Gus stood in awe as he gazed at the white pine grove. How beautiful, how pungent it smelled. Suddenly, he didn’t want to cut the trees. They were just too majestic. Even though his father hadn’t fertilized or irrigated the beautiful trees, they had survived. All the grove needed was to be thinned out. Maybe he would cut every third one instead of all of them. It broke his heart that once the magnificent specimens were cut, decorated by someone in a house that was probably too warm, the tree would slowly die and be discarded. You live, then you die, he thought bitterly.
Angrily, Gus walked among the stately trees, tying long, yellow strips onto the branches. Long strips of the bright yellow tape meant the trees were not to be touched.
Why, he asked himself, was he so angry? Was he angry that his mother died, that his father let everything go to hell, that he’d killed Gus’s birth tree by cutting it down and donating it to the White House? Or was he angry at the young woman in the purple hat and scarf for calling him a scrooge and hurting his feelings? All of the above, he decided as the chain saw in his hand came to life. He worked then like there was a devil on his shoulder, cutting away the thick undergrowth and dead branches. He broke a sweat but continued until it was too dark to see what he was doing. He was sweating profusely and every bone in his body ached as he drove back over the same bumpy fields. He looked down at his watch and was surprised to see that it was six-thirty. His father would be waiting dinner for him.
His father wasn’t waiting for him when he opened the kitchen door. The table wasn’t set either. The huge pot of soup was still simmering on the warming burner. The oven showed a golden roast chicken dinner complete with stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy. Cyrus barked.
Gus shed his outer clothing, and that’s when he noticed the red blinking light on his father’s answering machine. No voice mail for Sam Moss. Gus pressed the button to listen to the message. His eyebrows shot up to his hairline when he heard the sweet, melodious voice of his love. “Mr. Moss…ah, Gus, this is Amy Baran. I’m…ah, calling you to apologize for calling you a scrooge last night. I was upset when I called you Scrooge. At the time I meant it because I was angry. I don’t mean it today because I’m no longer angry. Even though we’re competitors of sorts, I hope you sell all of your trees and that you make a lot of money. Again, I’m sorry for my rude behavior.”
“Well, hot damn! Did you hear that, Cyrus?” Gus slapped at the kitchen table as he danced a little jig while Cyrus nipped at his ankles. His love apologized. She wasn’t angry with him. Maybe now he could call her for a date. He played the message again and listened to the end of it. A frown built between his brows. She hoped he sold all his trees and made a lot of money. She thought this was all about money. She thought he was a money-hungry Christmas tree salesman. How could she think that about him? It was never about the money.
A niggling voice whispered in his ear, a voice he didn’t want to hear. Sure it’s about the money. It’s about proving to your father you can do in two months what he didn’t do in the last ten years. This is your way of getting back at him. It all translates to money—$$$. Who are you kidding, Gus Moss?
You didn’t put it behind you. You’re kidding yourself if you think you’ve moved on. You haven’t. You are a scrooge.
The phone found its way to Gus’s hand. He dialed Information and asked for the number to the Baran residence. His shoulders slumped when he heard the voice mail click on. “This is Gus Moss, a.k.a. Scrooge. I just want to say I accept your apology and would like you to know I’m really a stand-up guy. I’d like to invite you to dinner if you have some free time. If you’re agreeable, we should probably schedule it before we both get busy selling Christmas trees. The apology wasn’t necessary. I would have said the same thing if I had been standing in your shoes. I think you should give me an opportunity to defend myself. I hope you have a nice evening.”
Chapter Ten
It was eight-thirty when Amy Baran dialed Gus Moss’s phone number. She hated herself for what she was about to do but she had no other choice. Ripples of anxiety raced up and down her arms. “Gus, this is Amy Baran. I just got your message. I appreciate the return phone call. Listen, I was just about to go out to Tony’s to grab a pizza. Would you like to join me?” Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Gus looked down at his worn sweatpants, then at the oven where his dinner sat. He’d been in no hurry to eat earlier. “Well, sure. Thirty minutes?”
“That works for me. I’ll meet you there.”
