The Kissing Tree

by Karen Witemeyer

  He raised an eyebrow. “So just how many more handcrafted masterpieces has one Abby Brookshire made for the residents of Oak Springs?”

  A humble shrug that led to an even more humble estimation. “Somewhere around fifteen or so, maybe.”

  “Then I’ll be on the lookout.”

  With their gazes still locked, they fell quiet once more as a song pulled him into a memory he knew neither of them could pretend to have forgotten. “Dream a Little Dream of Me” crooned in the background like a moonlit serenade of their past, back to a time when all seemed right with the world. When Griffin had pulled Abby close and danced with her in the grass under the sprawling branches of a tree they loved. He’d kissed her for the first time that night, promising himself it wouldn’t be the last.

  Abby was the first to look away.

  “I can’t save that tree on my own, Bee.” He stepped closer to her, mesmerized by the light of a waning moon on her left cheek. “After that boy broke his arm last weekend, Bradley’s case for a repeal based on financial hardship has become pretty convincing.”

  “But his motivation is bigger than that, Griff. I know it is. Something’s off. I think he just wants to use that land to expand the inn and fill his pockets.”

  “That land has been in his family for generations.”

  “Yes, but it belonged to our oak first, and it should be able to stay that way for as long as it’s alive.”

  Griff dipped his head and released a long exhale. “I don’t disagree with you, but I do think you need to prepare yourself for either outcome.”

  As if she could snap on determination like armor, Abby narrowed her eyes at him and spoke with a conviction that caused her voice to waver. “I’ll do whatever I need to in order to save that tree, Griff. I just need you to promise me that you’ll do the same.”

  five

  Abby listened intently for the whir of Griffin’s chainsaw to halt, knowing his warning shout would soon echo through the inn’s property. Sure enough, it came only a moment later as a freshly cut branch pinballed its way to the ground and broke into four large chunks upon impact.

  Jason, who’d shown up at the tree this morning looking like he’d been dragged behind a semitruck for the better part of a week, was not nearly as energetic as he’d been on the dance floor last night. If the dark circles under his eyes were any indication, the kid had been out much, much later than his boss, who’d said good-­bye at her door without so much as a pat on the arm. But what had she expected from Griffin? A lingering hug? A good-­night kiss? Ridiculous. That type of shared affection was ancient history between them now, had been for going on two years. Griffin wasn’t here for a second-­chance romance; he was here for a job, and she had no right to get in his way, no matter what kind of regret had surfaced in her since his arrival. He deserved to move on from her, to live and love and find happiness outside of this small town . . . and her even smaller dreams.

  Jason gripped the largest of the splintered branches and dragged it over to the chipper, where Abby waited. “All clear!”

  He leaned the branch on the back end of the machine and gave her a huge smile paired with a thumbs-up, indicating he was ready to load. Together, they slipped their ear protection on once again and worked to feed the growing pile of pruned branches into the open mouth of the chipper.

  So far, things had been going as planned. Griffin had spent over an hour in the canopy of the tree, identifying unhealthy branches and pruning accordingly. Due to the vast expanse of the tree’s crown, Abby estimated he’d still have at least a few days of work ahead of him in order to write a thorough report for the preservation committee. And though Bradley’s patience was thin to begin with, Griffin wouldn’t be rushed. He might be brutally honest, but he was rarely hasty.

  She watched Griff climb to a new height, up several more branches, tying himself off and inspecting something too far away for her to make out. She’d forgotten how intriguing it was to watch him work in his element. So much of an arborist’s job was instinctual. Of course, there were books, classes, and tests involved during the certification process, but as her father pointed out on many occasions, intuition couldn’t be taught in a classroom. It had to be felt, fed most by time and experience.

  Her father had seen that special intuition in Griffin early on. Even from that first summer when he’d shown up at the inn to live with Bradley’s family permanently at age fifteen. Abby hadn’t known then what all had gone wrong in his childhood home, or with his parents, but she’d heard enough rumors whispered of substance abuse and child endangerment to know it was bad. He confirmed these ugly details to her as their friendship progressed over time. Just a year later, his parents’ rights had been severed and his visitations with them had stopped completely.

