The Christmas Tree Keeper: A Novel

by Tamara Passey

  “I’m telling her at dinner. And she hasn’t convinced me of anything.” Mark made that point clear. “She’s not as bad as everyone thinks, you know.”

  “Not bad, Mark, just not right for you. But I suppose that if she loves you, she’ll learn to love the farm.”

  “Donna, do you have any idea how many women want to marry a man who’s already married to a tree farm? I’ll tell you. Zero. Ask me how I know.”

  The relief on Donna’s face changed to concern again. “Any woman who loves you will accept what you love. She won’t ask you to choose.” She picked up the mistletoe again. “And if you love her, you’ll give her the chance to know you, to love everything about you.”

  Was she right? Had he even given Natalie that chance? He shook his head at the thought. He still had his music, and Papa wasn’t getting any younger.

  The next words didn’t form as easily. How could he help her understand that selling the farm was for the best?

  “Donna, I’m planning to—”

  “We have so much to talk about—I have a lot to tell you. Your mom and dad shared things with me that I’m not sure even Papa remembers. If you had up and quit, I would have figured something out, but I’m so glad you’re staying,” she said. “Come here. I need to give you a big hug.”

  Mark stood and moved the empty box with his foot. Donna rushed over and gave him one of her signature squeezes. “Your mother would be so happy right now.”

  “You don’t have to say that.” Memories of his mother and father clouded his mind. “I was trying to say ...” He couldn’t finish.

  “I’m sorry. No one can take her place—I shouldn’t try to speak for her. But she would be proud of you, I’m sure of it.”

  Proud of me?

  “I’ve got to go.” Mark stepped back and picked up the box for something to do. He glanced at his watch and then at the door. The craft barn had never felt so small and suffocating.

  “Any chance you can cancel your dinner with Natalie? I’m not kidding when I say I’ve got a lot to tell you about this farm.”

  “She’s at the restaurant by now. Let’s talk another night,” he said.

  Mark took a deep breath of the December night air as he walked to his car, cold but refreshing. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and looked over his shoulder to the back lot of trees.

  The trees are quiet tonight.

  Wait—what?

  Before sitting in his car, he brushed off the side of his pant leg covered in glitter from the craft barn.

  What does Donna know, and why did she have to bring up my mother and father tonight?

  He waited at the red light and changed the track on his CD, increasing the volume too. Not that it mattered. Donna’s words echoed louder. Would my mother be proud? And if my dad were still alive? All of this would be pointless. He and Mom would be running the farm side by side like Papa and Nana.

  Mark pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant. Though Nana had been gone some years now, his stomach lurched at the thought of her meeting Natalie. She would not approve.

  “I’m relieved to see you,” Mark said as he approached the table where Natalie sat.

  “What took you so long?”

  “Customers and Donna—she wanted to talk,” he said. “It’s amazing what one little news story can do. At least sales will be up.”

  “Did your grandfather orchestrate that? Is he that worried about selling the farm?” she asked with a new accusatory tone.

  “No, Papa had nothing to do with it. We have no idea how it started,” he said, thinking about the last two days. “He doesn’t know I’m planning to sell, either, so no, that’s not it. The strange thing is that the woman who received the money—the one on the news? She showed up at the farm today and tried to give it back!”

  “What? Why would she do that?”

  “That’s my point. She thought we had something to do with the news story too.”

  “Wait—is this the same girl with the old truck you helped last week, and she came back today?” Natalie asked in an even harsher tone. “Did she ask for you?”

  “No. I mean, yes, it was the same girl, but she didn’t ask for me. I happened to be there, but so was Donna.” Mark leaned back in his chair and picked up the menu, using it as a shield.

  “I already ordered for you.”

  What’s with her?

  Mark eyed Natalie and closed the menu. “Thanks. Do you want to hear my good news? Or did you order the food to go?” he asked, not hiding his annoyance.

  “Sorry. We have a new regional manager. She wasn’t in the store five minutes before she had changed our holiday floor plan. Do you know what that means?” She continued berating the manager and complaining about work until the food arrived and she wound down.

