the farm as long as you can.” Couldn’t she understand that Papa wasn’t going to live forever? Shouldn’t they sell before it got any harder to operate?

  Instead of talking to Donna, he walked to the entryway, where he found Brett sweeping the floor.

  “Will you make sure Papa gets to his cabin? Don’t let him stay up front here alone. He can be stubborn.”

  “Like someone else I know,” Brett replied.

  “Yeah, I get it. Please make sure he gets settled—”

  “Go have a good time. I’ll take care of Papa.”

  “Thanks, Brett. See you in the morning.”

  On their way to the steak house in Millbury, Mark hit the brakes a little too hard for the red light. He felt Natalie reach for his free hand, but he kept his eyes fixed on the road.

  “Are you thinking about Papa?”

  “Yeah. The good news I had to share doesn’t feel so good now.”

  “You can still tell me,” Natalie said.

  “Maybe when we get inside.” Mark clenched his jaw and ended the discussion.

  After their waiter led them to a table, she asked again.

  “So, are you and Papa going to be okay?”

  Mark sat against the high-back leather booth and noticed the expectation in her eyes. “He thinks that I think I’m above growing trees. And that’s not it.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. He doesn’t understand your love for music. Or your business sense. There won’t be a better time to sell the farm, will there?” she asked.

  “That’s just it. The developer called again today and offered more money.” Mark scanned the nearby tables, cautious of familiar faces. Leaning in, he continued, “More money than we could get anywhere else.”

  Natalie smiled. “That’s great news,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Not to Papa. He won’t budge. He won’t even consider it.”

  Natalie looked at Mark with raised eyebrows. “That’s why he has you. You’ll help him see it’s for the best, right?”

  “Didn’t you hear him? I’m his ‘over-dressed grandson’ who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He won’t listen to me.”

  “Then you have to make him listen. It’s the only way you can buy your house, right?” she pressed. “How many houses in Sutton have a music studio in the basement? You can’t sit back and watch that house go to someone else.”

  “I could find another way to buy the house,” Mark said. “But it’d be hard if we don’t sell the farm first. Besides, the music studio will sit empty if I’m working at the farm every day.” He tensed. “Remember I told you when I was ten my parents died?”

  Natalie looked up. “Yes, but what does that have to do with this?”

  Mark continued, “I’d go to my room and listen to music as l
ong and as loud as I could. That was my way of dealing. Papa had a different way—work. To this day, he lives to work that farm.” He checked Natalie’s face for a reaction. “What can I do now? I might have to wait until Christmas is over before I can try to change his mind.”

  They finished dinner and the table felt like it had grown while they ate, creating more distance between them. He needed closeness with Natalie, not more space. If he was ever going to propose, he needed more time than these late-night dinner dates allowed. How could he tell her that? And how could he ask her when there wasn’t a chance she would agree to marry him unless he could get Papa to sell the farm?

  Mark blamed himself for how much she disliked it. On their first few dates, she’d been so empathetic about the hard parts of farm work. She listened while he vented about weevil control, herbicide applications, and broken pruning equipment. Before long, she encouraged him to sell. “Your music can’t wait forever,” she’d said.

  Mark paid for dinner, and as they left the restaurant, he played out “what-if” scenarios in his mind. If he could convince Papa to sell, if he could buy the house for a few thousand less, if he could buy it on his own. What was the use? Until Papa sold the farm, Mark would be at his side, keeping it going. And Natalie would be looking for someone else to date who didn’t have tree sap under his fingernails.

  “Who was the woman in that old truck?” Natalie asked.

  Mark waited a minute before he answered, “Some customer. She was upset over Papa’s storytelling. I had to smooth things over.”

  “Stories? What was it this time?” She smirked.

  “Same story—Shafer miracle trees,” he said lightly.

  “Seriously, how long are you going to let him roam around out there, telling that to customers?”

  Mark’s back stiffened.

  “I mean, I’m just saying, you love Papa, right? You don’t want him embarrassing himself, do you?” Natalie’s face appeared softer, but her words still cut.

  “Papa loves the trees. He’ll be working that farm until he dies,” Mark said.

  Natalie muttered something. “What was her name?”

  “Who?” Mark asked.

  “The unhappy woman with the little girl.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t get her name.”

  I didn’t, did I?

  “She sure drove off fast enough—once her truck started, that is,” Natalie said.

  It was odd the way he felt, not knowing her name. What was it about her? He met so many customers each year. She was pretty, yes, but more than that. Annoyed with Papa, anxious to leave … Am I always attracted to women who don’t like tree farms?

  But there was something else. The way she’d given back that money with a mixture of pain and resolve in her eyes, determined. No self-pity.

  “Mark?”

  “What?” he answered, checking Natalie’s face for clues for whatever he’d done wrong this time.

  “You just passed my apartment.”

  He hit the brake and pulled a U-turn. He slid into the visitor parking space, hopped out, and opened Natalie’s door for her. They walked to the door of her apartment, where he gave her a quick hug and kiss good night.

  “Aren’t you coming in?”

  “I’m going to check on Papa,” Mark said. “I don’t like the way we left things earlier.” He searched her face for some evidence of understanding. She stared back and shrugged.

  “Then call me tomorrow,” she said.

  Mark headed home. His room off the main floor of the farmhouse had a window where he could see the backside of the craft barn, but if he looked far enough to the east, he could see if the light was still on in Papa’s cabin.

  And what if it was? Would he go talk to him, and what would he say?

  Had anything changed? Could he convince Papa to accept the offer?

  No. Not yet.

