If You Give a Grump a Christmas Tree Farm

CHAPTER ONE

JJ—

The air smells different in the mountains of East Tennessee. Fresher, cleaner, and not as humid. When I left Birmingham four and a half hours ago, it was almost eighty and humid.

But now, it’s in the mid-sixties with a cool, dry breeze. The perfect riding weather and the Harley rumbling beneath me are all I need to settle my nerves.

I’ve dreaded making this trip, but I have to admit, I’m loving the weather.

But then, I guess it’s to be expected on the first of October. Sweater weather, my prez’s ol’ lady calls it. For her, it's all about the pumpkin spice latte. For me and the guys, it’s all about ‘Bama football.

Hopefully, I can get this dreaded business taken care of and be home in time for Saturday’s game. Approaching the city limits, I can’t help but have a heavy heart at the reason for my visit. I’ve avoided thinking about it, but I know it’s going to hit me in the face.

I take my exit and ride the two miles to Main Street.

Christmas Town, Tennessee. I can honestly say I have not missed you.

Still, all the old memories come nagging back. They weren’t all bad, I’ll admit. I just don’t like to dwell on any part of my childhood.

It’s weird being here in the fall. The leaves are all changing to brilliant gold and orange. Main Street looks odd without all its glorious holiday window dressing. It seems forlorn, like it’s just waiting for fall to be over so the town can get on with its main event. The one it does oh-so-well.

It’s a Friday, and I’m surprised to see how busy the place is. I haven’t been back here in decades, but it was never this crowded before. I roll past a side street that seems to have a farmer’s market going on, and I suppose that explains it.

It’s an old-fashioned town with a main drag that leads to the center, where a big square surrounds the courthouse. I see they’ve still kept the old gas lampposts that line the streets, but the wrought-iron archway that proclaims to travelers that they’ve now entered Christmas Town is new.

I coast to a stop at a line of cars waiting to make a turn and grumble. Every damn diagonal parking spot I see is taken. What the hell is going on? All this for some homemade honey, bushels of farm-grown vegetables, and some fresh-baked cinnamon rolls that I can smell from here?

Maybe there’s a pumpkin spice latte stand, and all the town has gone crazy for some.

I bet there’s nothing over at those stands these people can’t get at the local grocery store. What’s the big fascination with buying it all from some stranger with a folding table and a crate of goods? Not that I’d know about grocery stores. Can’t remember the last time I’ve been inside one.

God, I can’t wait to get this over with.

I turn up a side street and find an open spot half a block from the corner. Backing my rear tire to the curb, I shut my bike down and climb off.

I’m used to receiving stares from passersby anytime my bike rumbles past, but I’m usually with a couple of my club brothers. It’s different when it’s just me. Some eyes are filled with curiosity, some with dislike, some with downright disgust. I’ve seen it all.

Pulling my helmet off, I shake my shaggy blond hair out and drag a hand through it. Then I step onto the curb and stroll up the street.

When I round the corner, I pass Wilson’s Hardware store and immediately recognize the guy out front sweeping the sidewalk.

“Well, by God, if it isn’t Scotty Wilson.”

He turns, and his gaze sweeps over me, then his eyes get wide. “JJ?”

“One and the same.”

His face lights, and he clasps my hand. “Good to see you, man. Hell, I think the last time I saw you we were teenagers working on your grandfather’s tree farm.”

“Yup. Been a while.”

“Sorry to hear about him. Heard he passed in his sleep.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

“Were you here for the funeral? I didn’t see you in town.”

“Nah. The club was in Sturgis the first week of August. I couldn’t get back for it.”

“That’s too bad. Though, it seemed like everyone in town was at the cemetery that day, so he had a good send off.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“So, what brings you to town?”

I gesture down the street, then let my arm drop to my side. “Gotta meet with the attorney. They’re reading the will today. Guess he left me something. What, I can’t imagine.”

Scott nods. “Well, I won’t keep you. But hey, maybe we could grab a beer before you leave.”

“Sounds good.” I lift my chin to the business. “Your old man leave the place to you?”

He chuckles. “Nah, he’s still around, but he made me manager.”

I grin. “Well, that’s something, huh?”

He shrugs and lifts his chin to my cut. “Probably not as exciting as your life.”

I pat his shoulder and lean close. “It’s not all booze and women, man.”

He gets a laugh out of that. “You say so.”

“I’ll talk to you later.”

With that, I move on up the street and find the attorney’s office. The gold paint on the glass reads, Carlyle and Carouthers. The door leads to a staircase up to the second floor. A receptionist waits beyond another glass door.

“May I help you, sir?” She gives me the once-over, her smile fading.

“I’m here for a meeting with Mason Carlyle. Reading of my grandfather’s will.”

“You must be James Joseph Reardon.”

“Everyone calls me JJ.”

“Yes, sir. Right this way.” She leads me down a hall to a door and taps on it, then pushes it open and announces me.

I step into a fancy office with dark carved wood and a fireplace against the back wall.

In front of a set of windows that overlook Main Street is a giant desk.

The man behind it stands when I enter. He’s gray-haired, with wire-rimmed glasses and a comb-over.

His suit is nicely tailored, and judging by the décor, I’m sure this office rakes in the dough.

Sitting on two of the four chairs across from the desk are my mother and father. Neither appear happy to see me. My father actually huffs, and my mother tsks when her eyes sweep over my jeans, boots, and leather cut.

I hear her mumble under her breath. “He couldn’t find a button-down shirt, for God’s sake?”

I ignore her and shake Mason Carlyle’s hand.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Reardon. We’re waiting for one more person to join us.”

Ah yes, my brother’s widow. The lovely Rebecca, whom I’ve never met.

“Would you like some coffee while we wait?”

“No thanks,” I mutter and ignore his invitation to sit, instead wandering around the room, checking out the bookcases and coming to a stop by the fireplace mantel. There’s a stuffed pheasant on one side and several crystal statues on the other. What makes a man want to stuff a pheasant?

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot my father folding his arms over his barrel-chest, his fat neck turning red as he glares at me like I’ve just ruined his day.

I lean a palm on the mantel and stare at the fire, telling myself to just get through this damn meeting without saying a word to the man.

That’s my plan, anyway. Whether I can stick to it is another story.

I’ve been a disappointment to him since the day I was born.

after all, he had David, the perfect son. What did he need me for?