I'll Be Home for Christmas (23 page)

When he hit the Fraser fir field at seven-thirty, Gus looked at his father suspiciously. “Did something happen, Pop?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“You smell like mothballs.”

Sam burst out laughing as he picked up one of the chain saws and moved off. When had he last heard his father laugh? Never, that was when.

The scents emanating from the kitchen were tantalizing as Amy set the table. She was so tired she could hardly see straight. All that aside, she'd put in a productive day's work along with her mother who was chirping about this and that, finally winding down with, “I'm sorry, Amy, but I'm going out to dinner. I guess I should have told you sooner but my head is just swimming with all we've done today.”

Amy looked at her mother, at the flowered dishes on the table, the lit candle, the wineglasses just waiting for her to pop the cork. She sniffed at the aromas coming from the stove, the mixed salad, and the baby carrots in the warming bowl. That was when she really noticed her mother. She smelled good. Her hair was pulled back from her face into a bun. She wore no makeup other than a little lipstick. She wore flannel slacks with a bright yellow sweater and low-heeled shoes. She looked like a matron, so unlike Amy's always-fashionable mother that her daughter could hardly wrap her mind around the new Tillie Baran she was seeing.

What could she say other than, “Okay. I guess we'll be eating this stuff for the rest of the week. By the way, thanks for going shopping. You certainly were up and out pretty early this morning.”

“Umm, yes. The early bird gets the worm, that kind of thing. You said you wanted me here in the kitchen at eight o'clock, so I had to take care of some business early to be back here on time. We
old
people don't sleep much.”

Amy reared back. This was the first time in her memory that she could remember her mother using the word
old
in reference to herself. Other people were old, not Tillie. Maybe this was where she was supposed to say, “
You're not old, Mom.
” She turned away to fiddle with the lid on the pot roast. “Don't stay out too late.”

Tillie laughed, a delightful sound. Amy realized she'd never actually heard her mother laugh out loud. How in the world was that possible? She'd seen her smile but that was it. There must be a man lurking somewhere in the picture. “You smell good,” she blurted.

“Do you think so? I have to be going. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner about my plans, Amy. Everything looks and smells delicious. I'll look forward to the leftovers tomorrow.”

Amy poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down to think about her mother and all that had transpired during the day. Her mother had behaved like a trooper to her surprise. She did everything Amy suggested, even more. She followed through on every single detail by making copious notes. The things they'd accomplished in a mere ten hours boggled her mind. They'd opened a business bank account, with both of them depositing sizeable checks to activate it. They'd ordered two large tents that would be set up on the Coleman property over the weekend. The power company promised electric hookup first thing Monday morning. Portable heaters were ordered along with all the Christmas decorations from the Curiosity Barn. The wholesaler she'd contacted had promised delivery of the wreath wires, the lath, the florist wires, the speciality bows, and everything else she needed for assembling the wreaths and grave blankets. Trial and error was the order of the day as she tried to figure out where to get a barrel and the netting for the trees. Several Seniors had come to the rescue, and there was now a huge metal rain drum sitting on her mother's back porch. The bails of netting would be delivered on Tuesday along with tree trimmers and chain saws.

She was going to have at least fifty volunteers but no real workers. Tomorrow she would go on the hunt for actual employees. Tonight she had to get started on her PR campaign.

Damn, she was tired. Detail tired, not physically tired. Maybe she needed to get dressed and go for a run to clear her thoughts.

Amy looked at the dinner she'd prepared. Just the thought of mashing the potatoes and making gravy left her weak in the knees. She'd do that when she served leftovers. Instead she made herself a sandwich with the meat and ate it, along with a second cup of coffee. The minute she finished eating, she tidied up the kitchen, wrapped everything up, turned on the dishwasher and then stared at the huge chart she'd pasted to the kitchen wall. The bit red X in the middle of the chart glared at her.
I can pull this off. I really can. All I need are Christmas trees.
The grower her mother had signed on with was not an easy man to deal with even after she threatened him. Finally, in desperation, she'd told him to keep the five-thousand-dollar deposit and cancel the order. He in turn threatened to sue Tillie. That's when she told him to get in line with all the other people waiting to sue Tillie Baran. He's squawked and threatened some more, but at the end of the conversation he'd agreed to cancel the order. She'd been light-headed with her victory, but the elation was short-lived. Now she had to find Christmas trees, and the only place that had what she needed was Moss Farms. Maybe Mr. Moss would remember her and agree to sell her some trees. If not, this whole thing was going to go down the drain.