  Mark couldn’t wait any longer. “Papa is transferring ownership of the farm. To me.”

  Natalie looked up from her plate. “Are you serious? When?”

  “He made the call today. I don’t know how long it will take to make it legal. But as far as Papa is concerned, it’s official. You’re looking at the new owner of the Shafer Tree Farm.” Mark straightened in his seat.

  Natalie reached across the table and took one of his hands. She looked sincerely happy. “You’ve known this all day and let me go on and on, complaining about the store?”

  Mark felt his pocket, where the ring still waited. “I wanted to tell you in person. I saw the house yesterday too.”

  “That’s right. How did that go?”

  “Great. I’m planning to make an offer on it next week. I’d love for you to see it.”

  “I can’t believe it has a music studio in the basement. That will be great for you,” she said.

  For us. It will be great for us.

  They finished dinner, and Mark hugged Natalie by her car after they left the restaurant. Mark assured her that when the holiday season ended, they’d have more time to celebrate. He drove home, and in his bedroom at the back of the farmhouse, he found some of his old CDs he’d recorded when he was just out of high school. It was late, and he could feel the number of trees he had lifted in the tightness of his shoulders. A new song played through his mind.

  He pulled out a yellow legal pad and wrote one verse of a new melody, then a chorus. He looked at the picture of his parents on a shelf in his bedroom. They were standing together outside—near some trees, of course. He set down his notepad, walked over, and picked up the picture. Didn’t he have it memorized? Would looking at it again give him any more information about his parents that he didn’t already have? His father’s arm was draped loosely around his mother’s shoulders; she held a canvas purse with a large sunflower print on it. He knew her smile, too—soft and content. Mark held the picture close and scrutinized his mother’s hands. He looked at her left hand to find the ring on her finger. He could make out the band and the stone, but the shape and size were grainy. He set the picture down, disappointed—it was too much like his memories, missing the finer details.

  He pulled out a box from under his bed and rummaged through some papers. Donna helped him collect whatever they could find in those early days after the fire. There were some pictures and other pieces of their life. He sifted through the irrelevant material, like utility bills, and sorted the pictures into groups—one pile before he was born, another for later. He thumbed through them, avoiding the heavy feeling that stirred in his heart when he did this. He had been through this box enough times to know it did not contain what he was looking for—a picture of his parents someplace other than the farm.

  He put away the box and looked out his bedroom window over the thick pines that stretched for miles behind the house.

  They left plenty of trees.

  Mark returned to his legal pad of paper and reread what he’d written of the new song, words of love and dreams and what it takes to make them come true.

  The verse and chorus don’t match. Something isn’t right.

  Chapter 9

 
Angela grabbed her sweatshirt, pulled on her slippers and a pair of gloves, and peeked out of the window. Several inches of snow had fallen overnight. She would have slept longer to avoid the frosty apartment air if not for Caroline’s exuberance.

  “Snow day! Is school cancelled? Mom, you look funny like that. How much snow did we get?”

  “The sky is clear and the road looks fine too,” she said.

  “Then can we do something fun after school?” Caroline asked.

  “We made cupcakes last night. What did you have in mind?” Angela pulled on her boots.

  “Let’s go Christmas shopping!”

  “Hold on—I’m going grocery shopping today. Food before presents.” Angela listened to herself. Always putting on the brakes. “We could make gingerbread cookie ornaments? We’ll use Grandma Elliott’s recipe.”

  More like her housekeeper’s recipe. . .

  “Can I roll the dough?” Caroline asked.

  “Sure, after you finish your homework.”

  After returning home from taking Caroline to school, Angela sorted through her mail and lined up the bills that she needed to pay. She had a message from the school cafeteria manager to come in at four o’clock that afternoon for a second interview.

  Angela called Mrs. Shaw and asked if Caroline could stay with her for the short time she’d be gone. She also told her what had happened at the tree farm, and how she ended up using the money to pay her rent.

