I'll Be Home for Christmas (26 page)

“I want to apologize to you about that…my-half-of-the-farm crap I spouted when I first got here. This is your farm. It was always yours and Mom's. I came here to help you, Dad. Then you dug in your heels, and I, in turn, dug in my heels. I let old…hurts and memories take over. So, if you're okay with Moss Farms working with the Seniors, I'll stay on through the holidays and give it all I've got.”

Sam Moss could feel his insides start to shake. He knew how hard it was for his son to say what he'd just said. He nodded. He finally managed to get the words out. “I regret the things I've done, Gus—for so many things that went wrong. I was selfish. I wanted a chip off the old block. I wanted you to love this farm the way your mother and I loved it.”

Gus reached down to scratch Cyrus behind the ears. “I do love the farm, Dad. I just don't want to farm it. There are other people who can do it better than I ever could. All I ever wanted was for you to be proud of me. You never ever, by thought, word, or deed, indicated that you were. Mom said you were, but I thought she was just saying what she knew I wanted to hear. I'm a damn good architect, Dad.”

“Come here, son,” Sam said, going into the living room. He opened a chest that served as a coffee table. Gus looked down and saw copies of all his awards, stacks of
Architectural Digest
where his designs were featured, piles and piles of newspapers that carried his picture and write-ups about him. “Does this answer your question, son?”

Gus was so stunned he didn't know what to do or say. He knew in his gut this was as close as he was going to get to a real, gut-wrenching apology. The words “I'm sorry” simply were not in Sam Moss's vocabulary. He decided he could accept that. “Yeah, Pop, except for one thing. If you were so damn proud of me, if you loved me, why did you chop down my tree and give it to the White House? Mom said an hour after I was born you planted my tree. Then you chopped it down and sent it away.”

Sam Moss dropped down on his knees to rummage in the bottom of the chest until he found an envelope. He held it out to Gus. Gus read his mother's letter addressed to the White House and the reply that was sent to her accepting her offer of Gus's tree for display during the Christmas season. “Why did you let me think…why didn't you tell me…?”

“That's where I am guilty, son. I wasn't in a good mental place that year. Your mother and I were invited to the White House. Your mother wanted it to be a surprise for you. It was what she wanted. If it means anything to you at this point, I tried arguing her out of it. I dearly loved that old tree. Another year or so and it would have gotten straggly looking. Just so you know.”

And then his father said the magic words Gus had waited a lifetime to hear. “No father could be prouder of his son than I am of you. I'm sorry, son.”

Operation Christmas Tree, as Gus referred to it, kicked into high gear the following Monday morning. His work crew, numbering twelve, arrived at the crack of dawn. Sam's crew of Seniors arrived minutes later. Both Moss Senior and Moss Junior issued orders like the generals they pretended to be. OCT was under way.

Tillie stepped forward and led the Senior Ladies to the gift shop where they proceeded to set up shop opening box after box of ornaments, ribbons, Christmas toys, bells and everything else she had ordered at the last minute for opening day.

Amy arrived breathless, wearing sturdy work boots, tight-fitting jeans, a bomber jacket and a bright orange hat and scarf. Gus Moss fell in love all over again. When she waved her clipboard at him and winked, he thought he would go out of his mind. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was cuddle, to snuggle, to hold her hand, to whisper in her ear. What he didn't want to do was go out in the tree fields and wield a chain saw. When she winked and waved again, he groaned and climbed into his truck.

Sam and Tillie poked each other and grinned at these goings-on.

“Seven days to Thanksgiving, then the fun starts,” Sam said happily. “It gets pretty wild around here, Tillie. Are you sure you're up to it?”

“We'll soon find out. Did you have anything in mind for Thanksgiving, Sam? If you don't, I have an idea.”

“Let me hear it, little lady.”