  But Abby’s father hadn’t let him disappear into himself; instead, he capitalized on Griff’s intrinsic affection for the great outdoors. Her father had recognized it as more than just a passing fascination of a city boy who’d been set loose on acreage, but rather as a love that seemed to grow and mature with age. Much the way her own admiration for all things nature had grown over time. To an outsider, Abby and Griffin’s roles might seem opposing—­him hauling away the dead and her nurturing the new—­but ultimately, their goal was the same: to steward God’s creation the best way they knew how.

  As Jason fed more dead oak into the chipper, adding to the mound of fresh mulch and filling the air with one of her favorite aromas, her gaze settled back to the heavy foliage where Griffin worked. Something in her stomach grabbed as she watched him scale down, climb back into the boom of his truck, and lower himself to the ground. Tucked into his belt were several shoots sprouting a dozen or so leaves. The second he hopped off the platform, he unclipped his safety harness and headed straight toward her.

  “What is it?” she asked, trying to decipher the expression on his face. Not oak wilt, she prayed silently. Please, God, don’t let it be the wilt. Even the sturdiest of oak trees could be taken down by the aggressive fungus, and rarely did the costly treatments work in time. Her father had told her multiple stories of mature trees taken out by such a blight in as little as thirty days.

  Griffin plucked a branch from his belt and held it out for her to inspect. “It wasn’t easy to find, but Jason wasn’t wrong when he said he spotted a blight. This is a rare variety, and one that typically only appears after a season of heavy rains, but I’m fairly positive it’s Cryptocline cinerescens.”

  “Translation please.” Flowers and shrubs she knew—­along with most species of grass, plants, trees, and herbs—­but textbook terms for agricultural fungi . . . that wasn’t in her area of expertise.

  “It’s essentially an oak twig blight—­not to be confused with an oak wilt.”

  “We can thank God for that,” she said under her breath. “Is there a treatment plan? How bad is this? I’ve never even heard of a twig blight before.”

  “It’s not too common, but can you see the anthracnose on these leaves? The dark spots here and here? That’s the fungi. It attacks the new growth shoots first and then spreads to the leaves, eventually contaminating the crown.”

  She took the blanched twig in her hands. “So new, and already dead.”

  He took off his hard hat and swiped at the sweat beading on his forehead. The temperatures hovered in the low eighties today, and cloud cover had been scarce all morning. Texas in springtime was fickle: one minute scorching sun, the next a storm warning. April was a constant guessing game. “Luckily, I think we caught it early enough. I’ll need to make cuts in the healthy tissues under the infected branches as I prune, and I have a systemic fungicide I can apply a week or so after I finish pruning. The crown will likely be thinner next year, but with proper irrigation and fertilizers I think it can be strong again.”

  “Really?” Relief and possibly another unidentified emotion swarmed her insides—­partly because Griffin’s report to the committee would reflect this new hope, and partly because his treatment
plan guaranteed he’d be sticking around in Oak Springs for at least another week, unless . . . “Will you be the one to do the treatments? Or will you need to head back to your storm crew?”

  He shaded his eyes against the sun’s intensity. “I’m not planning to leave until the job is done.”

  Why did she get the distinct impression that the job he referenced was bigger than the fate of this live oak? And furthermore, why did she hope it was?

  “Hey, boss?” Jason hollered at them over the grinding motor of the chipper. “Do you know that lady?”

  Both Abby and Griffin followed his pointer finger to the minivan with more political stickers than passenger seats, and then on to the string-­bean woman with the overly made-­up face now streaking her way across the grass with some kind of device clutched in her hand. A name surfaced in Abby’s mind just as the fuzzy end of a microphone jabbed in her direction. Was this Gladys Applebottom, Oak Springs’s unofficial tell-­all radio station host? If so, she certainly wasn’t who Abby had pictured when she listened to the show in the mornings with the cook over her toast and coffee. Abby had imagined someone with a bit more . . . substance, whereas this woman looked a sneeze away from breaking in two.

  But Abby couldn’t be happier to see her here.

