Sugar And Spice (11 page)

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 flatbed 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 wreathes 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.

Amy’s alarm buzzed at six o’clock. A second later, the local radio station came to life with a rousing rendition of “Jingle Bells.” Then the announcement for Moss Farms invaded her bedroom. She pulled the covers over her head, but she could still hear the cheerful voice announcing the latest gift to go in the Christmas Stocking, a gift certificate to the China Buffet for a free dinner for two every week for a full year.