The Tree Keeper's Promise: A Novel (A Shafer Farm Romance Book 2) Page 4

  Mark stood, and Angela followed him. “It’s late. I need to get home. My mother is there with Caroline.”

  She remembered the dinner plans—the reason she came to see him in the first place. “Before I go, Cathy invited us to her house this Friday for dinner.”

  “What did you tell her?” Mark asked matter-of-factly.

  “I said I’d check with you. It’s at six thirty.”

  “Great, I’ll pick you up about five thirty,” Mark said.

  “Are you sure? If you’re busy I can tell her we have other plans,” Angela said.

  “Are you sure? This is what, the third time she’s asked us. You’ve said no every other time. Should I be worried there’s something at her house you don’t want me to see? Like do you have a shrine to Todd in your bedroom or something?”

  “Wait, what? No, it’s not the house.” Okay sort of, but not for the reasons you think. “You know my mom, talking with her can be a—um, a minefield.”

  “You don’t think I can handle a little dinner with your mom?”

  “No dinner with my mom is little. And don’t forget her “non-boyfriend” Gary. And, no, I’m not saying you can’t handle it, just—why would you want to?”

  “It’s me you’re talking to. Cathy and I get along fine. At some point she may not feel the need to tell me about my dad and how long they dated every time she sees me. She’s your mother, and I love you. Trust me, there isn’t anything that could change the way I feel about you.”

  Right. How about a butler and a full-course meal?

  Angela watched Mark as he said the words. His eyes were focused on her with a genuine expression. “I hope you mean that,” she said, but she still had the nagging worry that her mother might try to force the engagement issue. So what if it had been eight months or nine? Who was counting? No need to rush. They would do this on their time, not Cathy’s.

  Mark walked Angela to the door.

  Papa returned from the kitchen eating the last of his sandwich. He waved and offered his four words, “Good to see ya.”

  Angela paused before leaving. “So I’ll tell her we can make it?” The question in her voice drew a chuckle from Mark.

  “Yes. We’ll be there.”

  “You know my mom, she is probably going to bring up us.”

  “And? Is that a bad thing?” Mark asked.

  “No, but I don’t want it to be awkward if she asks.”

  “Asks what?”

  “About us getting engaged.” There, she’d named the elephant.

  “So I should bring the ring? Wear my suit?”

  Angela could hear the teasing in his voice. He was baiting her, and she knew it.

  “Yes, bring the ring. A proposal at her dinner table—my nightmare and my mother’s dream.”

  “I may just do that.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I could,” Mark said.

  “But you wouldn’t,” Angela insisted.

  “We’ll see.”

  Chapter 4

  Mark read the papers John Jackson had left—what he’d claimed would bring the end of the Shafer tree farm. There were about sixteen pages of a “possible” futures study. For a rough draft, it contained some specific details—goals, processes, recommendations. There in black-and-white print with aerial color photos was the planned expansion of Route 146 including the need for a frontage road right through the southern section of the property. Proof that the farm was at risk.

  What the pages didn’t include was a 1-800 number to call with questions, complaints, or rebuttals. Only the names of the governor and secretary of transportation. And an address for the Executive Office of Transportation Planning. And reasons. Lots of reasons for their proposal, like a reduction in traffic congestion and an improvement in safety—all things for the good of the people of the Commonwealth.

  There wasn’t much said about the farm. A few lines was all it took to put it on the map of properties to be acquired for “the purposes of MassDOT to construct a frontage road and provide ample space for revised interchange geometry,” thereby facilitating a “wider roadway to ease congestion.”

  Ease congestion. Remove trees to make room for more cars.

  Mark tossed the papers onto his bed. Lousy study. Lousy John Jackson. He picked up his guitar and walked through the empty house to clear his mind. He arrived at the new rooms he’d added on, pulled back the hanging plastic, and walked over the new wooden floors. He strummed the chords to Angela’s song. He’d written it just for her. Once he had one more piece of equipment, he could record her song. And one night soon, he could propose.