“Wear that purple hat and scarf, okay?”
Amy laughed, a jittery sound, but Gus didn’t pick up on her nervousness. He was beyond excited as he raced upstairs to change his clothes, with Cyrus right behind him, nipping at his heels. It took him four minutes to change into acceptable clothes for a pizza date. He used up another five minutes filling a plate for Cyrus. Two minutes later he was out the door. It only took a minute for him to realize how cold it was. He cranked on the heater and sailed down the road.
Gus was ten minutes early when he parked his truck and headed for the pizzeria. It was warm and steamy, the rich scent of garlic and cheese wafting about. The place was full of chattering customers chomping down on Tony’s pizza. He looked around at the red leather booths for a sign of Amy. He saw her in the back. She waved. He grew light-headed as he made his way to the booth.
She smiled.
He smiled.
She motioned for him to sit opposite her.
He obliged.
“I took the liberty of ordering. I got the works except for anchovies. If you want them, now’s the time to ask. I hope you like Corona.”
“I do. Like Corona and no, I don’t like anchovies. I guess we have something in common. I love pizza. Three food groups you know.” He needed to stop acting like a young teenager and act like the successful man he was. He struggled for something to say that sounded intelligent. “It’s cold out.” Wow, that was brilliant.
“I felt some snow flurries when I got out of the car. Usually it doesn’t get this cold this early. How do you handle this cold coming from California?”
“I bought a lot of warm clothing. The truth is, today I was so cold I was numb. How was your day?”
Amy picked at the napkin in her hands. It was almost shredded. Here it was, the question she’d been dreading. “Listen, I want you to know something about me, Gus. By nature I am not a devious person. I have ethics. I’m pretty much up front and in your face if anything. I called you back…under false pretenses. I was sincere about the apology the first time I called you. I’m not going to beat around the bush. I need your Christmas trees. I went out to McLean to a guy who said he would sell me some. It didn’t work out. I’m asking you to help me. Well, not me really, the Seniors.” She was so frustrated, so embarrassed, her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away. She squared her shoulders. “I was wondering…hoping you would consider the two of us pooling our efforts to help the Seniors. I know you want to make money, so here is my proposition. I’ll take on your loss as my own personal debt. It might take me a few years to pay it off, but I will pay it off.”
Gus stared at the agitated woman sitting across from him. Whatever he’d been expecting, this wasn’t it. Her eyes looked luminous with unshed tears. He wanted to bolt over to her side of the booth and wrap his arms around her. He grappled for something to say. “Why is this so important to you?”
Amy brushed at the corners of her eyes. “I’m not sure. If you absolutely need an answer, the only thing I can say is I’m trying to…to…prove to my mother that I turned out okay even though she was never around when I did things she should have patted me on the head for. I suppose that sounds silly to you. I don’t know, maybe it’s a girl thing. I never got…what I mean is…I always wanted her approval. I never got it. So, while it is about the Seniors, it’s all about me, too. Does any of this make sense to you?”
Well hell yes, it made perfect sense to him. Wasn’t he living through the exact same thing? Maybe they were soul mates
. He nodded, his eyes sober as he handed her a paper napkin. “It makes sense,” he said quietly. “I’m doing exactly what you’re trying to do. So, do you have an idea, a plan?”
Amy leaned across the table. Her eyes sparkled with hope. “Does that mean you’ll help me?”
Gus didn’t trust himself to speak. He nodded.
“Well, I thought I could…I have a campaign all worked out. That’s my speciality. It’s what I do for a living. I’ll have to get rid of the tents, suck up the deposit, and relocate to your farm. People, according to Mom, don’t know you’re back in business, so I can make that happen. I’ll work alongside you. I’ll do whatever you want. You don’t have to worry about me carrying my weight. I’ll work around the clock if that’s what you want. We can draw on the Seniors to set up your store. I can make the wreaths and grave blankets. This will free up your people to handle the trees. Does…do you think…?”
Gus leaned back in the booth to allow the waiter to set a steaming pizza in the middle of the table. “Okay.”
