The Christmas Tree Keeper: A Novel Read online

  Miracles happen. Papa Shafer? Miracle trees? Could it have been him?

  “Did you get the job?” Caroline asked.

  “I don’t know yet.” Angela dodged her daughter’s question. It was true—she didn’t know for sure, but showing up fifteen minutes late did not convince the cafeteria manager she’d be reliable.

  “When will you find out?”

  “Don’t know that either—maybe in a week. You didn’t tell anyone at school, did you?”

  Caroline grinned. “If I said, ‘My mom might get a job here,’ that’s not lying, is it?”

  “Caroline, I asked you not to. What if I don’t get the job?” A question she didn’t want to contemplate. “Let’s do something else. Are you hungry for a snack? I’m sure we have celery.” Angela opened the fridge.

  “That’s because you buy it and neither one of us eats it.”

  She was right. Easy meals and cheap food weren’t the most nutritious, and occasionally Angela found herself strolling through the produce section for vegetables. Those shopping trips resulted in cauliflower, celery, or eggplant when it was on sale, food that sat in the fridge or on the counter until it was the last thing left to eat.

  So far, Angela had been able to keep the mystery cash a secret from Caroline. She planned to investigate and find out if Papa Shafer or his grandson, Mark, had anything to do with it.

  Of course they did. To pinpoint why this bothered her would require her to admit, at least to herself, that she didn’t want their help, or that she was embarrassed to need it. Maybe she’d have to admit that she didn’t want Mark thinking of her like that.

  But he isn’t thinking of me. He’s thinking of someone named “Nat.”

  While they were in the middle of making cream cheese boats out of the celery, someone knocked on their door. They looked at each other, both with wide eyes—Angela’s from dread, Caroline’s from excitement.

  “Stay here,” Angela said as she crossed the kitchen to more knocking and opened the door.

  “Are you Angela Donovan?” asked a man holding a microphone.

  What in the world? “Yes.”

  “Good. I’m a reporter from WCGB, Channel 6 News,” he said.

  That’s what his coat says, and that would explain the cameraman behind him.

  “We understand you bought a tree from the Shafer Family Tree Farm. Is that correct?”

  She glanced to her left and there it stood. “Yes, well, sort of.” She didn’t feel like explaining the whole “donated gift” part from the night before. She had tried to pay for it.

  “And have you noticed anything different about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “We heard there’s something special about these trees. The people who buy them have unexpected things happen. We understand you received a generous gift after buying your tree.”

  Seriously? How could they know this? Am I under surveillance? Angela studied his logo. And why is this news? Is this guy for real?

  “Mom, who is it?” Caroline grabbed her mom around the waist.

  “Caroline, I said stay—” Angela glanced at the camera. “Is that thing on?”

  “Yes. We can turn it off, but we’d like to know how you feel about the gift of money you received.”

  “What money?” Caroline asked.

  Terrific! Now she knows. “How did you say you found out about that?”

  He didn’t hear her question. He was already asking the next one.

  “Was it a miracle?”

  With one arm on her daughter’s shoulder, she opened her mouth, not knowing her answer.

  Chapter 6

  One conversation. Mark waited all weekend to find the time to have one ten-minute conversation with Papa. But there were customers to help, trees to cut and move, and the sales lot to prepare. Opening weekend by itself served as evidence that little else could compete with the work of the farm—never mind the rest of the year. How could Mark expect to work on his music as long as there was another tree to grow, another tree to sell?

  Tuesday morning, Mark found Papa with Donna watching the news.

  “I’m not an expert on miracles. I don’t have an explanation for this, if that’s what you mean.” Mark recognized the woman on the screen—her dark, curly hair and pretty face.

  The reporter summarized the story and said, “We contacted the Shafer Farm and asked what made their trees special. They said ‘We take good care of the trees.’ We’ll have more about Shafer miracle trees later today. Back to you, Diane.”