  He walked to the full-length window. The rising moon cast a silver light across the trees. He let his mind drift for a few moments, imagining their life together, hoping Angela would love it here as much as he did. Other girls he’d dated—okay, every girl he had dated—thought the trees were quaint, but they weren’t interested in making them their life’s work. And Natalie, she had taken it one step further and nearly convinced Mark to sell everything and try to make a living with his music. Of course, had she truly loved him and not been dating John Jackson at the same time—he might have gone through with the deal and made the biggest mistake of his life.

  But he hadn’t. And that was when Angela had come into his life. She and her daughter fit right in at the farm. And he wanted them to feel at home. He wanted this to be their home.

  The light was out in Papa’s cabin. It was a little early for him to be turning in. Mark set his guitar down and walked over to the side door and grabbed his coat. It couldn’t hurt to check on him.

  When he opened the door, he was surprised to find Papa there on his front step. A gust of wind came in the house before he did.

  “Goin’ somewhere?” Papa asked.

  “Yeah, to check on you.”

  “What for? I’m right here.”

  Mark chuckled to himself. “I can see that now.”

  “Have you thought about my offer?”

  “What offer is that?” Mark asked.

  “Trading places?” Papa said as he walked across the front room past the cash register and down the hall.

  “If you’re sure about Mrs. Shaw and you think it will help the cause.” Mark’s voice trailed off. He’d followed Papa to where he now stood in the doorway of the newly added rooms.

  “I can move my things over tonight. How about you?” Papa asked, not looking at Mark but scanning the sound equipment in the room.

  “Tonight? I hadn’t thought so soon. I’m working on a few things here.”

  “I can see that. Looks like an airplane cockpit.”

  Mark sighed. So much for surprises. “It’s a recording studio,” he explained.

  Papa turned and walked over to the spacious area. “Then what’s this, another dining room?” he asked.

  “Actually, a dance floor,” Mark said sheepishly.

  Papa’s face registered surprise, accompanied by a smile. “Wouldn’t have thought our tree farm needed one, but something tells me this isn’t just for you.”

  “I want to surprise Angela, remember?”

  “Have you proposed yet?”

  Mark shook his head.

  “Sure going to a heap a’ trouble for a girl you aren’t even sure is planning to stay with you.” Papa’s face had a grave expression, but his mouth turned up into a smirk. “Looks like you’re bettin’ she’ll say yes, too.”

  Mark walked over to the studio and turned on the sound system. He played a recording of one of his older songs, and the sound came through loud and clear, filling the whole room. Mark came back to Papa’s side and positioned himself facing the window.

  “That’s just it. Remember what you were saying about Mrs. Shaw and taking care of any objections she might have? If I’m asking Angela to marry me and to live here, I thought it only right that she have a place to work on her music.”

  Papa didn’t speak but nodded.

  “I want her to love it here as much as I do,” Mar
k insisted.

  “And the dance floor, does her house have one of those too?” Papa asked.

  “No. That was my idea. Something new for both of us.”

  “At least you’ve been thinking ’bout someone else’s happiness besides your own,” Papa declared. “Do you have any more of that plastic?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Let’s put it up. As far as anyone else is concerned, this will be under construction while me and Mrs. Shaw are here. If this is something for you and Angela, we need to keep it that way,” Papa said as he walked out of the room. “I’m going to get my things. How long will it take you to pack?”

  A short time later, Mark had tossed some clothes, an alarm clock, and his toothbrush into a duffel bag. He gathered some of his pictures and sheet music and set them in a small bin. Papa returned quickly. Mark pulled his boots from his closet and rummaged for the box they came in.

  “Set your bags over by the dresser,” he called to Papa. “I don’t have much more to pack.”

  “I only have one,” Papa said. “By my age, you learn that if it doesn’t fit in one bag, you probably don’t need it.”

