“Hmm. And she said yes when you invited her to dinner?” Donna paused. “She’s a cute gal. Are you interested in her?”
“What? No!” I’m engaged to Natalie.
“She’s probably interested in you. You invited her for Christmas dinner. She wouldn’t say yes unless ... well, you know.”
Mark didn’t know. “Her daughter helped convince her.” He changed the subject and tried to clarify some things. “Donna, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner what I was doing. I had planned to, but there didn’t seem to be a good time.”
“You’re sorry about not telling me sooner ... that you’re selling the farm,” she said, “but you’re not sorry that you’re selling it?” She picked up the broom and started sweeping. The floor took the brunt of her frustration.
“I wish there were another way—I really do. Papa had Nana. My mom and dad had each other.”
“Has Natalie pushed you to sell? Is that what this is all about? I knew that girl was trouble. She’s trouble, Mark.”
“No, she hasn’t pushed me. She supports me. She’s the only one who can see how much I love music.” Mark paused and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. “There’s something I don’t understand about the trees,” he said. “If they are ‘miracle trees’ then what about my parents? They loved this land. Where was their miracle?”
Donna’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t have all the answers. I’m sorry your parents ... I’m sorry you were so young. But if you’re asking me that question—what was their miracle? Don’t you see? It was you and your sister, Kate. The two of you survived. Besides, you know it’s not just the trees, Mark. You have to believe. It’s about your faith.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you again,” Mark said. Donna’s answer settled over him. He’d never thought of it that way, like surviving was some sort of a—no, he’d always missed his parents too much to think of it like a miracle. But hearing her say it. She was right.
“If you’re really going to go through with the sale, I ought to tell you more about your dad. He spent a lot of time learning from Papa.” Her face grew more serious.
“Learning what? Planting schedules and pruning routines?”
“Yes, but more than that. I used to see the two of them on their walks sometimes. Your Papa had your dad blindfolded once, had him touching all the trees in a row.”
“Donna, Papa has some strange ways. Actually do you know what he’s telling the customers tonight? Buried treasure! He’s desperate,” Mark said as he emptied the garbage into a larger bag. “What am I going to do? Can you have a talk with him?”
Donna stopped sweeping and sat on the stool behind the counter. She wiped her brow and squared her shoulders. “Why me? You’re the only one who can tell him what he needs to hear.”
“But buried treasure, Donna? Come on. It has to stop.” Mark stood and stacked a few empty boxes.
“He’s right. That’s what your dad found,” she said quietly.
“Not you too.” Mark groaned. “You can’t be serious. If my dad found a treasure then where is it? I just—I can’t do this.”
“Please, listen.”
“Maybe another time. I’m meeting Natalie soon.” He left the craft barn as anguish welled up in his chest.
Why would she say that about my dad? If he found a treasure, what did he do with it?
Chapter 17
A cold Monday morning wasn’t pleasant even with a decent night’s sleep, but Angela hadn’t slept more than a few restless hours. Mr. Buckley’s threat on Saturday filled her with dread for the rest of the weekend. She couldn’t be sure of anything he had told her. Would he make good on his threat? Would he evict them if he wanted to? Could he?
One thing she did know—Christmas was in eleven days. How hard would it be to endure the lousy work environment until after the holiday? Then she could quit and find another place to live.
Like that’s an easy thing to do.
She would have called Mrs. Shaw if she hadn’t been in Oregon. Mrs. Shaw would have told her not to work for him in the first place.
And then there was her mother. Caroline had asked every day since Mark Shafer delivered the second tree when they were going to call Grandma Elliott. Could she ask her mother for advice? What would she say? What she always says—come home. Come home and admit that I was right and you were wrong.
She dropped Caroline off at school and returned to the rental office. She sat in her truck, waiting, no need to go inside one more minute before she had to.
Except for the gas I’m wasting.
I can do this . . . for Caroline.
“Good to see you this morning,” Mr. Buckley said, sounding like his old self.
Angela smiled politely and looked at her phone to avoid conversation. She found plenty of work to do, and when a couple came in asking to see an apartment, she offered to give them a tour. She felt like she might be able to get through the day after all.
Mr. Buckley usually left for lunch around eleven thirty, and when he returned, Angela took her break. That way, the office could remain open.
“What do you say you and I go get some lunch together?” he said offhandedly.
“What ... about the office?” she stammered.
“We can put the closed sign in the window for an hour or two. Get your coat.” He reached for his and watched her.
Angela continued filing leases and acted as if she didn’t hear what he had said.
Think of something.
“There’s that new sandwich place we could try.” He flipped the sign in the window, and Angela’s heart started to race.
“I can stay. I wanted to get some of this work done so I could take off Thursday and Friday next week,” she offered faintly.
Mr. Buckley opened his desk drawer and looked for something he didn’t find. “We don’t have to be long, then.” He walked across the office and took Angela’s coat off the rack and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” She stood and buttoned her coat. Mr. Buckley broke out in a satisfied smile and they walked out of the door together and to his car. As he was unlocking it, Angela spoke up.
