The Christmas Tree Keeper: A Novel Page 6
“Is everything going okay here?” Mark asked.
“We’re doing fine. I’ll call some of my crafters and tell them about our increased demand,” Donna said. “What did you and Papa talk about this morning?”
Mark dodged the question. “Thanks for keeping things under control.”
Donna persisted. “Let me guess—it’s you and Natalie. I haven’t said a word, but Papa’s been asking me every time I turn around if you two are going to ‘settle down’, as he calls it.”
“No, that’s not it. She and I—we might be, but I still have to ask her.” Mark’s face burned red.
“Tell me later, then. I like to hear good news,” she said before she greeted another customer at the register. Mark agreed, relieved that she was too busy to continue that conversation.
I’ll have to find the right time to tell her.
On his way back outside, Mark’s cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“John Jackson here. Is this Shafer?” he asked.
“Yes, this is Mark.”
“I saw the news today. Are you out of your mind? Are you trying to kill this deal?” John demanded.
“What? No. I left you a message to tell you that we’re—that I’m ready to negotiate. My grandfather is transferring ownership of the farm to me, and I’d like to sell.”
“Is that right? Well, you’ll need to do something about this nuisance of a publicity stunt. Make it go away, Mark,” John demanded.
“What do you mean?”
“Tell me something, how many customers do you have at your farm today? How many of those customers are going to like my client if he puts an auto mall on your land?”
Now it’s an auto mall? Mark didn’t answer.
“Make this go away, like yesterday, or we won’t have a deal.”
Chapter 7
Angela stopped answering her phone less than a day after the news story aired. She was no longer in the mood to explain to another curious acquaintance if it was true—the tree and the anonymous gift of money. And she was avoiding the call from the person she least wanted to speak to—Mr. Buckley.
Not that he could apply any more pressure than her daughter had. From the moment Caroline learned about the money, she had declared it their Christmas miracle and begged her mother to pay the rent as soon as the office opened.
“It’s December first, Mom, and we can stay for the month and then you’ll get a job.”
“Technically, we have a three-day grace period. We don’t have to pay today,” Angela explained.
“Why wouldn’t we?” Caroline was clearly baffled.
“I’ve got to figure some things out. Don’t worry about it.”
After Angela dropped Caroline off at school, she returned home and called Mrs. Shaw.
“I think the Shafer family is using me,” she complained.
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“It’s wrong. They are using me, or what happened to me, for publicity instead of paying for a real ad campaign or something.” Angela loaded the dishwasher while they talked.
“Are you talking about Channel 6? I saw that story,” Mrs. Shaw said. “Well, there have been other miracles. Today a family found their lost dog after buying a tree, and then there was the man whose car started working again. It looks like you aren’t the only one.”
“I’m the only one who had a specific amount of cash brought to her door. It had to be them,” Angela insisted. “They created that ‘miracle’ and sent a reporter so they could take credit for it—and apparently all the other good things happening in Sutton. I feel used, and I don’t like it.”
“That sounds unlikely, dear—a bit fantastic. I know the family. Well, I know Donna—she runs the craft barn at the farm, and they sell my crafts there. It doesn’t sound like something they’d do,” Mrs. Shaw said. “What have you done with the money?”
“I haven’t done anything with it. It’s sitting in my spice cabinet,” Angela said.
“Do you realize you’re being terribly suspicious of a good thing in your life?”
Angela absorbed that comment like a full sponge.
“Today is the first, Angela. Has it occurred to you to pay your rent and be grateful? Even if the tree farm created the story by giving you that money, they can’t ask for it back.”
Angela stopped moving, the water running over a plate needlessly.
“Oh that’s an idea, Mrs. Shaw!”
“What did I say?”
“You helped me figure out what to do.”
Angela left the plate in the sink, dried her hands, and grabbed the envelope and her coat. The truck refused to start for a full five minutes, but she persisted. Halfway to the tree farm, she checked her gas gauge and did a quick calculation to make sure she’d have enough gas to get home.
That’s all I’d need next is to get stranded out there.
There were plenty of spaces in the parking lot—it wasn’t even ten in the morning yet. She turned off the truck and pulled the money from her purse. She counted it one more time.
Open or not, I’m going in.
But she didn’t knock.
She heard a chopping sound, ax to wood. She stepped over to the end of the porch and saw Mark Shafer with his back to her splitting a log. The crackling sound cut through the chill morning air. She stood for a moment, mouth ajar, watching his shoulders move. He swung again, full of force, yet so precise.
Why couldn’t she take her eyes off of him?
What’s the matter with me? It’s not like I haven’t seen a man chopping wood before, right? Well at least not in person. Okay, never.
Mark paused and allowed the ax to rest at his side while he wiped his brow. Angela stepped back to the front door. Deep breaths, she took deep breaths and tried to remember what she was doing there at the farmhouse in the first place.
She knocked on the hand-carved wooden door. A middle-aged woman opened the door and greeted her with a friendly face.
“We don’t open for another hour. Can I help you with something?”
“I have a return,” Angela said. The woman stared at her. Angela tried to clarify. “I mean, I have something to give back.”