Well, that wasn't going to happen, not on her watch.

Amy looked at the kitchen clock. It was only 6:45. She could drive out to the farm in fifteen minutes. Mr. Moss would be done with his dinner and settled in for the evening. Maybe he would be more agreeable to her than he was with her pushy mother. Then again, maybe the cranky old man would run her off his property the way he'd run her mother off.
Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. If he won't help, maybe out of the kindness of his heart he'll steer me in the right direction.

Without stopping to think about it anymore, she reached for her jacket and was out of the house before she could change her mind.



Gus Moss stepped out of the shower, towel dried, and pulled on a pair of beat-up sweatpants and his first Tulane sweatshirt, which was full of holes. He stared at himself in the mirror and burst out laughing. He'd shaved his beard yesterday and he now looked like himself. He slicked his curly hair back but knew the moment it dried it would be all over the place.
Maybe I'll get a buzz cut over the weekend. If I can find the time.

Cyrus, who dogged him everywhere he went, barked sharply. “Yeah, yeah, I know, Cyrus, we're running behind schedule, but Pop threw me for a loop when he said he wouldn't be here for dinner. Did you see him, Cyrus? He looked like a dandy, all duded up and wearing aftershave! I think he's stepping out on me is what I think. Okay, okay, let's see what Mrs. Collins left us for dinner.”

Everything, including Cyrus's dinner, would be in the warming oven. It was the best move his father could have made. With all the different smells, Gus liked coming into the house. He liked the sweet-smelling sheets and clean blankets Mrs. Collins put on his bed. He liked that there was a fire blazing in the kitchen fireplace when he came in from work. He liked the whole gig. Cyrus liked it too. The dog had made friends with Gus's father. Out of the corner of his eye he'd see Gus's father scratch Cyrus behind his ears and call him Buster from time to time. He knew at night that the retriever spent part of the night with him and part of the night with his father. He grinned at the thought.

“Here we go, big guy. You get chicken, mashed potatoes, a little gravy, lots of broccoli and even a buttered roll. I get the same thing, but just a little broccoli because I hate it. That berry pie looks pretty good, too.” Cyrus woofed, gobbled down his food and then went to the door. He knew when he got back he'd get his dessert.

Gus filled his plate twice, saving just enough room for a slice of pie. When he finished, he leaned back in the captain's chair at the head of the table and let his mind go back over the day's work. Another week of hard work with his crew and he'd be ready to cut the trees to go on sale the day after Thanksgiving. He felt so proud of himself he decided he would have an extra large slice of pie—as soon as Cyrus pawed at the door to get in. While he waited he added two more logs to the fire. A shower of sparks raced up the chimney.

Outside, Cyrus was barking his head off. Gus listened to the tone. It wasn't a playful bark, or an I-treed-a-racoon bark, or an Okay, I'm-done-and-ready-for-dessert bark. This was a bark that meant there was an intruder on the premises. He reached up and turned on the outside floodlights. The entire backyard was suddenly bathed in a blinding white light and Cyrus was escorting a young woman to his back door.
Cyrus must like her,
Gus thought, because his tail was swishing back and forth at the speed of light.

Gus opened the door and stared at the young woman in the purple hat and scarf. She smiled. He smiled—and fell in love on the spot.

His love opened her mouth and spoke. Suddenly he wanted to shower her with diamonds and rubies. Maybe pearls. “I know it's late, but is it possible to speak with Mr. Moss?”

“Uh, sure. I'm Mr. Moss. Gus Moss. Come in, come in.”

His love spoke again. “I'm sorry. I meant the other…Mr. Moss senior.”

“Oh,
that
Mr. Moss. He isn't here. Will I do?”

Cyrus, never known for his patience, barked and pawed at the kitchen counter where the pie was. “Excuse me. Cyrus is relentless. He won't give up until he gets his pie. I was just about to have some. Will you join me?”