“Look, I just got a message from the school and ... Caroline is in the nurse’s office. I need to go pick her up.” Angela kept walking and jumped into her truck. She wished she could have seen his face, but she didn’t look back. Warm tears burned the corners of her eyes.
She turned the key, the starter dragged, and the engine didn’t turn over.
Don’t do this, not now!
She didn’t look out her window. One more turn and she drove out of the parking lot.
Not exactly a dramatic exit!
She drove toward the school to pick up Caroline so she could feel like she hadn’t lied, but her tears stopped as she thought of Mr. Don Buckley, his threats and his what? His dishonesty. It became clear what she wanted—no, what she needed to do.
After two calls to directory assistance and some backtracking, she found the Blackstone Apartment Management Office in Millbury near the mall. A freezing rain began to fall as she parked. She looked for her umbrella under the seat—not that it mattered. Her hair had frizzed as soon as she left her apartment that morning.
What can I tell them? I don’t have any proof that he’s stealing from residents. What about today? Am I going to complain that he asked me to lunch?
She straightened up at the memory of it, got out of the truck and darted into the warm building. The receptionist told her she could not see the owner without an appointment.
“Great. Can I make an appointment?” Angela stood there, a little wet, but undeterred.
“Let me get her book,” the receptionist said and rolled her eyes. “What day did you have in mind?” she asked as she flipped pages.
“Today.” Angela looked at the time on her phone. “How about one o’clock?”
“That’s in five minutes!” The girl picked up the phone and turned as she spoke, then swiveled back with her answer.
“Ms.
Sullivan won’t be available until two.”
“I can wait. Tell her this is Angela Donovan from the Blackstone Apartments—the one with the fire.”
Ms. Sullivan was warm and personable, nothing like the receptionist, and she apologized to Angela for the wait. Her kindness changed Angela’s aggressive tone to a confessional one. She detailed everything she had observed while working with Mr. Buckley and concluded with the threat and the lunch invitation.
“I was planning to quit after Christmas, but I’m done. I’m going to need to find a new place to live, too.”
“You won’t need to do any of that,” Ms. Sullivan replied. “Thank you for coming here today—it was brave of you.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“We’ve been aware of Mr. Buckley for a while. We have cause to dismiss him,” she said in a restrained way.
“I didn’t realize.” Angela’s shoulders dropped with relief. “Do you mean you’re going to fire him?”
“Yes. What we don’t have is someone to take his place,” Ms. Sullivan explained.
The phone rang, and the receptionist came in and put a few more folders on the desk. Angela shifted in her chair and looked at the clock. She had to leave soon to pick up Caroline.
“So, as I was saying, we’re interviewing right now for the apartment manager position. Based on what you’ve told me and given the circumstances, would you be willing to take over as an interim manager? We’ll provide you with more training, of course, but this situation has gone on long enough.”
“Interim manager? Me?”
“That wasn’t what you were expecting, was it? Would you be willing? There is a salary, and rent is free, of course.”
“Yes, I’m willing to help. But I have a daughter in school,” she said as she looked at the clock. And a job I’m supposed to be starting there. “Yes, I can work it out.” Angela said more definitively.
Ms. Sullivan thanked her again for coming in. She provided Angela with an application to fill out and return, but told her to plan to start on Wednesday.
“And we’ll take care of Mr. Buckley,” she reassured her.
Angela drove back to Sutton in sleet mixed with snow but it didn’t bother her. Not in the slightest. How could it? Mr. Buckley would be gone. She’d have a salary paying job. And no rent to pay.
Chapter 18
Mark and Natalie finished dinner but Mark was still restless. He wasn’t satisfied, not with the food, not with the way Papa and Donna found out about the sale and especially not with the way he’d handled it. If he hadn’t left the business card on the counter, or if he’d thought of some reason why the surveyors had come, it might have been different. But he hadn’t. And the fact that he’d negotiated for the cabin and craft barn did little to help anyone feel good about the deal.
Natalie invited him to her place and they drove in their separate cars to her apartment in Millbury. Unlike previous occasions, Mark didn’t find comfort in Natalie’s reassurances that he was doing the right thing. He listened silently to her encouragement but this time was different. She hadn’t seen the disappointment on Papa’s face or seen Donna’s swollen eyes.
“They’ll adjust. You have to look out for yourself. If you don’t go through with the sale, someday it will just be you and the farm. You’ve told me you can’t picture that,” she reminded him.
Mark nodded. How could he disagree? He’d said it more than once.
“But what about us?” Mark asked.
“What? What do you mean?”
Mark shifted in his seat and reached for her hand. He chose his words carefully. Maybe, just maybe he’d underestimated her. “If I don’t go through with the sale, if I keep the farm and the trees…what about us? Could we—would you?” He didn’t know how to word it. This was harder than proposing. “Would you give it a try—working the farm together?”
He glanced and saw her mouth slightly open, her eyebrows raised and then he focused his eyes directly across the room on the clock by the door. The longer the silence lasted, the harder it became to sit next to her. He shuffled his feet and released her hand—the hand with the new diamond ring on it.