“Do you mean one of our trees, or something from the craft barn?”
“No, not a tree.”
Although, that’s an idea . . .
“Here, please come in,” the woman said. She opened the door wider and stepped out of the way.
Morning light streamed through a front window of the farmhouse. Angela smelled an omelet cooking, though she couldn’t see a kitchen.
“I need to talk to someone about some money…I think belongs to you.”
The woman tilted her head and then said, “Wait here, and let me find Mark.”
He was already coming through the back door, pulling off his gloves. “Oh, hey there,” he said.
“Mark, this woman wants to talk to you about a return.”
“Sorry, I’ve been out chopping firewood.” He said.
“I noticed, I mean—how nice. Um, no problem.” Really, I can’t complete a sentence?
“Come over here,” he said, motioning to the counter. “It’s good to see you, Mrs. ... uh, Mrs. ... what was your name again?”
She walked over to where he stood at the cash register.
“Angela Donovan. It’s not Mrs.,” she answered, instantly chiding herself for making that last point.
Like it matters to him if I’m married. Why does he have to be so good-looking?
She held the envelope of money in her hand tighter.
Mark repeated her name. “Were you ... on the news?”
Angela shifted her weight and took a deep breath. She looked at the older woman and back at Mark.
“About that.” She lifted the envelope of cash to the counter, but didn’t release it from her grip. “I’m returning this. I didn’t ask for it, and I can’t accept it. It would be better if you took it back.” She watched their faces register surprise.
“Take it back? I can’t do that,” he said.
“I’m not ungrateful,” she continued, “but it isn’t right to give someone money as a way to get publicity.” The words were harder to say than she had imagined.
Mark tapped his fingers on the counter and didn’t respond.
The older woman spoke first. “Honey, we didn’t give you that money.”
“She’s right,” Mark agreed. “I don’t know where that money came from, but if I did, it would explain a few things around here.”
“So I suppose you didn’t call the news station, either?” Angela asked as she became more uncomfortable.
“No, we didn’t. In fact, we’d like to find out who did. It’s created kind of a problem for us,” Mark answered.
“It’s a problem to have free advertising and eager customers?” Angela responded. This wasn’t going the way she’d planned. She looked down at the envelope.
“If that were my money,” he said, “I’d take it back. Wait—what I mean to say is if I had given it to you, I could take it back, but if you really needed it, I wouldn’t. I’d want you to have it.”
“What?” Angela asked, not able to follow his logic—or lack of it. “Um, never mind. I’ll go.” She lifted the money off the counter. “I’m sorry.” Bewildered, she turned to leave.
“Thanks for coming,” Mark called as she walked out the door.
The older woman said something to him, but she couldn’t hear her exact words.
She walked back to the parking lot, now filling up with other cars. Papa Shafer’s words returned to her mind like the swirling wind. “Special trees,” he’d called them. “Miracle trees ... believe,” he’d told her. If they hadn’t given her that money to get some extra press, then who had? Did it matter? Was it a miracle? Did it have anything to do with Shafer trees?
She focused on what she did know: someone learned that she needed money, and they gave it to her. She couldn’t give it back.
As she pulled out of the lot, she looked at the festively decorated porch of the farmhouse. Sunlight highlighted the tops of trees lined up waiting for a home. A longing formed inside her—what was it? Homesickness? But her upscale home in Providence was nothing like this. Father’s career required an image. This was a craving for land, the farm—for belonging. The way Mark and that woman worked together and the warmth in their home.
Or was it a longing for something more—maybe for Mark? He’d seen her on the news, asked her name. Did he mean to ask Miss or Mrs.? And something else surprised her. He didn’t have some of the expressions she expected to see if he were hiding something—the down-turned eyes and pulled-back smile of someone relieved to be found out, or the mock humility of someone who was glad they’d been caught doing a good thing. It was even sweet, the way he had fumbled over his words when he tried to explain that he couldn’t take the money. Frustrating, but sweet.
I have no idea where this money came from, and no one’s stopping me from using it to pay the rent. I’ll do this for Caroline. We can have a home for Christmas. And maybe I’ll have time to find a job.
She drove around to the apartment office to pay the rent.
“Hey, good morning, Angie,” Mr. Buckley said as soon as he saw her.
“Hi, Mr. Buckley, I’d like to pay the rent for December and what I owe for November.”
It does feel good to say that.
“I’ve been thinking about you. You look as pretty on TV as you do in person. That’s something else about those trees! There are a few other tenants who could use a tree like that—if they really are miracle trees, that is.” He chuckled.
Angela pulled the money from her purse as quickly as she could. Any conversation with Mr. Buckley caused her stomach to turn. He had to be at least fifteen years her senior and twice divorced, points he emphasized often.
“The trees are nice, but—”
“Boy, I’m glad you’re sticking around. Before I saw you on the news, I had this idea. I couldn’t imagine evicting you and your daughter in December, of all the months. I was thinking that the office can be busy and it would be nice to have a little help here. So I was thinking of you.”