“We always have a turkey dinner at Seniors' headquarters, as you know. Adeline McPherson makes the best turkeys in the county. I'm sure you know that too. Let's do the dinner out here at the farm. I know Addy would be more than happy to work in your kitchen and you have those two, big double ovens. We'll invite everyone—Gus's crew, their families, all the Seniors, and us. I think it would be a good incentive and a great way to kick things off. Everyone will be in the mood to give 100 percent on Friday morning when the trees go on sale. You'll have to pay for it, Sam. Can you see your way clear to doing that?”

Sam beamed. It had been a long time since anyone asked for his opinion or for a donation to anything. Giving his trees away simply didn't fit into this particular equation. “It would be my pleasure. You sounded like my Sara just then, Tillie.”

Tillie looked up at Sam, a stricken look on her face.

“What? What's wrong? What did I say?” Sam asked anxiously.

“I'm not Sara, Sam. I'm me, Tillie. Please don't compare or confuse us. I have to go now, the ladies need me. Lunch will be promptly at noon. We need to keep to a schedule.”

Sam ambled off, scratching his head. “That was kind of blunt, Mom, don't you think?” Amy asked.

“Well…I just don't…I wouldn't want…Never mind. What's on your agenda for today?”

Amy settled her knit cap more firmly on her head as the wind kicked up. “I'm going into town. I have appointments lined up through the whole day. My first stop is the local radio station. I already contacted the stations in the District, and one of them agreed to play my jingle and advertise for Moss Farms every hour on the hour. It's all free, Mom. The station manager's parents live in an assisted living facility, and she's all for anything that benefits senior citizens. On Wednesday two billboards are going up where you can see them from I-95. I had to pay for those but got a 40 percent discount. Local TV is in the bag, all four channels. A new Christmas sign is going up at the entrance to the farm tomorrow. It's an eye popper—bright red.

“Tomorrow I pick up the Christmas Stocking. For a hundred bucks the Canvas Shop made this twenty-foot stocking out of bright red canvas. It's going to be weatherproof. We'll hang it from the tree next to the gift shop. I'm going begging today, asking for donations to fill the stocking. Everyone who comes out here to buy a tree gets to fill out an entry form, and Sam or Gus will pick the winner at noon on Christmas Eve. We're not actually going to put the donations in the stocking, but we will have a scroll next to the stocking so people can see which store donated what item. I think this is a biggie, Mom. It's going to draw people like crazy. The radio and television stations will be announcing who gave what. Free advertising for the donors. Win–win!”

Tillie looked at her daughter in amazement. “Oh, Amy, that's wonderful. In a million years I never could have come up with an idea like that. I am so proud of you. You're right, it's a biggie.” Impulsively, she reached out and hugged her daughter.

Amy grew light-headed. This was the closest her mother had ever come to showing any kind of affection toward her. She hugged her back, and suddenly her world was right side up. Feeling shy at this show of affection, she waved her arms about. “I think we make a good team. We're going to make so much money for your Seniors they might be able to add that new wing to the building you were talking about.”

“Well, my dear, Sam and I can't take credit for anything. It was you and Gus who brought all this together. Sam, me, the Seniors are just the elves. You two are Mr. and Mrs. Santa. I think he
really
likes you, Amy,” Tillie whispered.

“How…how can you tell?”

“Silly girl. Open your eyes. Good luck, honey. I'll see you when I see you. Lunch is at noon if you make it back in time.”

Honey
. Her mother had called her honey. Another first. She said Gus
really
liked her. Mothers never lied to their children. She wondered if that was a myth made up by some disgruntled mother who had lied to her child and then tried to salvage the lie. She discounted the thought immediately.

As Amy made her way to her car she knew, just knew, it was going to be a dynamite day.



Sam Moss was thinking the same thing as he chugged his way over the frozen fields in his battered pickup truck. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this alive, this good. He looked down at the cell phone on the seat next to him. A gift from Gus, who had said, “You need to get with it, Dad. I'll program it for you, and you just hit the button. It's a new world out there, and you need to join it.” Sam snorted when he remembered Tillie telling him her daughter ran her cell phone under the faucet because it was growing out of her ear. Well, if his son said he needed a cell phone, then he needed a cell phone. He stopped the truck as he diddled and fiddled with the gadget in his hands. Finally, he simply called Information for the number to the butcher shop in town.