  Mark straightened up, grabbed his backpack, and tossed it into the hallway.

  “What’s this?” Papa asked, holding up some papers that had been on Mark’s bed.

  Not those.

  “That’s some research I was—” Mark held his hand out, but it was too late. Papa sat down on the bed and began to read.

  “Department of Transportation research?” Papa mumbled.

  “Look, it’s not important, and it’s getting late. I know you like to turn in early.”

  Papa waved Mark’s hand away.

  Mark sighed and sat down on the bed. As long as Papa lost interest and didn’t turn the page. As long as he didn’t see where Shafer Farm was listed as a—

  “Potential property to be acquired for the expansion of Route 146,” Papa read out loud.

  Mark put his head into his hands for a minute. He wanted to tell Papa once he had it figured out.

  “What’s not important about this? Looks to me like it might be more important than everything else we’ve been talking about.” Papa handed him the papers. “Were you going to tell me, son?”

  Mark knew the gravity of the situation when his grandfather called him that.

  “Yes, but I didn’t want to worry you. At least not yet. John Jackson brought those papers when he came asking for the tallest tree we had. I wasn’t even sure he was telling the truth.”

  “Looks like he was.”

  “Here’s the thing. It’s just a study. They haven’t even published it.”

  “Yet,” Papa said.

  “If there’s a way to stop the acquisition process before it begins, we’re fine.”

  “And if there isn’t?” Papa asked calmly but with a furrowed brow.

  Mark stood and paced the room. “I don’t know. I hope it doesn’t come to that.” Mark looked at Papa and tried to make eye contact, but his grandfather’s eyes were fixed on the floor. “Papa, should I have sold this farm last year? While we had a buyer, you know, instead of losing it to the state?”

  Papa stood and slapped his leg. “’Course not!” he scoffed. “We’re tree keepers.”

  “Right,” Mark said, starting to feel reassured.

  “Nothin’ is going to get in the way of that,” Papa continued.

  “Exactly,” Mark said again, reinforcing his feeling of resolve.

  “Unless the Commonwealth bulldozes these trees. Then we’re done for,” Papa concluded, sitting back down on the bed and loosening the laces on his boots.

  “Wait, what?”

  “Not gonna worry about it tonight. Now, have you got all you need so I can get a decent night’s sleep?”

  Mark gathered up his things. “Yes, I’m going, but shouldn’t we do something? Walk the lot tomorrow and talk about a strategy?”

  “Or you could call your lawyer friend downtown,” Papa said.

  “You mean my real estate agent’s brother Jeff?” Mark asked, realizing that made the most sense.

  “Unless you’ve got another friend in the legal business, that’s the one.”

  “Great idea. I’ll look him up,” Mark said as he headed out the door.

  “Wait a minute. You may want an extra blanket. Nights are startin’ to get chilly in the cabin.” Papa pulled the top comforter off the bed.

  “Thanks, but what about you—here?”

  “I’ll be just fine. Probably too hot with all the insulation.”

  “One more thing.” Mark stood with his backpack on his shoulder, his duffel bag in his hand, and his other hand clutching the bulk of the comforter. “How long do you plan on staying in the farmhouse?”

  “At the rate you’re moving, I’d say Mrs. Shaw and I have plenty of time.”

  There was a pause, and Mark looked away from Papa.

  Papa must have picked up on Mark’s meaning. “We won’t stay one day longer than we need to. This place is yours when you need it.”

  “Where will you and Mrs. Shaw go?”

  “Things have a way of working out.” Papa stretched out his arms and clasped them behind his head. “If the trees haven’t taught you that yet, they will soon.”

  Papa hadn’t been kidding about the cabin. Forty-nine degrees wasn’t cold by winter standards, but with the humidity it felt colder. Mark unpacked his duffel bag and moved his clothes to the old pine dresser—furniture his great-grandfather had made. More solid and with a few decorative touches that were hard to find in the manufactured furniture they sold downtown. He pulled out a long-sleeved T-shirt and a pullover. A few degrees colder and he’d be able to see his breath.