  Mark shut off the TV and looked at Papa and Donna in disbelief.

  That reporter never told me any of this.

  “Land sakes,” Papa said and slapped his knee. “This could be a problem.”

  “You’re right,” Mark said. “Do you know how many upset customers we’ll have if they see this story?”

  “That’s not what I mean.” Papa stood and folded his arms across his chest. “That reporter is telling everybody about our miracle trees, and that’s not his place. You have to choose the right customers carefully.”

  “What are you talking about, Papa?”

  “I haven’t told you everything there is to being the keeper, but you should be able to understand that the customers who believe aren’t disappointed.”

  More of Papa’s stories. “Did you ask that reporter to feature us?” Mark asked, keeping his tone even.

  “I sure didn’t. What’s done is done, though. I don’t mind the publicity part of it—we can handle that. I’m more concerned for you—if you can figure out who you can and can’t tell about the miracles,” Papa said.

  “This is the wrong kind of publicity,” Mark said. “We’ll get sued for false advertising if we don’t put a stop to it.”

  “How are you going to do that? Come on now. Think about what’s best for the trees—and the customers.”

  It wasn’t adding up. Mark couldn’t ignore Papa’s earnest face and sincere voice. But if Papa didn’t want to tell everyone about the trees, why would he contact a news station and talk to a reporter? Unless he didn’t know he was talking to a reporter, or maybe he didn’t know a reporter was listening. Mark looked at Donna.

  “Papa’s right,” Donna said. “I don’t think it’s a coincidence. That woman has a Shafer tree in her home, and now she has money for rent.”

  “I knew she was a believer!” Papa said. “You see, you have to find the people with the light in their eye. Not the skeptical ones—no tree on the lot can help them. Of course, as you get some practice, you can tell the ones who are pretending to be skeptical, but deep down, they believe.”

  Mark sat down in the desk chair. Is this what Papa did? Size up customers; try to find some light in their eye? The phone rang.

  “I’ll answer it out front,” Donna said, heading for the door.

  “Papa, I’m not happy with our farm being used for the human interest story on Channel 6,” Mark explained. “A few more customers can’t hurt anything, but we’ll have to be careful how much we talk about the trees and the miracles.”

  “That’s my point,” Papa said.

  “Good. Then we’re agreed.” Mark said. Doesn’t have to be for the same reasons. “I came to find you this morning so we could talk.” He skipped his rehearsed introduction. “I’m ready.”

  Papa didn’t answer and walked to the window.

  “I’m ready to keep the trees.” Mark clenched his jaw, John Jackson’s offer and Natalie’s ring clouding his mind.

  “What makes you say that?” Papa’s words were slow and deliberate.

  “It’s a gut feeling, Papa.” He did have a feeling it was time to take over the farm, and a feeling to sell it while there was someone who would buy all the land.

  “Do you know what makes the trees special?” Papa asked. “Why they can cause miracles?” He turned from the window and stared at Mark.

  Mark got up from his chair, not expecting the question. He knew he needed to convince Papa he was ready, and that was all
that mattered.

  “You love these trees, and the people who buy them do too. That’s enough for me. If there’s something else that makes them special, even better,” Mark said as he held Papa’s gaze.

  Mark waited for the twinges in his stomach to stop, for Papa to decide. He’d rather they agreed about the sale. He’d rather his father and mother were still alive, for that matter, so he wouldn’t be in this position in the first place—trying to do what was best for Papa and the farm without anyone who could understand.

  “Okay, then. That settles it. I’ll call Ms. Dawson tomorrow. She can make it official,” Papa said. “You’ve got a lot to learn, but I’m not getting any younger. It’s about time you stepped up. What will you tell Natalie?”

  “That I’m the new owner. She’ll understand.”

  “What will you do about the news story?” Papa asked.

  It sounded like a test question to Mark.

  Maybe I shouldn’t push my luck.

  “I guess if the customers are happy, I don’t have to do anything.”