“Elroy, Sam Moss. I want you to come out here and fill my three freezers. A whole side should see us through the holidays. On second thought, maybe a side and a hindquarter. And I want to order six fresh turkeys for Thanksgiving. Big turkeys, twenty-five pounds each. Go on that fancy computer of yours and send everything else times ten that Sara used to order.”

Sam listened to the voice on the other end of the phone. “Well, hells bells, Elroy, I want it now, like today. Why else do you think I called you? Be sure you come out here for your tree now. They go on sale the day after Thanksgiving. I just might throw it in for free if I don't get voted down. I'm not really in charge anymore. My son, Gus, is issuing the orders these days.”

Sam listened again. “You're right, Elroy, it's the best feeling in the world.”

Sam pressed the Off button. He wished there was someone else to call, but he didn't have many friends these days. Then again, he didn't want the darn thing to grow out of his ear. He guffawed at the thought.

Sam blew the horn on the old truck, and waited. It took the golden streak two and a half minutes to arrive and hop into the truck. Cyrus barked happily as he tried to nuzzle Sam's neck. Sam laughed all the way out to the Norway spruce field.

Life was suddenly so good he was scared.

Gus was waiting for him, the chain saw that he never seemed to be without in his hands. “Dad, I've been waiting for you.” He pointed to the narrow row of trees. “I think these particular trees can use another year of growth. What do you think? I don't want to tag and cut them if they won't sell. I say we tag them, let the buyers choose the ones they want, then cut them. Two hundred bucks for one of these beauties. By the way, I just got a call on my cell from someone at Super Giant. The supermarket chain wants to order a thousand Christmas wreaths and five hundred grave blankets for their different stores. Ten minutes ago a call came in from a Boy Scout troop asking to buy two hundred trees to sell for a fund-rasier. I said we'd donate them. You okay with that, Dad?”

His son wanted his opinion. Sam wondered if it was a test of some kind. “That's pretty pricey for a tree, don't you think? I don't have a problem with the Scouts or the supermarkets. I just hope we can handle it.”

Sam rubbed the whiskers on his chin as he pondered the situation. “The only people willing to pay that kind of money are the Beltway's politicos. I say we sock it to them good. Mark them at $250, and they'll kill themselves trying to get one so they can brag about how much they paid for their Christmas trees. Good thinking, son.”

Gus looked at his father and burst out laughing. “Okay, Dad, you're the boss.”

Sam thought he was going to black out at the kind words. He had to get past the moment and think about all this later. He could hardly wait to talk to Tillie and tell her. He had to think about
that
later, too. “You sweet on that little gal, Amy?”

A smart-ass retort rose to Gus's lips, but he stifled it. “She's okay, Dad. She's got a good work ethic.”

“Well, that sure as hell doesn't sound very romantic, son. Do I need to take you into the woodshed and explain the facts of life? I asked you if you were sweet on her. I'm kind of sweet on her momma. You wanna run with that one, son?”

Son of a gun!
“Yeah, Dad, I am kind of sweet on that little gal. You want to run with that one?”

Sam threw his arm around his son. Father and son started to laugh like two lunatics as they slapped each other on the back.

“I'm going over to the balsam fir field. Is it okay if Cyrus goes with me?” Sam gasped as he wiped at his wet cheeks.

Gus nodded. Banner days like this were something he'd only dreamed of.

Gus Moss hung up the dish towel just the way his mother had taught him. He looked around at the tidy kitchen. It was hard to believe they'd fed over seventy people today. Seventy happy people, who left the cleanup to Gus and Amy.

