Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Ginger
Dad and Grak finish up in the woodshed, then Dad asks me to handle the customers while he gives Grak a tour of the farm.
“Grak, don’t overextend yourself,” I say. “You’ve already fixed up the cabin. You don’t have to prove yourself.”
“I will do whatever Ron needs done. There is much work to do.” Before I let them go, Grak leans in and gives me a chaste kiss on the top of my head. I blush when Dad notices this, and his mustache twitches.
“Don’t be too long. Remember, Mom has her treatment today.”
“Thomas is taking her,” Dad says. “Mom insisted I take a break today. I told her I didn’t need a break from that, but you know how she gets.”
Dad looks happy, like he’s made a new friend with an orc. My orc.
I watch the pair of them head to the stables, and I wonder what my life has become.
I spend a couple of hours waiting on customers before Dad and Grak return, while secretly steaming that May and Thomas have mainly contributed to indoor work, while leaving the outdoor, dirty work to me, Dad, and Grak.
Just as well they haven’t run into the orc yet.
That’s going to take a hell of a lot of explaining.
And, as the baby of the family, my brother and sister won’t listen to any explanation from me.
How would that go, anyway? “Hey, bro. Hey sis. This is Grak. He’s an orc.
And by the way, orcs are real. Deal with it. ”
I can’t even fathom how to broach the subject with Mom.
When Dad and his new best friend take over for me, I go into the craft shack, an eight-by-eight white clapboard hut that I helped Dad build when I was 12 years old.
Much to my surprise, there’s not just one type of hot chocolate ready, but also peppermint, hazelnut, and an array of different-colored mini marshmallows, whipped cream, and sprinkles.
My heart warms knowing that someone helped get this ready.
When I move past the refreshment area into the craft room, I find all the wreath-making materials laid out perfectly.
Floral tape, scissors, wire cutters, and fresh green cuttings that came from the tree trimmings.
Not only that, but also bows, holly berries, and small silk floral picks for guests to add to their wreaths.
I feel bad about the way I spoke to Thomas and May yesterday, so I call May and thank her for what she did at the craft shack.
She is confused.
“I didn’t do anything with the wreaths or the hot chocolate.”
“Well, it couldn’t have been Thomas,” I say.
“No, Thomas and I have been with Mom at her treatment all morning. In fact, we’re pulling up to a drive-through for lunch. Do you want anything? A burger? Chocolate shake?”
I’m stunned. “If you’ve been with Thomas and Mom all morning, then who did all this?”
May replies, “Mom said that Dad told her all about your visitor. Maybe ask him.”
I hang up the phone, more confused than ever.
Outside, I find Dad at the checkout kiosk, ringing up a long line of happy customers.
Grak, meanwhile, is single-handedly processing the fresh-cut trees.
I watch in awe as he trims the bottom branches, uses the chainsaw to level the trunks, and puts the trees, one by one, into the freshly repaired machine that shakes off the needles.
After that, they go through the netting machine—also somehow working now—and then Grak ties each one to the corresponding customer’s car roof racks.
Three employees could not do what Grak is doing, not at the speed at which he’s doing it.
I jump in to help.
As for the customers, they don’t seem the least bit fazed by Grak’s appearance.
While I’m helping him secure a huge tree onto a truck trailer, a family of four walks up.
“We love your Christmas Shrek!” exclaims the mom. “What a cute idea!”
Shrek?
I cover my mouth and stifle a laugh. They think Grak is dressed as a cartoon ogre.
“Can we take a picture with you?” the mom asks him.
She hands me her phone, and I snap the photo, with Grak standing behind the mom, dad, and two kids, all wearing matching ugly sweaters.
“Thank you so much. We always come to your place to get our tree and kick off the season as a family. It’s our yearly tradition,” the mom says.
“You all have knocked it out of the park this year,” adds the dad.
“Yeah, the sleigh ride was awesome!” says the little boy.
“I liked the jingle bells,” says the youngest, a girl about six.
Sleigh? No way that Grak got the sleigh up and running. There’s no way he could have done half of the things that I’m noticing now. Not in the time I left him alone.
“Don’t go yet,” Grak says to the family. “Give me the piece that I cut for you from the tree.”
A little confused, the dad hands him the small wooden slice from the trunk.
Grak smiles. “Wait here, please.”
“Grak? Where are you going?”
“His name is Grak? That’s so funny!” the mom says. “Well, I suppose you can’t call him Shrek because of trademark issues, right?”
“Uh, no. That’s his name. His real name.”
She tilts her head, confused, and I change the subject. We make small talk until Grak returns, holding the cut piece in his hand, having transformed it into an ornament.
“Here you go. This is yours to keep,” he says, handing it to the mom.
She covers her mouth and gasps. “Oh my goodness. John, look!”
Everyone nearby crowds around and looks at the wooden ornament, which has been burned with a woodburning tool to include the date, the family’s last name, and holly accents.
“This is very nice,” the dad says.
“Treat it with polyurethane when you get home,” Grak says.
The dad nods, and the mom snaps a picture. “I’m recommending this to all my followers,” she says.
After they’ve gone, I turn to Grak. “You need a break.”
“There are still many things to do.”
“I told you. You don’t have to prove yourself. You’ve done more than enough.”
“I have more to do. You are not convinced yet.”
“Did you do the setup in the craft shack? That’s enough for me to jump your bones right now,” I say.
Grak gets a gleam in his eye that triggers heat in all the right places.
“I would love to take the credit,” he says. “But I did nothing to the craft shack, except fix the broken hinge on the door.”
Looking at all that bare green skin is making me cold, so I convince him to come with me to get some hot chocolate.
“But I can endure,” he starts.
“Zip it, show-off. The farm closes for an hour at lunchtime, anyway. We humans do not endure.”
I take him by the hand and lead him past the barn to the little white shack. Once inside, I show him the hot chocolate setup.
I pour a cup for myself and one for Grak, topping his with extra marshmallows.
He takes the cup from me and smiles when he catches the chocolatey, sugary aroma.
“You’re telling me you didn’t do this?”
“I did not. I don’t know how to make hot chocolate without rum. Or Irish cream. Or whiskey, or…”
“Okay, I get it,” I say, laughing. “But you fixed all that equipment out there?”
“I did,” he says, tasting the hot chocolate. “This is sweet and hot and delicious, but not as good as beer.”
“And you repaired our sleigh?” I ask. I blow the steam off the surface of the cup and notice the way Grak stares at my lips. Heat curls in my belly, and the urge to climb him like a tree is getting tough to resist.
Grak nods. “Kind of. I used parts of your sleigh to repair the one I stole from Santa. I believe Ron called it a Frankenstein job.”
I laugh. “That sounds like Dad. He likes you.”
“I’m glad. I hope I prove to be a worthy son-in-law.”
I roll up on the balls of my feet. “Don’t tell me that my dad has to approve before we’re officially married for good.”
“He does not, but I crave his approval nonetheless.”
I lean into him. “You don’t have to do any of this. But I appreciate you.”
“I like doing things for people who appreciate me,” he says. “I should get to work on fixing the horse stables. There’s a leak in the roof…what are you doing, Ginger?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m trying to kiss you.”