Amy’s face lit up like a neon sign. “Do you mean it, Gus? What…what about time is money and business is business? Are you sure?”
Was he? Suddenly he realized he’d never been more sure of anything in his life. He nodded. “Let me ask you a question. What happens if when this is all over and done with, your mother and my father don’t understand what we’re all about?”
Amy sat up straighter in the booth. “Then, Gus Moss, it’s their loss, not ours.”
Ah, his love thought just the way he did. He nodded again. He stretched his arm across the table. “Okay, partner, let’s put our heads together, but first we eat this pizza.”
His love laughed, her eyes sparkling like diamonds. She squeezed his hand. Gus felt like he was on fire. He watched as she loaded her pizza with hot peppers, just the way he liked his. He said so. They both laughed in delight.
Gus Moss was in love. It never once occurred to him that Miss Amy Baran might be using him for his Christmas trees. He told himself his heart would know if that was the case.
Amy Baran tried to still her pounding heart. It never once occurred to her that Gus Moss might be using her and her PR campaign to sell his Christmas trees. If that were the case, she told herself, her heart wouldn’t be pounding the way it was.
At one point, Gus moved to the other side of the booth, where they talked in low whispers about everything and anything. Without realizing it, he reached for Amy’s hand. She exerted a little pressure to show she didn’t mind this closeness.
It was eleven-thirty when Gus paid the check and walked Amy to her car. He wanted to kiss her so bad his teeth ached with the feeling. Something told him this wasn’t the time.
Suddenly he was jolted forward when Amy grabbed the lapels of his shearling jacket and pulled him to her, where she put a lip-lock on him that made his world rock right out from under him. When she finally released him, she smiled. “I’ll see you at six o’clock tomorrow morning, Gus Moss.” She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. “Dream about me, okay?”
Gus stood statue-still as he watched his love drive away. His fist shot upward. “Yessss!”
Sam Moss looked down at the oversize watch on his wrist, a gift from Gus a few years ago. It was almost midnight, and his well-meaning Seniors were pooped to the nth degree. Tillie, at his side, looked like she was going to collapse any minute, but she was still wearing her game face. “This isn’t working, Tillie. They mean well, their minds want to do this but their bodies aren’t willing. I think we need to fall back and regroup.”
“I know, Sam. Can we go someplace where it’s warm and talk about it? I’m worried about some of them. Let’s all go over to the all-night diner and decide what we’re going to do. I didn’t think getting old was going to be this devastating. My daughter was right, making arrangements via cell phone and doing the actual work are two different things. I owe her an apology. Actually I owe her more—”
“Shhh,” Sam said as he put his finger near her lips. “We’ll figure something out. I’ll talk to the men, you talk to the ladies. If nothing else, we have enough branches and limbs to make a good many wreaths and grave blankets. Three and a half hours, and all we managed was to cut down six trees, and even with all our manpower we can’t get the trees into the trucks. You’re right, Tillie, we’re old. Where in the hell did all the wisdom we’re supposed to have go?”
How sad he sounds, Tillie thought. She tried then to do what all women had done since the beginning of time—bolster up the big man standing next to her. “I think, Sam, we transferred our wisdom to our children because they turned out to be know-it-alls.”
Her words had the desired effect. Sam guffawed as he drew her to him with his arm. Tillie felt light-headed. “Let’s get our work crew and head for the diner. Breakfast, dinner, whatever, is on me. Snap to it, little lady. I’ll meet all of you at the diner.”
Tillie found herself giggling. Dear God, have I ever giggled like this? Never, as far as I can remember. Suddenly, she felt warm all over as she herded the female Seniors to cars for transport to the diner. She felt guilty as she realized not one of them would have given up, even knowing they weren’t carrying their weight.
“Look, we didn’t really fail. We’re going to rethink this. When we’re warm with some good food, we’ll come up with a better idea.” Tillie wondered if what she was saying was true.
They were a weary, bedraggled group as they trooped into Stan’s Diner, which was open twenty-four hours a day. Two police officers were paying for take-out coffee and Danish. Otherwise, the diner was empty.
