Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Ginger
The walkie-talkie on the desk crackles with static, breaking my focus on the computer screen.
“Merry Christmas, Gingersnap,” my dad says in his gravelly voice, using his nickname for me. “Opening day starts in fifteen minutes.”
My phone hides somewhere deep in the pockets of my parka, which hangs on a hook by the office door, so I glance at the festive wall clock above the glowing fireplace. Almost 9 a.m.
Yikes.
My stomach jumps with excitement, but it’s not the usual feeling I get when we open the gates the day after Thanksgiving at the Allman Family Christmas Tree Farm.
This anticipation is mixed with dread. If the number of pre-ordered spruces and firs is proportionate to the crowd that shows up for the first-come, first-served trees, then this farm is sunk.
But maybe I’m wrong. The trees are looking healthier and fuller than ever, so that’s one plus.
Ideally, if things go well this season, we might be able to hire a handyman to help with the barn and stable repairs, giving us time to focus on Mom.
I smile, pick up the two-way radio, press the button, and speak into the mic. “I was just about to hike down to the gate.”
“I’ve got it,” Dad says. A familiar rumble comes through the static, telling me Dad’s already starting up his favorite four-wheeler. “I need a ride in the fresh air.”
Ron Allman’s version of “fresh air” usually involves barreling down the trail through his woods on the back of something fast and slightly dangerous. I prefer to walk the grounds on foot, able to hear myself think and not worrying about taking a hard corner too fast.
No judgment, though. Dad has worked hard his whole life and is an endlessly devoted dad and husband—even if my siblings don’t appreciate that. He deserves to let loose once in a while.
“Want me to go up to the house and get Mom ready for the day?” I ask.
“Nah,” he replies with a slight smile in his voice. That’s code for she got herself up, and today’s going to be one of the better days.
“That’s great. I’ll go check on her as soon as we have a lull,” I say.
“I should probably warn you before you head up to the house…” His words garble as the engine drowns him out.
“What? Dad?”
Dad shouts something I can’t quite understand, then signs off with something that sounds like, “You all need to work things out, okay?”
“Dad?” I try again, mashing the button, but he’s no longer responding. In fact, I can hear the engine buzzing past the office where I sit, zipping into the woods beyond the pre-cut tree area.
What in the world does that mean, I wonder. What am I supposed to work out, and with whom?
Whatever.
I go back to tallying the pre-orders we have on paper, and refreshing my email in hopes of adding more tree orders to the list.
As I stare at the screen, the office door whips open, and a cold wind hits me. The wreath on the door falls to the floor, reminding me I should really just hang it on the wall.
A booming voice not unlike my father’s says, “Are you making that scrunched-up face so I’ll give you a coupon for an injection at the spa?”
I hold down a stack of papers against the gust of air and glance up as those familiar high-shine boots step into the office. The old wooden door creaks on its hinges as it closes again. A pair of hands in supple leather gloves picks up the wreath and sets it back on its hook.
And then, Thomas Allman wants a hug.
I haven’t seen my brother since last Christmas, when he made a similar remark about the grooves in my forehead. And here he is, picking up right where we left off.
I stand up and brace myself. We Allman siblings have always been pretty blunt with each other, but it feels different when we haven’t spoken in a while. The jabs feel more mean-spirited.
Okay, I admit it. I’m holding a grudge. And I just can’t make my arms squeeze my brother back, no matter how nice it is to see him.
When Thomas releases me from the hug, I say with a wry smile, “Actually, I’m way more concerned about the age of these buildings than I am about time marching across my face.”
Thomas grins and tugs off his cashmere scarf. “You’re only 33,” he says. “If you start now, you can slow down this thing that’s happening along the sides of your chin…”
He gestures around the lower half of my face, and I swat him away.
I don’t want to end up where we ended last year on Christmas Day.
And where was that? Oh, there I was, taking everything personally, calling Thomas shallow and insulting his career in the process.
There was Thomas, storming out, leaving earlier than planned rather than fighting it out.
And there was our sister May, the middle child, overwhelmed by her twin toddlers’ screaming, bursting into tears when I announced that neither of their opinions about the state of the farm mattered because they weren’t here to help.
I remember to breathe and control my temper. “Listen, I’d be a lot less worried if we had a fresh injection of help around the farm. That’s what we need,” I remind him.