It was eight o'clock now, time to sit down with a nice glass of wine and stare into the fire. At least for a little while. Then the mad rush would begin in less than twelve hours. “Thanks for helping with the dishes. I don't mind the dishes as much as the pots and pans.”
Such a titillating conversation,
Gus thought.

Amy flopped down on the couch. “You want to hear something, Gus? I've never been this tired in my whole life. I'd never admit it to my mother, though. Right now she thinks I walk on water. It's such a good feeling, but, God, I am beat. Eating all that food sure didn't help. Aren't you tired?”

Gus grinned. “If I leaned up against the wall, I'd go right to sleep. The only thing that keeps me going is the same thing that drives you. I don't want to disappoint my father. I can design houses in my sleep. I can't swing a chain saw in my sleep.” He yawned to make his point.

“That's a great fire. I use my fireplace every day during winter.” She yawned, then Gus yawned. A second later, they were both asleep, Amy's head on Gus's shoulder.

Sam Moss returned an hour later and covered up the couple with an afghan his wife had made one winter when the snow was so deep they were snowbound for over a week. If memory served him right, she'd made two afghans that week. He smiled at the sleeping couple, wondering what the future held in store for both of them. Gus lived and worked in California. Amy lived and worked in Philadelphia. No matter what he thought or wanted for them, he wasn't about to stick his nose into his son's affairs. He'd learned a bitter, hard lesson, and he wasn't going there ever again.

In the kitchen, Sam poured the last of the coffee into a cup and cut a slice of pumpkin pie. He had no idea how he could still be hungry after all he'd eaten today. He needed to think, and he always thought best when he was eating, which just proved Sara had been right when she said that meant he could do two things at one time.

Sara. He'd promised himself that he was going to do some hard thinking. He wondered what Sara would think if she knew what he was feeling where Tillie Baran was concerned. He wondered if she was proud of him for the way things were turning out with Gus. He wished he knew.

“You had a nice turnout today, Sam.”

Sam whirled around, but no one was in the kitchen. He was so tired now he was hearing voices. A voice from beyond.
Maybe I've overdone it. Time to go to bed.

“It's time to move on, Sam. I want you to be as happy as our son is right now. Are you listening to me, Sam?”

Sam didn't trust himself to speak. He nodded.

“Then clean up your mess and go to bed.”

“Are you sure it's okay, Sara?” Sam whispered.

“It is very okay. I'm proud of you, Sam. Now, get on with your life.”

Sam jolted forward when he felt Cyrus stick his wet nose against his hand. “Thanks for waking me up, boy. I was dreaming there for a minute. Want some pie?” Cyrus woofed softly.

Sam moved by rote then as he washed his plate and cup. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had spoken to his dead wife. He never dozed off while he was eating.
Is it possible Sara just visited me? Or is it wishful thinking?

Sam stopped in the living room to check on his sleeping son. Out for the count. His chest puffed out with pride. A little late, but Sara had always said it was never too late to make things right.

As he climbed the stairs to the second floor he decided Sara had indeed visited him and told him to get on with his life. A tired smile lit up his face. She was proud of him. He knew in his old heart that it didn't get any better than that.



The weather cooperated the following morning. The storm clouds of the day before had moved on. It was cold and brisk, with a hint of snow flurries to come, perhaps later in the day.

Gus woke first and wondered why he felt so cozy and warm. Then he saw Amy burrowed under his arm. A loud sigh escaped his lips, loud enough to wake Amy. She didn't wake in stages either. She bolted wide awake, looked at him with wide eyes, and burst out laughing. “I hope you respect me this morning.”

“We didn't…” Flushing a bright red, Gus jumped off the couch and held out his hand for her to grasp. He pulled her to him and kissed her the way she'd kissed him once before. When he finally broke free, he said, “If that didn't make your teeth rattle, I have to tell you that was my best shot.”

Amy tweaked his cheek. “Oh, my teeth are rattling all right. But…I know you can do better. You know how I know this, Gus Moss?”

