Chapter 7
TRIPP
At dawn the next morning, Tripp left the milking barn and headed up the path to the house.
Most mornings he would be dragging by now, and ready for a second cup of coffee. But today it felt like his veins were filled with lightning.
He knew it was because he was eager to help out at Coach’s house, and a lot more eager than he should be to see Jillian.
But he was nervous too.
The only reason he hadn’t poked around the house already to see what needed fixing was that Coach didn’t want him doing it, so he worried that the older man still wouldn’t really approve.
And Jillian seemed to be letting her guard down, which only made him afraid he would mess things up all over again. The possibility was extra difficult for Tripp to avoid, since he still wasn’t entirely sure why she ever got so mad at him in the first place.
It was one thing for her to turn him down, but it was another to be so angry that she never spoke to him again.
It seemed to be his curse that no one would ever really take him seriously.
The farmhouse appeared at the top of the little hill, a light glowing comfortingly in the kitchen window. At least one of his parents was up now, and that knowledge brought him a little peace.
He came in the back way. It was too early for any shouting about it, but he left his boots in the mudroom without being prompted.
“Good morning,” Mom said from her favorite spot at the table as he walked in.
Dad sat beside her. They each had a steaming mug of coffee and the kind of twinkly eyed smiles that told Tripp that Dad had been entertaining Mom with something funny.
“Morning,” Tripp said.
“Coffee’s hot,” Dad told him. “Do you have time for a quick story?”
“I do, but I should probably shower first,” Tripp told him. “I’m heading over to Coach’s place in an hour.”
“Go on then,” Mom said. “We’ll be here when you’re done.”
He hurried upstairs, where he cleaned up and got dressed again. He felt a lot more like himself once he’d had a hot shower and pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a fresh flannel.
He’d toyed with the idea of wearing something nicer, but figured it would be too obvious that he was just trying to impress Jillian. Besides, he was hoping that he could actually get started on some work over there today.
He did indulge in his favorite blue and gray flannel, which Allie said brought out his eyes, whatever that meant.
As he jogged back down the stairs, his pulse quickened again.
“So Kris told him, Fine, you can be my new elf,” Dad was saying as Tripp came into the kitchen.
“And what did he say?” Mom asked, her eyes sparkling with laughter.
“He crammed his hat down on his head and said, No thank you,” Dad replied, giving the man a pinched voice, his hands flying as he pretended to cram a hat down on his head and march away.
Mom giggled like a schoolgirl.
“What was that?” Tripp asked as he came in.
“Well, it’s the story I wanted to tell you,” Dad said, chuckling. “But now you heard the ending.”
“What’s the beginning?” Tripp asked.
“One of the new flatlanders asked at the town meeting if he could play Santa this year,” Mom recounted.
That wouldn’t have gone down well. Kris Olafsson was the town’s mailman. But he had played Santa for generations of Sugarville Grove children. Suggesting a new Santa would practically be sacrilege around here.
Though of course the flatlanders, as locals called them, were all from out of town, most of them fleeing the cities for what they thought would be a simpler life. This poor man wouldn’t have known how sacred Sugarville Grove’s mailman Santa was to everyone.
“They told him no immediately,” Mom put in. “Of course.”
“But then he said, I guess there’s no room for anything new in this town,” Dad added, in a perfect imitation of a city man’s injured huff. “So Kris told him he could be his new elf. And the man just crammed his hat down on his head and left.”
“Maybe it’s not nice of us to laugh at him,” Mom said gently, shaking her head. “But he hardly sounds like the kind of person who would make a good Santa Claus.”
“You’re saying a good Santa should be willing to work his way up from a humble elf position?” Dad asked, which only made Mom laugh again.
Tripp smiled and headed over to grab himself a quick cup of coffee.
It was easy to see that his parents were still madly in love after so many years and so many kids and grandkids together. He was grateful for it, and at times a little envious too. Who was going to laugh at his silly stories when he was their age?
“You’re wearing your good shirt,” Mom noticed as he headed back to the table.
“Figured I’d better clean up a little,” he said, carrying the carafe over with him. “Anyone need a warmup?”
Both his parents accepted a bit more coffee. He poured it, then returned the carafe and came back with milk. The little ritual calmed his nerves a bit.
“So, the Johnsons are finally going to let you get your hands on the whole house?” Dad asked as Tripp took his seat.