  Chapter 3

  None of Angela’s warm-fuzzy memories of decorating their childhood tree included hefting said tree up a flight of stairs. The tree simply appeared in their house, installed, with branches like outstretched arms waiting to be adorned with jewelry. Glancing at the tree in the truck bed and then up to the porch light outside their second-story apartment, she reassured herself they could do this. Sure, carrying the tree was the kind of thing her ex-husband would have done, but it was just a tree, right?

  Angela and Caroline managed the first flight of stairs. Then while Caroline ran and unlocked the door to their apartment, Angela stopped on the landing for a moment. On the next flight of stairs, the tree felt heavier with each step. Angela glanced up as Caroline opened the door and turned on the lights. Maybe looking away distracted her, or maybe the needles got under her skin as she adjusted her bare hands. Whatever the reason, her foot slipped and her hands lost their grip. Her shin collided with the stair and she collapsed in a momentary shock of pain.

  The tree took off like a toboggan let loose on an ice-coated, snow-packed hill. It slid to the bottom of the stairs and might have flown right into the parking lot if not for the railing.

  Caroline ran to the top of the stairs.

  “What did you do to our miracle tree?” she yelled.

  “You mean, what did that tree do to me?”

  Angela stood and brushed pine needles off her coat. She and Caroline wrestled the tree out of the rail and into their apartment. As soon as the tree was up, Caroline assessed the damage—two broken branches and lots of loose needles.

  “Mom, look at it. We have to decorate it tonight,” she begged. “We have to.”

  “Okay, we can start,” Angela answered despite her fatigue. Caroline needs this. She pulled the only box of Christmas decorations she owned from the back of her bedroom closet.

  A string of lights, two packages of ornaments, and an heirloom nutcracker came out first. As Caroline busied herself with testing the lights and lining up the ornaments, Angela pulled out their stockings—a little matted from being used as a cushion for the ornaments. She fluffed and smoothed the faux fur. Her fingers traced the stitched letters of Caroline’s name and the melancholy began. Oh, how the first few years of her married life were like those stitches—predictable and neat.

  She left the half-empty box and joined Caroline. They strung the lights on the tree. The ornaments didn’t take long to space out over the branches. Angela hung a gold piano ornament, pulled the string, and listened to the notes of “Silent Night.” Her mother had given it to her to start what became their ornament tradition—all five years of it. There were no more ornament gifts after Angela married Todd.

  “Where is the star?” Caroline looked into the box, bewildered.

  “I don’t think it’s in there.” Angela rummaged through the items on the sofa and uncovered the star. “I found it,” she declared, turning to see a very quiet Caroline. Setting the star down, Angela moved over to her daughter.

  “What’s this?” She held up a smooth wooden box.

  Angela offered a tender smile. “I forgot this was here. Here, let me show this to you.” She gently held the familiar box and showed Caroline the hand-carved figures at rest in the black velvet interior. Angela’s weariness slipped away.

  With wide eyes, Caroline reached for the figure of Mary. “Where did this come from?”

  “Did I ever tell you about Dona Florinda?” The name rolled off Angela’s tongue with the appropriate Portuguese accent.

  “Who?”

  “My piano teacher,” Angela said. “Her full name was longer—Maria Florinda Silva—but she let me call her Dona Florinda.”

  “And she gave you this for a present? Were you a good student?”

  “Yes, but that’s not the point. She came to my house for lessons when I was probably a few years older than you.”

  “Is that when you lived in Provident?” Caroline asked.

  “Providence. Yes, Dona Florinda lived in Fall River, I think. One December after a lesson, she looked around and asked if we had a nativity set. We didn’t
. The next week, she brought me this gift.” Angela stroked the open edge of the box and gazed over Caroline’s head at nothing in particular. How young she felt sitting on the sofa as if she were ten years old again with her teacher beside her.

  “Did you have to wait until Christmas to open it?”

  “No. She insisted I put it out right away, or at least part of it. She told me her family set out a different piece of the nativity each day until Christmas. And on Christmas Day—”

  “What? What did they do?”

  “They set out the baby Jesus,” Angela answered.

  “Can we do that? Can we?” Caroline jumped off the sofa.

  Angela laughed and pulled Caroline close for a hug. “Yes, we can. I don’t remember the order, but she told me things about each piece. Like about Mary, the one you’re holding, she said, ‘Have a pure heart like this girl Mary, and you will receive the greatest blessings from heaven.’ ” Angela smiled at how the words came back to her in Florinda’s rich, accented voice.

  “What about Joseph?” Caroline asked.

  Angela remembered exactly what Florinda had told her about Joseph, but was in no mood to repeat it to Caroline.

  “It’s getting late—very late. We can do this tomorrow.”

  She scooped up Mary and returned her to the box. Caroline protested with her sad face.

  “What about the baby Jesus? What did she say about him?” she pleaded.

  Angela lowered her eyes, “She told me to always remember that Jesus was born to make forgiveness possible for us and for others.” She looked over at her daughter and noticed the thoughtful creases in her forehead.

  “One more? Please, tell me about one more.” Caroline pulled the lamb from its place.

  “You would pick that one.”

  Meu cordeirinho. My little lamb.

  “That one was my favorite.” Angela took it from Caroline’s hand for a moment and then gave it back. “Florinda explained how important little lambs were to Jesus. Like a good shepherd, He knew their names and searched for the lost ones. I used to sneak that lamb to my room and take him places. I’d put him under my pillow, too. I thought I’d never get lost if I had him with me.” Angela fought back unexpected tears, feeling lost for a long time now. “Come on, it’s late. Time for bed.”