  Tomorrow he’d bring his guitar and some of his music to the cabin. And maybe look into a space heater. There were a few lines of Angela’s song he wanted to work on. He reached for the backpack and pulled out his alarm clock. He searched the room for the one outlet, which meant the clock would need to sit on the floor on the other side of the room.

  The song was mostly done. So was the studio. The only other thing he needed was the ring—he wanted to give her the one they’d found in the box last Christmas, the one he’d slipped onto Angela’s finger—which she had promptly given back, of course. They hadn’t even started dating yet. It had been a spontaneous gesture, and he smiled at the memory. And at the kiss they’d shared. Unexpected, but from what he remembered, enjoyable.

  A new worry crept in.

  Maybe she wouldn’t like that ring.

  Would she want a new one? After all, he wasn’t quite sure where the ring had come from. Maybe his grandmother or his great-grandmother. He didn’t know.

  He reclined on the bed, his head hitting the headboard a little too hard as he did so. He grabbed the pillow, punched it, and then put it back under his head. Was he as ready as he thought he was? All this time preparing and he might need a new ring. Or, at the very least, get to the bottom of who owned the ring from the box.

  Finish the song. Finish the studio. Visit the jewelry store.

  And while I’m at it, figure out a way to save the farm from becoming a frontage road.

  After finding the number for Owens and Dunne Law, Mark called and spoke to Jeff Dunne. Most of what he remembered about Jeff was his record-setting basketball games in high school. He hoped he was as successful in his law career.

  “Supposing the inside information you have turns out to be accurate, until you receive notification as the property owner, there isn’t much you can do.”

  That was exactly opposite of what Mark wanted to hear.

  “Doesn’t knowing all of this now help us?”

  “If you want to check some other MassDOT projects—look for businesses, homeowners, anyone who had fought them before and won. Then I can check some of the Department of Transportation reports for you. But that’s about it until you get an official notice.”

  Not as much help as Mark was hoping for.

  The memory
of John Jackson’s grin and exaggerated words about “the best offer you’ll ever have” returned to him. Of course, he’d dismissed it when he’d said it. There wasn’t even a question in Mark’s mind that he’d done the right thing.

  But now the prospect of losing the land to the state raised a new question. Was it too late to sell to someone other than John Jackson? If the planned extension was as inevitable as it seemed, should he find a buyer before it became common knowledge?

  He looked up from the report he was reading and glanced over his shoulder. He was alone. And he wasn’t doing anything wrong, but the mere thought of selling the farm prompted a rush of guilt.

  Could he find another buyer? There were some who looked for land that had been marked as possible eminent domain—those willing to take a gamble that the government might do more studies and not end up acquiring the property.

  Mark stood and walked to the window. Here he could see the trees and the north wind blowing furiously through them. A calmness, as gentle as the wind was angry, crept over him. He could see some of the new seedlings holding their own against the coming storm.

  We will stay.

  It was Mark’s thought, crisp and clear, but it had come to the forefront of his mind unaided. And that settled it. Of course they would stay. And Mark would fight whatever plans MassDOT would make. Sutton didn’t need a new road over these acres. It needed these trees. He didn’t know how, but he would protect the land and trees.

  Mark returned to the Internet, searching through the settlements. He found case after case of people and companies who had settled with the good Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Not what he was looking for.

  He noticed an article on a revised MassDOT project. Revised due to an inability to secure the proposed land. Why? He read through to the end of the page, letting it soak in.

  The land was home to a 150-year-old church, and that church was conveniently listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

  Not that his farm and that church had anything in common, but this was at least one example of the Department of Transportation not getting their way. Maybe the cabin or the land had some historical significance. He could ask Papa. It was possible, wasn’t it?