Amy stared at the good-looking young man. She thought her blood was boiling in her veins. “You know what, I think I will join you. I have a sweet tooth.”

His love had a sweet tooth. “Me too. All my teeth are sweet.” Gus grimaced, showing his teeth. His love laughed.

“Is that good for a dog?” Amy asked, pointing to the pie Gus just put in Cyrus's bowl.

“His owner refuses to give him dog food. I'm just dog sitting old Cyrus. People food seems to agree with him. Do you want ice cream on your pie?”

“Well, sure. What good is pie without ice cream? Do you have any coffee to go with that pie?” He watched, mesmerized when the purple hat and scarf came off, then the jacket. Lean and trim. Just the right kinds of curves. His love was perfect, and she was standing right there in his father's kitchen.

“Absolutely. Big slice or little slice?”

His love laughed again, a tinkling sound that sent shivers up Gus's spine. “Oh, a big slice. If you're going to eat pie and ice cream, you need a big piece to really enjoy it. I haven't had pie in a long time. What kind is it?”

“Berry. What should I call you?” Gus said, turning his back on her to cut the pie.

“I'm sorry; my manners are atrocious. Amy Baran. Nice to meet you, Gus Moss. I didn't know Mr. Moss had a son. I used to come out here every September with my dad to tag a tree. Then we'd come back around Thanksgiving to take the tree home. It was the highlight of my life back then. Dad would always give me ten dollars to spend in the Christmas shop. I felt so grown-up when I'd sit down to eat the gingerbread and cider. Then I really grew up, and we didn't do it anymore. Your mother always took time with the kids. Where were you?”

“Out in the fields I guess.”
Amy Baran
. This was the young woman Peggy and Ham Bledsoe talked about. The same Amy Baran who returned home to help her mother. His competitor. He turned around, his expression blank. “Nice to meet you, Amy Baran.” Gus extended his hand and she grasped it. It was no wishy-washy handshake either. She gave as good as she got.

Gus ate his pie as he tried to figure out what this…
spy
was doing sitting in his kitchen. He decided his eyes were bigger than his stomach. Suddenly, the pie and ice cream lost their appeal. He set the dish down on the floor for Cyrus. Amy continued to eat. She appeared to be enjoying every mouthful.

“So what did you want to see my father about?”

“To buy some trees. A lot of trees. My mother told me she heard in town that your father is selling all his trees this year for $45 to thin out his fields. We'd be happy to buy about ten thousand. For buying that many we'd like a discount of maybe 5 percent. It's for the Seniors. No one will be making money off this deal, and that includes me and my mother. My mother asked me to come home to help out and to map out a PR campaign to sell the trees. I have to admit it was all a good idea, but my mother didn't think it through and made some major goofs. It was left to me to pick up the pieces. When do you think I can talk to your father? Or do you make the decisions? That was certainly good pie. I enjoyed it.”

“The housekeeper made it. I'll pass on the compliment. That would be a loss of $55 a tree to Moss Farms. I don't know who started that rumor. Moss Farms is in business to
make
money, not give it away. What are you planning on selling them for? A hundred bucks a pop? That's a lot of money, Miss Baran. So you would still make a 25 percent return on the investment if I sold to you at $80 a tree.”

“Yes, it is a lot of money, but it's for the Seniors' Building. There's no other place to get funding. As it is, the building was left to the Senior Citizens in a member's will. Are you following me here?”

“I'm on the same page. Only half the fields will be ready to harvest. The half you're talking about is overgrown. They haven't been fertilized or irrigated. There are a lot of dead trees in those fields. I don't have enough help to get them in shape for this season. Ah, I see by your expression that you aren't following me. Let me explain. My father let the farm go to wrack and ruin. I came home last week from California to help out. A lot of people his age don't want to hear from their whippersnapper sons, who think they know more than they do. My father…my father felt the same way. Push came to shove and, Miss Baran, I exercised my option to take over the half of the farm left to me by my mother, that wonderful lady who was always so nice to you.
My
trees will be ready to cut Thanksgiving week. If my father sells to you, you are going to have a lot of disgruntled customers. As they stand now, I wouldn't pay twenty bucks for one of them. Business is business, and time is money. I learned that at my father's knee,” Gus snapped.