“Mark, I—I don’t know what to say.”
His cell phone rang. He might have ignored it, but it was late for anyone to be calling him. He answered, and risked another look at Natalie’s face still waiting for an answer.
“Mark? This is Brett. It’s not good. Please come ... we’re at UMass Medical, Worcester.”
“What? Why Worcester?” Mark sat up straight on the couch.
His phone dropped the call. He dialed back and it went to voicemail.
Mark stood, and tried to call again.
“What is it?” Natalie asked though he was already heading for the door.
“That was Brett.” Mark turned to face her. “I’m not sure, but I think they took Papa to UMass Medical. Can you come with me?” he asked.
Before she could speak, before he could think it through, he knew her answer. No, she wouldn’t come. No, she wouldn’t give the farm a try. If the situation were reversed, he’d already have his coat on and be by her side. Why hadn’t he seen it before?
She looked everywhere but at him.
“I guess,” she finally said. “Let me get my warmer coat.” She walked over to the closet.
“Never mind,” he said. Forget I asked. While you’re at it, forget I proposed.
Mark sped on the turnpike in spite of the snow. He played the music he had written for Natalie.
She doesn’t love me.
I couldn’t see it until now.
Please be okay, Papa.
The last time Mark saw Papa, he was on the lot, telling customers about the buried treasure. Had he been happy or desperate? Papa’s words came rushing back to him. “We sell our trees, not our land.”
Mark tried calling Brett back again, but didn’t get an answer. He arrived and entered through the ER and stopped at the desk.
“Where can I find Alberto Shafer?” he asked.
“Let me check. Did he come here by ambulance or did someone drive him?”
“I don’t know.” The seconds felt like years.
“No one here by that name. Would he have used a different one?”
Mark reeled with confusion, panicking that he had the wrong place. He was sure Brett said UMass, Worcester. “No. He’s in his late seventies, they brought him here ... is he ... Please, no.”
“Sir, why don’t you come over here and have a seat.” The woman pointed to the row of hard plastic chairs.
“I think he came with Brett, a younger man, almost as tall as I am.”
“Let me make a call and see what I can find out.”
As she dialed, Brett came through a set of doors on the opposite side of the waiting room with Papa walking slowly behind him. Mark rushed to hug him.
“You’re okay! What happened? Did they just release you?”
Brett tried to interject. Mark stayed focused on Papa.
“They didn’t need to release me. I’m fine. You’d better sit down, though.”
Mark, more bewildered than ever, sat in the nearest chair.
“Donna died about an hour ago,” Papa said quietly.
“What? Donna?” Mark’s chest tightened. “How?” he murmured, willing the air through his lungs.
Papa sat next to him and put his hand on his shoulder.
“She suffered a heart attack. They tried everything.”
No. This isn’t happening.
“Is her husband here?” Mark asked.
“Yes, and so are her daughters.” Papa sat stoically. If he had been crying, Mark couldn’t tell. Brett remained standing, staring at the ER doors and shaking his head.
Mark thanked Brett for bringing Papa and told him he could go. He and Papa stayed a short time longer to see if they could help Donna’s family. Then they drove back to the farm together, and like the mornings when they walked the lot, neither spoke.
The weight of what M
ark had done settled over him. Had Donna cried angry tears when she learned he was selling? How many times had she tried to share with him—what? What did she know? Was there something about his dad and the farm? Please listen, she’d begged.
“Papa, I’m sorry.” Mark spoke before the grief could consume him.
Three a.m. and no traffic on the turnpike. Had time stopped? Had the world?
“Me too. We’ll miss her, won’t we?” Papa said gently.
“Yes. But I mean I’m sorry about the way I’ve acted. I’ve been wrong. I hurt Donna and you. I’m so sorry. If we hadn’t argued, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.” His voice trailed off.
“Come on now. Something like this doesn’t happen because of one day,” Papa said.
Mark took the private road to the cabin.
“I’ll make a few calls in the morning to put the word out that we’ll be closed for a few days,” he told Papa.
“That would be best. Doesn’t seem right, does it? She was too young. That should have been me in that hospital.” He said with a sigh.
“Don’t say that.” Mark felt a lump in his throat. “You’ve got to stick around.”
He watched Papa walk to the cabin and then around to the back door.
What’s he doing now?
Mark rolled down his window when he heard Papa’s voice.
“Better come see this, Mark.”
He jumped out of the car and caught up to where Papa stood on the edge of the back lot of trees. With nothing but the waning moonlight, he could still see the dark outline and yellow paint of the backhoe tractor right where it couldn’t be—in the middle of the trees, dozens of felled trees.
Mark fought competing waves of grief and anger. “No,” he yelled. He ran through the wet-packed snow to the rows of stumps. He collapsed over one and hit it with his fist. “How could they do this?” he cried.
He buried his face into the side of his arm. He stood and made his way through the strewn branches and trees. He climbed into the backhoe and tried to start it. Nothing.
“It’s outta gas!”
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