“Jillian seems to think so,” Tripp said, pouring a splash of milk in his coffee. “Though it’s entirely possible that I’ll get over there and she won’t have them convinced.”
“I don’t see why not,” Mom said. “You care about them, and you won’t charge them.”
“It’s one thing to have a contractor come in and point out everything that needs fixing,” Dad said. “It’s another for someone who knows you to see how you’re living.”
They were all silent for a moment at that thought.
It was a sad idea that things might get to a point where you felt ashamed about your home.
But Coach and Mrs. Johnson didn’t have any kids who still lived in the area, so it made perfect sense that some of the maintenance would be a little too much for the older couple to keep up with.
When Tripp thought about all the things he did around his own parents’ house without even thinking about it, he could appreciate how quickly things might get out of hand if he wasn’t around.
“Bring over some blueberries,” Mom suggested. “Max got really nice ones in at the store, and I brought home too many.”
“Are you sure?” Tripp asked.
“Oh yes,” Mom said. “There’s nothing worse than wasting blueberries.”
Tripp was pretty sure that no berry would ever go to waste in this house. Dad would make a pie or Mom would rinse them and put them out in a bowl when grandkids started piling in after school.
But he appreciated the gesture. He’d made it a bit of a mission to keep the Johnson kitchen stocked anyway.
“That’s a great idea,” he said. “I know they’ll enjoy ‘em.”
“And you’ll say hello for us,” Dad added.
“Of course,” Tripp agreed.
They talked farm-talk for a few minutes more, with Tripp catching Mom up on the morning milking, and all of them reading over Charlotte’s weekly report on the ice cream shop.
Somehow, Tag’s new wife and her mom had turned the little shop from a money pit into a profitable and beloved town fixture.
Not only did they sell scoops and cones of Lawrence ice cream, along with Vermont’s famous creemees of course, but they had also made the family farm semi-famous itself in the surrounding area, and their shipped orders of dairy products were up as a result.
Though the Lawrence family would never be wildly wealthy, it was good to see the farm was solidly in the black these days.
By the time they were finished catching up, it was time for Tripp to head out.
Though the sun was up, he took his truck instead of walking over, figuring that if the Johnsons agreed, he might be going straight from their place to the hardware store in town for supplies.
He set off down Fox Hollow and in no time, he was turning into the Johnsons’ driveway, just before the covered bridge.
Pulling around back, he felt grateful once again that Coach had at least agreed to let him put down some gravel and take care of the back porch. Hopefully by the time the rhododendrons out front were popping in May, he’d have the rest of the house back in shape.
He parked his truck, grabbed the reusable shopping bag with a couple of pints of blueberries in it, and headed up the steps, tapping lightly on the back door when he arrived.
“Come on in,” Coach yelled out, as usual.
Tripp smiled, took a moment to wipe off his shoes, and headed in.
“Hey there,” Mrs. Johnson said brightly as he stepped into the warmth of the kitchen and hung his jacket on one of the hooks by the door. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Always,” he told her, meaning it.
Working outside gave him a terrific appetite. He’d eaten when he got up, but that was hours ago, and he would never say no to a second breakfast, especially when it was bacon and eggs.
She smiled at that and turned back to the eggs she was scrambling while her husband laid bacon out on a paper towel-lined plate.
Jillian was busy setting the big kitchen table, while Posey and her sister industriously smeared butter and jam on toast, the two of them smiling like they really enjoyed their task.
Jillian’s golden hair was down loose around her shoulders today, and it was all he could do not to stare.
“Mr. Lawrence,” Posey yelled out when she glanced up and saw it was him.
“Hey, Posey,” Tripp said, grinning. “Who’s your friend?”
“That’s my sister,” Posey said, laughing.
“I’m Marigold,” the slightly older girl said, her expression serious. “But everyone calls me Mari.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Mari,” he replied. “And when we’re not at school, you guys can call me Tripp.”
Posey giggled at that.
“It’s a family name,” he told her. “With two p’s. It’s not because I fall down all the time.”
She kept right on giggling.
“We’re named after flowers,” Mari reminded her sister, as if she didn’t believe him about his name either, but didn’t want to make him feel bad.
That made Tripp want to start laughing himself, but he restrained himself, knowing instinctively that Jillian might not like him encouraging her girls to be overly silly.
“What can I help with?” he asked Mrs. Johnson.