The women all headed for the restrooms to wash the pine resin off their hands. Tillie sat down, her shoulders slumping. How had it come to this? She hoped she was strong enough not to cry.
Within minutes, Sam and the weary male Seniors blew into the diner. Stan, the owner, greeted them, his eyes full of questions. Sam took him aside to speak with him. Within minutes, the waiters had the tables pushed together and Stan had his marching orders. Hot chocolate, tea and coffee were brought. Taking into consideration the Seniors’ health, Sam ordered Egg Beaters omelets, turkey bacon, oven-baked potatoes, and toast.
When they were all seated with hot drinks in front of them, Tillie looked around. Her friends, and they were her friends, looked shell-shocked. She wondered if she looked the same way. Probably. She decided she really didn’t care how she looked. She had to give her friends some hope, some encouragement. She couldn’t let them return to their homes thinking that just because they were old, they were failures. With a nod from Sam, she used her spoon to tap her water glass for attention.
“I want you all to listen to me. Like Sam said, our minds are willing but our bodies aren’t in tune. This was an overwhelming project. Most of us don’t see well at night. That’s strike one. Strike two is we aren’t twenty, thirty, forty or fifty. We simply cannot do the things we used to do even though we want to do them. Strike three is the cold weather. We aren’t used to manual labor. Been there, done that. We all had good intentions but they aren’t working for us. I’m going to turn it over to Sam now in case he has some ideas. I, for one, am not giving up.”
The Seniors clapped their approval of Tillie’s little speech.
Sam stood up and looked around the long table. “I have an idea but I don’t know if it will work. When I go home tonight, I’m going to wake up my son and talk to him. I think most of you know about…about how things are with me. I’m going to ask him to help us. The boy has a lot of ill feeling toward me. I’m going to try and make that right. Will it work? I don’t know. I’ve never…I’ve never had to actually ask him for anything. It’s going to be a new experience for both of us. If Augustus turns his back on me, I am prepared to donate whatever you would have netted from selling trees to the Senior project.”
“But if you donate the money that means we still failed,” Ian Conover said. “We wanted to earn the money, Sam. If your son turns his back on yo
u, can you handle it? No man wants to see his son turn against him.”
“I’m prepared for that, Ian. Nothing can be worse than all the years since Sara died. I’m going to do my best, and if my best isn’t good enough, then so be it.”
The Seniors clapped and raised their mugs to toast their leader.
Sam Moss walked into the kitchen at one-thirty in the morning. Cyrus greeted him with a soft woof of pleasure. His son was asleep at the kitchen table. Sam took a minute to stare at his Gus, remembering the day he was born. He’d been so crazy with happiness, he’d left the hospital, raced home to plant a tree, and named it Gus’s tree. Then he headed for Wheeler’s Hardware store and bought a child’s John Deere tractor for his newborn son. That was probably his first mistake. He should have bought him an easel or a drafting board.
Sam sighed as he hung up his jacket and hat. If there was a committee that handed out a prize for the most mistakes made by a father, he’d win it hands down. He poured himself a cup of the strong, bitter coffee that was still in the pot. He sat down at the table to wait for his son to wake up. One taste told him the coffee was bad, so he threw it out and made a fresh pot. He was into his second cup when Gus woke up.
“Dad!”
“It’s me, son. I’ve been sitting here wondering if by some chance you were waiting up for me. I seem to recall that was my job. It’s funny how things turn around when you least expect it. Were you waiting up for me? I want to talk to you about something, Gus.”
“I was waiting for you. I guess I’m not used to you going out at night. Yeah, I remember the nights I came home and you and Mom were sitting here pretending you weren’t waiting for me. I need to talk to you about something too. How would you feel about me donating all my trees to the Seniors?” he blurted. “I had a pizza with Amy Baran this evening, and they really are in a bind. Nothing worked out for them. She brought me up short. She told me she would partner up with me, do the public relations campaign, and she would make the grave blankets and wreaths herself. She said the Seniors would man the shop, bake the gingerbread and hand out the cider. She has some really grand ideas. It will put Moss Farms back on the map, Dad.
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