  “Are you Abby Brookshire—­the groundskeeper for the Kissing Tree Inn and an employee of Bradley Malone?”

  Griffin clamped his hands on Abby’s shoulders protectively and tugged her back a step, as if to shield her from another potential microphone attack.

  “Ma’am, I think it’s best you start by telling us who you are, and why you’re storming onto private property.” Griffin spoke with a confident calm that made Abby’s heart march to a silent parade inside her chest.

  Gladys’s frost-­blue lined eyes, circa 1986, took Griffin’s measure without batting a lash. “Ah, so you’re the one who’s been hired to destroy our beloved oak tree? Well, not if the residents of Oak Springs have something to say about it, you’re not. If you so much as pluck one more leaf off this historical landmark, I’ll see to it that you’ll be sued for everything you’re worth. This tree is protected by the state of Texas—­and by its citizens.”

  Griffin stood his ground, though his hold on Abby tightened ever so slightly. “Sorry, but I’m still waiting to see some form of identification.”

  Before Gladys had a chance to respond, Abby found her voice. “This is Gladys Applebottom.” She tipped her chin up and twisted to face Griffin, who looked utterly confused at how she knew this Aqua Net lover’s name. “She hosts a local radio program about current events and happenings within our town. Our cook, Mrs. Madden, listens to her show every morning.” She turned back to Gladys. “It’s an honor to meet you. A report you aired on missing pets actually helped her find her missing black Lab last winter.”

  Something in Gladys’s severely bronzed cheekbones softened, and her apricot-­brushed cheeks lifted into a grin. “Yes, that’s right, I’m Gladys Applebottom. I’ve been a news professional since the early eighties—a former lead anchor for KEVI in New Mexico, followed at the Desert Sand Gazette as an investigative crime reporter.”

  She paused as if to leave room for Abby and Griffin’s affirmation of her accolades. Apparently neither Griffin nor Abby responded quickly enough, because she slashed a hand through the air and continued. “I found my true calling in radio nearly three years ago, right here in this charming town I now call home. It’s not all crime I cover, of course, but I feel it’s my duty to inform the locals of all the happenings—­the good and the bad.” Her eyes narrowed on Griffin once more. “And losing the namesake of this town due to some chainsaw-­happy millennial would be very, very bad.”

  Abby saw the twitch in Griffin’s right cheek as he made eye contact with Jason, who now stood just a few steps behind Gladys. The kid had been pointing at his chest with a pick-­me-­please expression on his face since the moment Abby had outed the radio host in their midst. Oh good gravy, he’d just upped his pleading eyes to add animated praying hands. If Abby didn’t take charge of this situation soon, Jason might derail the reason Abby had secretly left a voicemail for one Mrs. Gladys Applebottom early this morning.

  Abby stepped away from the two men, working to block Jason from her peripheral vision. “Uh, Mrs. Applebottom, can I ask who told you that Griffin was being paid to remove the oak?” Because she certainly hadn’t indicated that in her message, had she?

  “I can’t reveal my sources.”

  She really should have seen that one coming. “Right, well, then I’d like to set the record straight. Griffin was actually hired to give an accurate report on the tree’s health, not to cut it down. The appeal to remove the protection act from this live oak is now in the second stage with our town council and the protection committee. Griffin will present the report next week, and then we’ll wait on their recommendation and decision.” She took a breath, and hoped she could persuade Gladys in a new direction. “Perhaps your radio show might help spread the word about what’s going on. I would think there would be many residents in Oak Springs who would have an opinion on this tree’s future fate.”

  Gladys didn’t blink as she studied Abby with the intensity of a bounty hunter searching for a lost target. But it was Griffin’s scrutiny that Abby felt the strongest. She refused eye contact with him.

  “Everything Abby said is true, Mrs. Applebottom,” Jason said, as if unable to hold himself back from the microphone a second more. “And I’m willing to go on record with that.”

  Griffin groaned as Gladys swung around to find Jason standing in wait. “And who are you?”

  “I work for Malone Storm Services—­Griffin’s company.” Jason offered his hand with much too big a grin. “I’m Jason Reddit—­apprenticing arborist at your service. And I’ve been told by numerous women that I have a face for radio.”