“Oh,” Thomas says. “Well, can’t you hire someone just to get you through the season?”
It’s not that my brother is selfish or unhelpful, just out of touch.
“With Mom’s medical bills, we can’t afford extra workers right now.”
His reaction is unclear, except for the scrubbing of his hand through his premature salt-and-pepper hair.
“I can’t tell if these dire facts are actually registering with you. You must have gotten fresh fillers before coming by,” I say, tilting my head to examine his lack of crow’s feet around his 36-year-old eyes.
This earns me a glare. “Really?” Thomas says.
I shrug. “Sorry. I shouldn’t needle you like that.”
My brother shakes his head and laughs at my half-decent joke.
Thomas is handsome when he smiles. He has our dad’s angular features and striking eyes, and mom’s glorious, thick hair, now swept back from his face.
Our mom’s hair. Oof. Every time I think of it, my heart breaks a little more.
It’ll grow back. It will.
“Well, how bad is it? I can talk to my banker friend in New York about a low-interest loan, as a favor,” Thomas says.
I shake my head. “The last thing this farm needs is another loan payment.” I tried to explain that to him last Christmas, right after Mom’s diagnosis.
That devolved into an argument about family obligations and quickly became toxic.
“The local bank is already breathing down our necks. We have a balloon payment coming soon from the loan Dad took out when we added the horse stable for horses that pull the sleigh rides.”
Internally, I wince at the fact that the handmade sleigh has turned out to be a loss leader, given the overhead of caring for, feeding, and housing horses.
Not to mention that the sleigh needs repairs, because though my dad is a great craftsman, he doesn’t know the first thing about welding or sleigh maintenance and is overwhelmed by the more critical parts of running a Christmas tree farm.
And on top of that, we don’t always get enough snow here lately, an integral part of the “oh what fun” in sleighing.
“Why don’t you let me cover the medical bills. Would that help?”
It’s this kind of thing that keeps me from staying mad at Thomas. “Can you really afford that right now?” I ask, aware that he’s going through a divorce from his second wife.
Thomas makes good money, but most of his cash is tied up in lawyers and payroll.
“I can make it work,” he says.
“Dad’s not going to take money from you. Not now.”
“I thought I’d offer.”
“It’s a sweet offer, but what I really need is manpower, Thomas.”
For the second time this morning, the Christmas wreath falls off the door as another visitor steps inside the office.
And my morning just keeps getting more complicated.
“I thought I’d find you here,” says the tall woman in designer boots not meant to withstand the snowy conditions on the farm.
I swear both of my siblings inherited everything from my mom—her hair, her height, her taste in clothes.
Me, I got everything from my dad. I’m short, stocky, and I can’t put together an elegant outfit to save my life.
“This is where I always am, May,” I say with a tight smile to my older sister, stuffing down the resentment that her combined outfit costs more than I paid on the interest on my student loans this year.
The 34-year-old brushes her long, dark hair away from her face. “So you love to remind me.”
I don’t miss that dig, and neither does Thomas, who glances from May to me.
“Where are the twins?” I ask.
“With Mom, up at the house.”
“Mom is pretty worn out these days,” I remind her.
May sighs. “It’s freezing outside, and she asked me to leave them with her while I came to see you.”
Okay. I’m being a jerk.
“Fine,” I say. “I’m willing to put old arguments aside for now, because I’m really grateful you two are here. We could use the help.”
Thomas and May exchange a look, and that’s when it hits me that there’s something they’re not telling me.
“You two are staying through Christmas, right?”
May clears her throat, and it’s obvious she’s trying to get Thomas to say something.
“Well…” Thomas starts.
May quickly grows impatient with Thomas. “Thomas and I want to talk to Dad about selling the farm and moving Mom closer to the hospital where she gets her treatments,” she says quickly.
My jaw drops, and I look at my brother. “You two have been talking about this?”
Thomas’s face is sheepish.
May continues, unburdened by whatever guilt Thomas is experiencing. “It’s very simple. We have an accessible condo picked out for Mom and Dad, and my realtor friend is holding it for us. I’ve put some money in escrow, and we’ll move forward as soon as Dad and Mom say yes.”
I think my insides have turned upside down. “I’m sorry. This is a lot of information to take all at once.”