  “I’m glad to hear it. We never know why things happen the way they do,” Mrs. Shaw said. “I’m glad that it’s settled.”

  “Me too,” Angela agreed.

  What was this light and airy feeling creeping over her? The rent paid and the school job a possibility—was this optimism? Or was it the Mrs. Shaw effect?

  She’s so different from my mother.

  Oh, that’s right—Mother!

  She picked up the phone, and like she was prone to do when possessed of a cheerful spirit, she dialed herself right back into the fray.

  “What do you say, Mom?” Angela asked assertively. “Do you want to come over tonight and make gingerbread cookie ornaments with us?” The invitation was a little random, but sincere.

  “Tonight?” her mother asked. “I was just there yesterday.”

  “I feel bad about that—that’s why I’m calling. Caroline has asked about you. She knows we use your recipe. Could we try to get along,” Angela spoke carefully now, “for Caroline? It would be great if you came for her.”

  “What do you mean, ‘try to get along’? We’d get along better if you didn’t ask me to pay your rent when it had already been paid.”

  “I can explain that. I didn’t know someone was going to give me money,” Angela said.

  “Who gave you money? How much did they give you?” her mother demanded.

  “I don’t know who. That’s my point. I called you before that happened.”

  Here we go again.

  “Is this money from a boyfriend? Because if it is, I hope you know that is the worst, and I mean the worst thing you could do—accept money from a boyfriend.”

  “No. I don’t have a boyfriend, Mom. The money was an anonymous gift. I’m sure that’s why I forgot to call. It was unexpected,” Angela said.

  Maybe this was a bad idea.

  “Anyway, if you want to join us, we’ll be making cookies tonight,” Angela offered one more time and waited. Did the moment of silence before her mother answered mean she was softening?

  “The roads will be ice, but I’ll try to come,” her mother finally said.

  Angela wasn’t sure if the cafeteria manager was giving her another chance or if it was routine to have a second interview for part-time work. Either way, she was grateful. She dropped off Caroline at Mrs. Shaw’s early and arrived at the school on time.

  She was given more paperwork to fill out and was introduced to some of the staff. The manager explained that she had to wait for final approval before she could give her a start date, but as far as she was concerned, Angela had the job. She handed her the schedule for upcoming training days and finished showing her around the kitchen.

  Where was the relief she expected to feel at this job offer? A job, a paycheck—what was the problem? Only that Angela never imagined she’d need to work two jobs to make ends meet, never thought they’d come so close to eviction if not for some mysterious gift. There was a time when she was married to Todd that her music recordings sold for good money. But that was years ago, eons in the music industry. Younger, trendier musicians had claimed that space now.

  At least there was one person she was excited to tell.

  Angela reached for her phone, but left it in her purse. No use calling when she’d be home in less than ten minutes and could see Caroline’s face when she heard the news in person.

  The low-lying road wound around to the entrance of her apartment. The sky loomed darker above her, but trees blocked her view of the buildings. Those weren’t storm clouds—what were they? She pulled into the entrance, but a policeman stood in the parking lot. He held up one hand and motioned for her to turn around. Confused, she watched him for a moment. She put her truck in reverse and backed up. Now she saw at least three fire trucks outside the apartment building.

  Why are there fire trucks?

  Then she saw them—flames devouring the roof. She gasped, held her breath, and watched the thick, black smoke swirl upward, filling the sky.

  No, no, no. Caroline. Where is Caroline?

  She fumbled out of the truck, leaving it in the street with the door open. She climbed over the snow mounds and the low parking lot wall, dropping into the snow on the other side. She picked herself up, ran straight for her stairwell, and screamed Caroline’s name. Two firefighters stopped her. One on each side lifted her off the ground by the arms. Her feet kicked the air as they carried her behind a truck and put her down.

  “We’ve gotten everyone out,” they said.

  “Where is my daughter? Caroline—she’s eight. Oh, what was she wearing today? Was it a blue sweater?” Angela’s heart pounded.