I’m walking out if he tells me he was thinking of me one more time.
“Would you like a part-time job here? We can call it ‘assistant office manager’.” He looked at her expectantly.
“Thank you, Mr. Buckley, but ...” Quick, think of something. “I’ve interviewed at the school and I’ll be starting in January.” She looked away and almost dropped the envelope of money. She started counting bills.
I’m a terrible liar!
“Here,” she said.
“The school, huh? That’s too bad. I mean, no, that’s great,” he said as he took her money. “Even if you could work here, say, a few hours a week, that would help.”
Is he serious?
“Wait,” she said. “Shouldn’t I pay by check or money order?”
“Don’t worry about it. I can work that out.” He slid the money into a desk drawer.
Angela bit her lip and wished she could hit a rewind button. “Can I get a receipt?” She didn’t like asking him for anything.
“You don’t need one, but sure, I’ll find the book. Have a seat.”
I’ll stand, thanks.
Angela returned to her apartment with the receipt in hand, not sure what to make of the day. Somehow after she had embarrassed herself at the tree farm and declined a questionable job offer from Mr. Buckley, she’d lost the fleeting good feeling of having her rent paid in full. At least Caroline would be happy.
Angela picked up a few things at the grocery store and they celebrated by baking Caroline’s favorite cupcakes. Caroline announced there were fourteen more days of school and asked what kind of fun things they could do together over the break. Then she asked her mother what gift she’d like for Christmas, a question Angela had deliberately avoided until now.
“Christmas came early for us,” Angela said. “You don’t have to worry about giving me a gift. What about you? What do you want this year?”
“An Easy Bake Oven, with the special mixes,” she said.
That’s doable.
“And a big family dinner,” Caroline continued.
“A what? We don’t have a big family!” Angela exclaimed.
We have a family with a big gap in it is more like it. Once Todd remarried and then moved to Florida, staying connected meant that Caroline received a card for the holiday—on time, if she were lucky.
Angela smoothed frosting over the next several cupcakes, proving to herself that it was easier for her to sugarcoat a cupcake than the not-so-sweet-parts of their family life.
She finished cleaning up the kitchen after Caroline went to sleep and then she settled herself into bed. As she drifted off to sleep, the phone rang.
“Hello? Who is this?” Angela whispered.
“Your mother. Who else calls you at this time of night?”
No one. I should have guessed. “What’s wrong?” Angela asked.
“I drove to Sutton today—that’s what’s wrong,” her mother said. “I met your landlord. He seems quite fond of you.”
Angela had to sit up to make sure she was even hearing her correctly.
“Caroline is sleeping, so what did you say about my landlord? Why did you drive here?”
“To pay your rent—today is the first. Imagine how silly I felt when your landlord explained that you had already paid your rent today.”
“Oh, no—I forgot to tell you. I’m sorry.”
“Would it have been too hard to call me? Maybe before I drove all the way out there?” her mother continued.
“I would have called, but I didn’t know I was going to pay rent today,” Angela whispered.
“For heaven’s sakes, that doesn’t make any sense. How could you not know you were going to pay your rent?”
“I said I’m sorry. Did you see the news repo
rt? Can I call you tomorrow to explain?”
“No, I’m fine. Don’t bother,” her mother said and hung up.
Angela tossed and turned. Her mother had driven to Sutton, tried to pay rent, and had a lovely conversation with Mr. Buckley.
Mrs. Catherine Elliott could not be fine.
Chapter 8
Mark spent the remainder of Tuesday night and all day Wednesday downplaying the news story to customers. John Jackson’s call the day before had put him on edge. How was he supposed to “make it go away?” He was eager instead to share the change in ownership news with Natalie.
The lot finally emptied and Donna asked him to help clean up in the craft barn. That meant she expected to talk. He sent a message to Natalie, asking if they could meet at the restaurant as he wouldn’t have as much time to pick her up.
“Did you sell out of anything tonight?” Mark asked.
“Mrs. Shaw’s cranberry wreaths—she won’t tell me how she makes them. Not that I could do the kind of detail work she does.”
“That’s not too bad, considering the crowd we had here. Speaking of the crowd, what can we do about the news? You know the farm better than I do, but please tell me you can see how this could be trouble. It’s tacky, at the very least.”
“Maybe it was a slow news day. For better or worse, all this fuss will die down when there’s another headline. I wouldn’t worry about it,” Donna said. “More importantly, what has Papa smiling and your brow furrowed?”
Mark opened a new box of inventory.
She’ll find out soon enough—it might as well be from me.
“Papa called Ms. Dawson today. I’m taking ownership of the farm,” he said as he lined the shelf with evergreen boughs.
Donna put down the mistletoe ornaments she held. “Mark, I’m glad to hear that. Papa isn’t the only one around here that thinks you’re the best man for the trees.”
Mark didn’t look up. Her sincerity, instead of smooth and comforting, pricked his heart like tree needles under his nails.
“No wonder he’s happy,” she continued. “What a relief! I admit I’ve been worried about you and Natalie after our last conversation. I thought for sure she had convinced you to quit. Does she know yet?”