Somehow, Gus managed to get his tongue to work. He sounded like a bullfrog in acute distress. “How?”

“Because the next time, I'll cooperate and give it 110 percent. I only gave you 50 percent this time. Now you have something to look forward to.” Gus watched her, his mouth hanging open as she sashayed out of the room.

“Promises, promises,” Gus muttered as he made his way upstairs to his bathroom. She was right, though, it was definitely something to look forward to.



The only lull in business that day happened shortly after lunch when Gus's crew returned to the fields with the flat-bed U-Haul to replenish the eight-foot trees. The gift shop absorbed the lull with the antique cash register ringing constantly. Children came back for seconds for the gingerbread men and the hot cider. To the children's delight, Sam's old-fashioned Victrola, sitting outside on the back porch, played “Jingle Bells.”

Cyrus, decked out in Buster's old reindeer ears, the bells on his collar tinkling when he walked, allowed himself to be petted and chased by the little ones. When the cars left the compound, trees tied to their roofs, one of the Seniors handed out little cellophane bags to the children. The bags said
REINDEER TREATS
in bright red letters. The children squealed and giggled as their trip to Moss Farms ended on a happy note.

It was clear to everyone that the Moss Christmas Tree Farm was back in business.

Tillie worked the kitchen, making coffee and sandwiches that she handed out during free moments, which were few and far between.

The cash register continued to ring. Sam said it was the sweetest sound in the world.

Amy looked up from the work table, where she was busy making wreaths and grave blankets. “Gus! How's it going out there?”

“I don't have much to judge by, but to my mind it's the biggest day after Thanksgiving I can remember. I gave up counting a couple of hours ago. I just stopped to get some coffee. Your mother is like a chicken on a hot griddle.”

Amy giggled. “She's having the time of her life. Trust me.”

“So is my dad. Two people are waiting for their blankets. They asked me how much longer it will be.”

“I know. I can't make them fast enough. I'm not too proud to tell you I need some help. I ran out of wreaths two hours ago. We need more of an assembly line here. I can't do the wiring and the bows. My hands are raw from the wire.”

“You need to wear gloves,” Gus said as he took her hands in his. They were black from the resin and bark, and he could see specks of blood on the palms of her hands. How well he remembered the days when he'd done the same thing. His mother had always put something called Bag Balm on his hands and wrapped them in warm flannel at night when he went to bed. Then he would wake and do it all over again. To this day he still had scars on his hands from the baling wire.

“There's no easy way to do it, Amy. Can you work with gloves?”

“I'm not complaining, Gus. It's too awkward working with gloves. I have to be able to feel the wire. I just said I could use some help. Someone to make the bows and tie them on will make things go a little faster. I hate the idea that people will go somewhere else for their wreaths and blankets. You know, time is money. Don't worry about me.”

“I'll see if I can find you some help. I don't think any of us were prepared for such a busy day. Your ad campaign is really working. Your mother told me she ran out of patches for the Christmas Stocking. Everyone wants the plasma TV Zagby's donated. Whoever wins that stocking is going to need a truck to haul it off. That was one of the best ideas I ever heard of.”

Amy glowed with Gus's praise. “Okay, I have to get back to work. I'm going to need some more greenery in about ten minutes.”

“Okay, see you later.” Amy's mind raced as she worked the wire through the wreath hoop and then threaded it back through the pine boughs. The Seniors all had arthritis and while they might try to help her, they would do more harm to themselves. Where could she find someone willing to cut their hands to shreds to help the Seniors?

Volunteers.

At four-thirty, just as it was starting to get dark, Amy had a brainstorm. She stopped what she was doing, not caring if two dozen people were waiting for her creations. She stepped out of the barn and made an announcement: “Leave your name in the store, and we'll deliver your blanket or wreath.” There was a little grumbling, but for the most part, people were understanding. “I'll try to get them to you by Sunday afternoon. Mr. Moss and the Seniors appreciate your business and your patience.”