  Papa’s shoulders relaxed. “Good. I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time. Let’s get to work out there.”

  “Do you mind if I tell Donna?” And call Natalie and John Jackson?

  “Do what you need to do.” Papa said.

  Donna had left to go open the craft barn. Once Papa bundled up and walked outside, Mark returned to the office to make some calls.

  I’ll catch up with Donna later. And maybe the publicity isn’t such a bad thing. At least our last season will be our best. We can go out on a high note.

  When will I tell Papa? And what will I say?

  Maybe I can sell all but the acres needed for Papa to keep his cabin. And maybe the craft barn for Donna?

  The transfer of the farm ownership and the sale of it would take weeks to complete. It was premature to call his real estate agent, but Mark did it anyway. He arranged to meet at the house on Hickory Street in an hour.

  Gray clouds covered most of the eastern sky, giving the farmhouse a spotted shadow cover in his rearview mirror. He looked at the porch steps before he turned out of the parking lot, the trees obscuring his view. He and his dad sat on those steps snapping beans in the summer when he was eight or nine years old. One time when his mom came out and reached for the beans, his dad pulled her onto his lap and they laughed, carefree and happy. The sound of their voices came to him like they were in a tunnel, their laughter moving further away, becoming harder to hear. Much of the farm served as a reminder of what he didn’t have.

  He called Natalie to plan a meeting at the house she hadn’t seen yet.

  “You sound excited. What’s going on?” Natalie asked.

  “Did you see the news about the tree farm?”

  “No, what news?”

  “Channel 6 did a story on a woman who bought one of our trees—a few days later, someone gave her money for rent. They’re calling the trees miracle trees.” Mark checked the road to make sure he didn’t miss the exit.

  “They ran a news story about miracle trees?” Natalie asked.

  “Can you believe it? Hey, are you busy? I’m on my way to Hickory Street. Can I pick you up in five minutes?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “To see the house,” Mark said.

  “The house?”

  “Yeah, the house I’m trying to buy—the one with a music studio. You’ve got to see it.”

  “Sounds fun, but we’ve got new inventory. I’m leaving for work early,” she said.

  “Are we still on for dinner tonight?” he asked.

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “Wow, you’re that busy? Okay, let’s plan for tomorrow.”

  After he finished his conversation with Natalie, Mark called John Jackson and left a message with his secretary to return the call. He pulled up to the house behind his real estate agent.

  “Has business been good?” Mark asked as he pointed to the agent’s new Jeep.

  “Gotta have something for the snow,” Dave answered. “Why the renewed interest in the house?” he asked Mark as they walked up to the door.

  “I never lost interest.”

  They walked in through the screened-porch entry.

  “It looks like these have all been winterized,” Dave said, referring to the doors and windows.

  Mark scanned the empty family room.

  I could propose here. He glanced around to the kitchen, not having thoroughly looked at it the first time he toured the house. He walked over and opened a few cupboards, then leaned against the sink, folding his arms.

  “How’s your grandfather?” Dave asked.

  “Good,” Mark said. “How’s Crystal? You two have been married, what, three years now?”

  “Four. We’re having a baby. Crystal’s due in June,” Dave said with a proud smile.

  “Hey that’s great. Congratulations!” Mark did his best to sound sincere. Four years and a baby. At the rate I’m going, I’ll look like my son’s grandfather.

  Mark walked from room to room, looking at empty walls and judging how much furniture would fit. Back in the kitchen, he pictured dinner with Natalie in the dining area. He asked Dave about the owners.

  “I checked today. No offers, but they are holding firm on the price,” Dave said.

  “Can we offer a little less and see what happens?”

  “We can, but maybe I missed something. Did you say your financing is in place? Last time we talked, you said your grandfather might sell his farm. That hasn’t happened yet, has it?” Dave walked over to the kitchen counter and tapped his fingers.

