CHAPTER SEVEN
JJ—
Rebecca stops at several more businesses on our way down the block to Kringle’s Market. Each time making them the offer of a tree for letting us advertise our business.
Every one of them is receptive to the offer, and I think she has a better way with people than I do. She’s much more successful at talking them into it with her bright smile and cheery attitude than I was with the gruff offer I made the coffee shop manager in my abbreviated words.
She talks up how we’ll bring them a gorgeous fresh tree and how much their customers will love it. She really has a way with people.
Everyone she meets seems to love her.
When we arrive at Kringle’s Market, I grab a shopping cart and follow her around while she fills it up from her list. When we roll past the butcher section, I throw a pack of six steaks in, remembering seeing Gramp’s big grill at the side of the cabin.
When Rebecca eyes them, she lifts a brow, and I cock my head.
“You eat meat, right?”
“Yes, but those are huge. And why do we need six?”
“Just stocking up.” I don’t tell her I’ve got some of my brothers rolling into town this weekend.
When we get to the dairy section, I cut off down the pet aisle and heft a bag of dog food under the cart. Returning to find Rebecca studying the selection of yogurts, I lean on the cart. She gives me the side-eye but doesn’t acknowledge my addition.
It’s not until we’re checking out that she sees me grab the gun and drop to a squat to scan the big bag under the cart.
Her hand lands on her hip. “What’s that?”
“What’s it look like?”
“It looks like you have a new pet.”
“He’s not mine. I just don’t want to see him hungry.”
“Mmm hmm.” She nods, but her face screams that I’m in denial. She starts pushing the cart toward the door.
We load the groceries into the truck and head to the farm.
The dog is waiting on the porch when we pull up.
While Rebecca is inside unloading the groceries, I go outside and fill a bowl. “Here you go, buddy.”
A car pulls into the lot and two teenagers step out, approaching the porch.
I straighten. “Can I help you?”
“We heard in town you were opening for the season. I’m Noah. This is Miles. We’re looking for work. Thought you might need some help.”
“Nah, man. We’re not hiring.”
He seems confused. “Oh. Did you already hire a crew?”
“We don’t need a crew. Thanks for asking, but you wasted the trip up here.”
The two of them return to their car, and Rebecca comes out on the porch.
“Who was that?” she asks, watching them pull out.
“Just a couple of kids looking for work.”
“Did you hire them?”
“Why would I hire them?”
“Because we could use the help. There’s a ton of work to do.”
“Rebecca, we can’t afford to pay employees right now.”
“We can’t run this place without help. We’ll need someone to run those machines you showed me to bundle the trees, and someone to run the gift shop and someone to be cashier at the cash and carry pre-cut tree lot.
And who’s going to pour the hot cocoa? The two of us can’t be in twenty places at once. ”
“Well, we’re going to have to. You said you were up to this.” I can see I’ve pissed her off, so I yank the passenger door to the truck open for her. “You ready to go?”
She marches past me, vaults inside, and slams the door. When I slide behind the wheel, it’s obvious by her crossed arms and jutted chin that she isn’t speaking to me.
Rather than ask her, I Google Angel Ridge and pull up directions.
We ride in silence the ten miles to Fairfield.
There’s an archway over the driveway with a big sign for the place.
It looks professional, and the first thing I notice is that their gravel parking area is probably twice the size of ours.
There’s a big red barn with bright white trim; Angel Ridge painted in big letters above its doors.
I brake and put the truck in park, scanning the place. There are a couple of men standing near the barn, but the place doesn’t look open for business.
Opening my door, I glance at Rebecca. “You comin’?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t trust you to ask any of the important questions.”
I roll my eyes and climb out. When I do, one of the two men approaches.
He’s older, with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
He’s wearing a plaid flannel shirt and jeans.
It’s not until he gets closer that I realize there’s a patch on his chest with the company logo.
Angel Ridge Tree Farm. These are just a few of the professional touches we don’t have.
“Can I help you?”
I extend my hand. “Hi. I’m JJ Reardon. My grandfather owned Holly Jolly Tree Farm over in—”
“You Jim Anderson’s grandkid?”
“I am. You know him?”
“Sure did. I was sorry to hear of his passing. I’m Pete Blevins.”
“Good to meet you, Pete, and thank you. My grandfather is greatly missed. Look, the reason I—”
“We,” Rebecca corrects.
“Right. We. This is my sister-in-law, Rebecca Reardon.” They shake hands.
“The reason we came to see you is my grandfather left the place to us, and well, there’s a lot we don’t know about the business.
The attorney explained that the will requires we keep the place open for at least a year before we can sell it. ”
“You’re thinking of selling it?”
Rebecca and I both answer at the same time.
“Yes.”
“No.”
Pete’s eyes shift between us and he grins. “So, which is it?”
“It hasn’t been decided yet,” Rebecca replies.
“I see.” He folds his arms. “How can I help? What do you want to know?”
“Hell, I don’t even know what questions to ask,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck.
Rebecca seems to have a list prepared and starts spouting off intelligent questions, surprising me again.
Pete gives us a walk-around tour, and I can see Rebecca making mental notes of everything they do for customers. Just like she suggested for us, Angel Ridge has a gift shop and a concession stand, as well as a photo spot.
It’s an old sleigh, and I’m sure it makes for a great family shot.
Pete leads us to a small John Deere utility vehicle, and we ride out to their fields of trees. When we climb out, he points to the different sections.
“These will be ready for harvesting this year. Those over there should be ready next year, and so on down the slope.” He points in the other direction. “Our new growth is over here. We planted those seedlings this year.”
We spot two men walking the rows with what appear to be machetes, swinging them in rhythm along the outline of each tree.
“What are they doing?” Rebecca asks.
“Shaping the trees. Cutting off any long or stray branches and giving them that nice triangular shape everyone likes. You need to do that if you want to get top dollar for your trees. It’s an important part.”
He points out several other bits of information about raising a crop of trees, including insecticides and fertilizers.
“You’ll need a couple of good guys working for you.”
“JJ thinks we can do it all on our own,” Rebecca replies.
“Oh, man. You’re going to need help.”
“We’ll get by,” I say.
“It’s going to be a lot of work. Good luck to you.”
After almost an hour, we return to the truck and thank him for all his help.
When I get behind the wheel and crank the engine, I look over at Rebecca. “You were really getting into all that.”
“Didn’t you find it all fascinating? There’s so much to learn. He’s really got a great setup. I see why people drive to come here.”
“Yeah. He’s formidable competition. I think even if we open up, there are still going to be a bunch of townspeople making the drive here for their trees.”
“Well, like we discussed earlier, we need to make it more than just about bringing a tree home. It needs to be an experience and a family tradition. We need to give the people an experience they’ll want to come back for again and again.”
I pull onto the highway. “I see your point. Did you check out that Instagram spot or whatever you call it?”
“I did. A real sleigh. That’s going to be hard to beat.”
“We don’t need to beat it, just offer something equally as cool.” I hope what I have planned does the job, and I really hope Rebecca likes it.