Back in the barn, Amy whipped out her cell phone. An hour later she'd called every church in town asking the priests and ministers if they could send their youth groups to help after school next week. She promised to make donations to each church. All promised to get back to her later in the evening.

Amy looked at her work table. She was fresh out of greenery. Time to take a break. She wanted to wash her hands, which would probably be a mistake since the thick resin was coating the cuts. She didn't care. All she wanted right now was to soak her hands in soothing warm water and sip a hot drink through a straw. She was just closing the door when Gus pulled up in his pickup, the trailer full of greens.

“I'm going to pretend I didn't see you. I'm going into the house to get some coffee and wash my hands. I think I might have a lead on some volunteers.”

“I'll join you. I'll pretend I didn't get here.” In the time it took his heart to beat twice, Gus scooped her up in his arms and carried her across the compound to the kitchen, where he sat her down on one of the kitchen chairs.

Tillie stopped what she was doing long enough to pour her daughter a cup of coffee.

“Put a slug of something in it, Mom.”

That's when Tillie noticed her daughter's ravaged hands. She wanted to cry. She looked up at Gus, who could only shrug.

“I had no idea what a hard business this is,” Tillie said softly. She quickly ran a dishcloth under warm water. She gently wrapped it around her daughter's hands.

Gus eyed both women. “This is only day one, ladies. We have thirty-three more days to go. It won't get any easier.”

“I'm no quitter,” Amy said vehemently.

“And neither am I,” Tillie said with spirit.

“So what's the lead you have?” Gus asked.

“I called all the churches in the area and asked the priests and ministers if they would ask their youth groups to come out and help after school. They all promised to get back to me this evening. I just hope I can stay awake long enough to take the calls. If it works out, we can build up an inventory. If that doesn't work, I'm all for using that liquid cement to glue the boughs together. I'll make it work…so will both of you stop looking at me like that?”

“What's for dinner?” Gus asked as he slipped back into his jacket.

“Stew and fresh bread. Addy made it all this morning. Store-bought pie.”

“Works for me.” Gus grinned as he headed out the door.

“What's the deal here, Mom?”

“Everyone eats here, we're taking turns cooking. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We close the gates at five-thirty. Everyone goes home to sleep in their own beds. Sam and I pick everyone up in the morning and we do it all over again. Are you coming home with me, Amy?”

“Of course. Why would you think otherwise?”

“Well…you didn't…”

“Mom, I was so tired yesterday I fell asleep on the couch. No one woke me up. Don't read into something that isn't there, okay?”

“Okay. Just thirty-three more days to go. We can do this, can't we, Amy?”

Amy closed her eyes. “We have to do it. Thanks for the coffee, Mom.”

“Oh, Amy, I almost forgot. A reporter from the newspaper was here earlier to take pictures of the Christmas Stocking. They're going to run it in tomorrow's paper on the front page. Above the fold! Isn't that great?”

“Super, Mom! Just super!” Amy said wearily as she headed back to the barn.

Hours later, the workday finally ended, and Amy, a can of Bag Balm in hand, followed her mother to the car. She waved to Gus and Sam. “Burn rubber, Mom!”

“Gotcha, kiddo. Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it's off to home we go, with only thirty-three more days to go! Heigh-ho, heigh-ho. I can't wait to go home.”

Amy laughed hysterically. Tillie wondered if she should slap her daughter. She decided she was too tired to do anything but drive. Then she, too, started to laugh. “This is where the rubber meets the road, Amy. A month ago if someone had told me this would be happening, I would have laughed in their face.”

“Yeah, me too. You can't sing worth a damn, Mom.”

“I know. Sad, isn't it?”

“Boo hoo.” Amy giggled. “I meant it back there when I said I was no quitter.”

“I know, Amy. I'm no quitter either. We'll do it.” She looked over at her daughter, who was suddenly sound asleep.
How pretty she is,
Tillie thought.
How dedicated
.
How warm and caring my daughter is.
Then she cried for all the lost years.