  Abby stifled a laugh, but much to her surprise, Gladys shook his hand and then held out the recording device for him. “Based on your expertise, Mr. Reddit, and the evidence being transcribed in the arborist’s report, what is your opinion on the fate of this oak?”

  Abby held her breath.

  “I’m not a doctor, but I’ll level with you, Gladys. This tree’s in critical condition. We have a treatment plan in place for the old girl, but we can’t do it alone. We need to get the word out, to band together in the solidarity of one clear goal—­to save this big, beautiful oak and watch her prosper for generations to come.” He pounded his fist to his chest twice, and Abby fought the urge to hug him.

  Though she had no idea why the kid had chosen tree work over starring in a daytime soap opera, that plea was a thousand times better than she could do any day of the week.

  Obviously moved by Jason’s speech, Gladys nodded and then spoke directly into the recording device. “You heard it here first, folks. The fate of our town’s most cherished historical landmark is in jeopardy. If you care about this tree, won’t you take a moment to make yourself known? Share your story with us so that we can band together and fight this appeal as one voice. No act of support is considered too small. We’ll be back with more from the Kissing Tree Inn in the days to come. This is Gladys Applebottom from Your Good Neighbor 93.8, keeping our town clear of crime, one rotten apple at a time.”

  Griffin winked at Abby, and she couldn’t help but smile back.

  Whatever had just been transmitted into the airwaves of Oak Springs, Abby knew one thing for certain: Where one person’s cry could be easily ignored, an entire town would be much harder to silence. In only a matter of minutes, Gladys Applebottom had given wings to her weary heart and voice to her vision.

  six

  Abby headed out her cottage door for the second time since finishing up her rounds in the gardens a smidgen after sunrise, switching out her windbreaker for a hooded sweatshirt. The morning had been noticeably cooler than yesterday. A crisp breeze wrestled through the bushes and trees, and heavy clouds pregnant with precipitation formed overhead. She glanced
up at the sky and then back to the shadowed cobblestones her feet had walked countless times since her youth.

  Absently, she wondered just how many more times she’d travel this path from her cabin to the grand oak. A hundred? A thousand? A hundred thousand?

  To her surprise, Griffin wasn’t at the tree when she arrived at the trunk. There was no chainsaw or climbing equipment on the ground, no chipper waiting to be fed a fresh round of pruned branches, and no fame-­seeking Jason anywhere in sight. Where was everybody? Abby had finished her maintenance rounds by seven thirty, expecting Griffin to be ready for the day’s work by eight like he had the day before. Perhaps he was still inside the inn talking with Bradley?

  As she strolled past the trunk of the oak to get a better view of the parking lot and check for Griffin’s work truck, a stark shade of white caught her eye. There, amid the bumpy ridges of bark and hundreds of initials and heart carvings, was an envelope pinned to the trunk of the oak. What is that? Gingerly, Abby pulled out the pin and opened the envelope that was simply addressed, To whom it may concern.

  She slipped the contents out and unfolded the handwritten letter.

  To whom it may concern:

  After hearing the broadcast on Your Good Neighbor yesterday, I was moved to take a moment and write down a memory about the oak tree next to the inn. I don’t enjoy large crowds of people, and I’m not the type to speak up at a town council meeting, but I can share a story with anybody willing to listen.

  Like my parents and grandparents, I grew up in Oak Springs. I’ve watched the town grow from two stoplights and one elementary school to a miniature city with chain restaurants and coffee stands on multiple corners. I’m not complaining about the growth—­the extra revenue has helped a lot of hardworking families stay afloat during lean times . . . mine included. I’ve worked as a waitress for thirty of my sixty-­two years, and my daily commute takes me by the old oak on Acorn Lane. I’ve seen a lot of life happen under that tree—­weddings, picnics, parties, and even a proposal once. I’ve also watched teenagers carve their initials into the trunk, just like I did once with my high school boyfriend after our senior prom. We’d made plans to elope after graduation (our parents thought we were too young to be so serious). But we were in love and I knew he was the only one for me.