  One fireman looked at the other and knelt down beside her.

  “They’ve taken her to County Medical for smoke inhalation,” he said evenly. Angela started crying and tried to stand. The fireman put his hand on her shoulder.

  “We’ll find someone to take you to her. Stay here for a few minutes,” he said and walked over to one of the police officers.

  Angela put her face in her hands.

  Please let her be okay. I can’t lose her. I can’t.

  Yells from other firefighters competed with the commotion of residents, families, and news reporters. She glanced up. The fire truck obscured her view of the building, but she could see the smoke billow heavenward, slow and dreamlike. The sky looked like it had been draped in gray, the trees, too. Or like a picture drained of color. The world, her world, drained of life.

  Where is she? Where is Caroline? Please, please. Oh, let her be safe.

  The fireman returned. “Officer McGrath will take you to see your daughter.”

  “What happened to her? What should I do with my truck?” Her scattered words tumbled out of her. She looked over and saw another policeman behind the wheel of it, moving it out of the street.

  I must have left the key in the ignition.

  “Travis will follow us. Come with me,” Officer McGrath said. “It sounds like they took your daughter in for observation. Was she with her grandmother?”

  “No, that’s our neighbor. She was babysitting. Wait, is Mrs. Shaw okay? What happened?”

  “We’re not sure—it could have been a candle. Three apartments were involved, but they’ve evacuated that entire unit over there.”

  Angela looked where the officer motioned to see her apartment building included in the evacuation.

  Now what will we do?

  The officers escorted Angela all the way to Caroline’s room and returned the truck key before they left. A nurse offered to find the doctor. Angel
a held her hand over her mouth when she saw Caroline’s ash-filled hair and sooty cheeks.

  “Mom.” Caroline whispered from under the oxygen mask.

  Angela grabbed her hand and hugged her. She put her head as close to her little shoulders. “Are you okay?”

  “The lamb. The little lamb.” Caroline started to cry.

  “Shh, it’s okay. What’s wrong?” Angela asked, bewildered.

  “The lamb. Please don’t be mad at me, Mom.” Caroline coughed. “I took the lamb, the one from your nativity set, to Mrs. Shaw’s today. When her apartment filled with smoke, the firefighters came to help us get out. I don’t know what happened to it. I grabbed it, but it isn’t in my pocket.”

  “It’s okay, Caroline,” Angela said. “Don’t worry about the lamb. You’re safe and we’re together. That’s all that matters.”

  “What if I lost the lamb?” Caroline cried.

  “We can find a new one. Please don’t worry.”

  Angela reassured her daughter, “Everything would be okay.” She told her.

  But would it? She looks okay, but what if she’s not?

  The doctor spoke to Angela in the hallway. He was kind and calm as he explained she hadn’t suffered any burns—only smoke inhalation. They planned to run some tests and keep her overnight for observation.

  “Do you have any questions?” he asked.

  Of course I have questions. Like, are you sure she’ll be okay? And what about the bill I’m going to get from the hospital—and you? How am I going to pay for it all? And why am I thinking about another bill at a time like this? What kind of a mother am I? Is our apartment ruined? And you look too young to be a doctor.

  Tears welled up in Angela’s eyes and spilled out, like they were making room for the converging flood of emotion and thought. She shook her head, wiped her tears, and uttered something resembling “Thank you.” With watery eyes, she watched the doctor walk away, his white coat and the hospital walls blurring together into a strange, surreal scene.

  How could this be happening?

  She returned to the room. Caroline had fallen asleep. Angela sat in the boxy, vinyl recliner next to the hospital bed, pulled her legs up to her chest, and watched her daughter. The low, humming sounds of the monitors and IV pump were a relief from the commotion of a few hours earlier. The whiteboard across from Caroline’s bed had her name written on it and the name of her nurse and doctor. There was a calendar on the wall, the kind with one page for each day. NOV 30, it read. Angela pulled out her phone and checked the day. December 2nd.