  Sutton was too small and the tree farm too large for the sale of it to go unnoticed, especially by a real estate agent. Mark paced in the kitchen and answered cautiously. “Not yet.”

  “Look, Mark, no offense, but that’s what you told me last month, and the month before that. Word is, John Jackson is doing everything he can to get your grandfather to sell—and Papa won’t. So, what are we doing here? I mean, I don’t mind bringing you by and letting you check the place out—dream a little—but unless you have another way to pay for it, we can’t make an offer.” Dave pulled out his phone and checked his messages.

  Mark ran both hands through his hair.

  Does Dave know everything John Jackson’s doing? And who else knows? Maybe this was a bad idea.

  “If I come up with enough for the down, say next week, could we do it then?” Mark asked.

  “I’d love to do it for you, Mark. I would.” Dave said after a minute. “This place is a gem—it’s one of a kind. I know you’re in love with the studio. Call your lender. They might be swamped this week with the end of the month and Christmas right around the corner. Then tell me what you want to do.”

  Was that pity in Dave’s voice, or impatience? He always sounded busy, maybe a little rushed, but did he feel sorry for Mark?

  “I’m not trying to waste your time, Dave. I think I have a way to do this. I should be able to make an offer in a week. How does that sound?”

  “One week is fine. There aren’t too many people in Sutton looking for a recording studio in their basement, so you should be okay. Let me know.” Dave didn’t look convinced. “Is your grandfather seriously planning to sell the farm? Where is he going to live? Is he looking for a place?” Ever the real estate agent.

  Mark cringed. Why hadn’t they walked out of the house sooner? How could he answer? How could Mark explain that Papa wasn’t selling the farm—he was? Or that Papa didn’t want to live anywhere else, and he certainly wasn’t looking for a new home because he didn’t have any idea yet that he might need one? It was the last detail of Mark’s plan that wasn’t worked out yet. He hadn’t talked it over with John Jackson, but he hoped to sell all but a few acres to allow Papa to remain in his cabin. What were a few acres out of fifty?

  “No, he’s not looking.” Mark paused. “I’m not sure what he’ll do.”

  “He’s not thinking of living with your sister in LA, is he
? I can’t picture him anywhere else but on your farm. Remember how after our basketball games, we’d go over to your place and he’d let us ride the—”

  “I remember. Yeah, good times.” It was abrupt to cut Dave off like that, but Mark needed to get back to the farm, and more reminiscing could lead to more probing. “I’ve got to run. Thanks, Dave. I’ll call you next week.”

  Mark headed back to the farm. Dave would bring up Kate. December was about the time she would call and explain her production schedule, how flying home for Christmas would interfere. She worked for a small film company and always had a reason why she couldn’t leave, even for a few days.

  Usually they had the least amount of traffic at the tree farm on weekdays. For families that traveled from other parts of Massachusetts, the weekends were the best days to make the drive. Mark rounded the corner to the farm and hit the brakes. An unexpected line of cars funneled into the parking lot.

  Mark carefully navigated a U-turn over the gravel and took the private road that circled the farm and brought him to Papa’s cabin. He walked over to the office from there. Donna waved him down while holding the phone to her ear.

  Could this be because of Channel 6? So much for a quiet Tuesday afternoon.

  “Where have you been?” Donna demanded. “We need to call in our temporary employees. These phones keep ringing, and I need to get back to the register. Are you staying here, or helping Papa on the lot?”

  “I’d better leave the phones to the expert.” He motioned to her. “I’ll help Papa. Are these customers here to buy miracle trees?”

  “What do you think?” Donna threw her hands in the air.

  Mark found Papa outside on the sales lot. They worked for hours with a near-steady stream of friendly customers.

  Mark called in some extra employees and checked on Donna to see if she needed any more help. She didn’t get flustered very often—she could handle opening weekend and be even more energized when it was over. She had told Mark that the farm was easier to manage since they had scaled back after his parents died. They had stopped offering pictures with Santa and had also closed the small reindeer village.