I'll Be Home for Christmas (22 page)

Sam Moss sat on the top of the newly repaired steps that led to the front porch. There was a time when the porch held pumpkins with lit candles, cornstalks, and a few scarecrows. So long ago. Now the porch was empty, just the way he was empty.

It was full dark now, an hour past supper. The only thing he'd eaten today was a frozen TV dinner at lunchtime that tasted like cardboard because the pot of stew he'd made wasn't done cooking. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see a line of headlights heading out of the fields. The drivers of the vehicles wouldn't see him sitting on the steps because the big blue spruce at the corner of the house blocked the view of the porch. Gus's workers, that's how he thought of them, wouldn't be gazing about anyway. They'd be in a hurry to get home to their families and a warm supper. Gus would be the last one to come down the road.

His son had been home six full days, and what the boy—which was how he thought of his son, the boy—had accomplished stunned him. In all of his sixty-four years he had never seen such single-minded determination to get the farm up and running. A river of guilt rushed through him at what he was allowing to go on. What
really
bothered him was the boy hadn't asked him for a penny. He knew from the talk in town that Gus was paying his workers more than a decent wage plus overtime. He'd never in his life paid overtime to an employee. Sara always said he was behind the times, a fuddy-duddy with tunnel vision. If she were here right now, sitting on the steps right next to him, she'd give him a poke on the arm and say, “See, Sam, I told you our son is the best of the best.” Like he didn't know that.

How he wished he was more like Sara, who was so outgoing and loved by everyone.
Was
outgoing.
Was
loved by everyone. Especially by Gus. That hurt, but he'd accepted that the boy liked his mother more than him. Because of that, without really meaning to, he'd been extra hard on him. In his own defense, he'd said things like, hard work never hurt anyone, hard work builds character. He'd truly believed that because of him, Gus was the man he was today. Until yesterday afternoon, when it started to rain and Gus had come in for a slicker. They'd eyeballed each other until Gus finally said, “Yeah, I know, Pop, working in freezing rain won't kill me, and it will build my character. Well guess what, if your next line is ‘I'm the man I am today because of you,' think again. I'm the man I am because of Mom. Not you. Never you.” Then he'd stomped out in the cold rain to continue working the fields, to correct what his father had let go to wrack and ruin.

“So, I'm a horse's patoot,” Sam Moss muttered as he got up to go into the house.

He'd cooked a pot of stew earlier in the day. It was the one thing he did well. It was simmering on the stove now, ready to be eaten. If he got into the kitchen in time, he could casually mention the stew and even set the table. Maybe they could talk. Maybe he could offer…

Sam removed the red plaid mackinaw and hung it on the hook by the back door. He was setting the table when Gus walked in. “Made some stew today. You're welcome to sit down and eat. Got some frozen bread warming in the oven,” he said gruffly.

“No, thanks. I'm too tired to eat. Maybe later. Since you seem to be talking to me today, one of my guys told me he heard in town that you're going to be selling trees for $45 each to clear the fields. I sure as hell hope you're talking about
your half
of the farm and not my half. I'll be selling mine at market value. You better get it in gear, Pop, or you're going to look like…”

“A horse's patoot?”

Gus reared back. “I was going to be a little more blunt and say a horse's ass. That's if the rumor is true. If it isn't true, I'll take back my opinion.” Without another word, Gus left the room.

Sam turned away to hide his grin. The boy had grit, he had to give him that. He ladled the fragrant stew in to his bowl and sat down to eat.

Sam's mind roamed as he ate. He now knew his son's habits at the end of the workday. He showered, slept for three hours, came downstairs to eat, did some paperwork and went back to bed. It was during Gus's three-hour nap that Sam went out to the fields to check the day's work. After his inspection, on the walk back to the house, he always felt like puffing out his chest. The boy had grit
and
promise. He frowned as he broke a piece of bread off the loaf on the table. He really hadn't expected the rumor he started to get back to Gus so quickly. He still couldn't believe he'd purposely started it. How stupid of him to think people would flock to buy the trees Gus cut down at a giveaway price. Gus's trees. He had to remember that.

Upstairs, Gus stood in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. Who the hell was that wild-looking guy with the six-day growth of beard staring back at him? His face was windburned and his eyes were bloodshot. The beard itched. He was so cold he thought he'd snap in two before he could get into the hot shower. Nothing, not even rousing sex, felt as good as the hot water running over his body. He let his shoulders droop as he turned this way and that in an effort to get warm. Stew. Hot stew. He couldn't remember when he smelled something half as good. Made by his father, who had issued an invitation. Maybe he was finally coming around. Or maybe his father thought he was going to fall on his face. Maybe he thought he didn't have the stamina to carry through on his plan.
Who the hell knew what the old man thinks.
Still, an invitation was an invitation. His mouth started to water at the thought of the savory stew and crusty bread.

Bone tired, Gus stepped out of the shower, dressed and headed downstairs. He was stunned to see a place set for him at the table. There was even a napkin. Salt, pepper and butter were in the middle of the table. He helped himself. He'd dined in five-star restaurants, eaten gourmet food, but nothing had ever tasted as good as what he was eating. He had two bowls of the delicious stew, drank a bottle of beer and ate half the loaf of bread. Beyond stuffed, Gus cleaned up, transferred the contents of the pot into a huge bowl and set it in the refrigerator. He wrapped the leftover bread in foil.

With no idea where his father was, Gus turned off the light and switched on the night-light over the stove before he headed upstairs where he turned on his laptop and proceeded to go shopping at L.L. Bean. He ordered thermal underwear, flannel shirts, foot warmers, hand warmers, several wool watch caps, and four pairs of boots. He ordered his own slicker, two shearling jackets, heavy corduroy trousers, and a dozen pairs of wool socks. He completed his order and hit the button for overnight delivery.

With the temperatures in the low forties, he wanted to be prepared.

His eyes drooping, his stomach full, Gus fell into bed. He slept soundly until the shrill of the alarm woke him at four o'clock. He groaned, rolled over, tussled with Cyrus for a few minutes, then climbed out of bed to get dressed. He sniffed. Was that coffee and bacon he smelled? He wondered if his father was making breakfast for himself. Or for him.
Nah, lightning doesn't strike twice. Yesterday had to be a fluke.
How could he possibly be hungry after all he'd eaten last night? Yet he was starved, his stomach rumbling.

Cyrus loped ahead of him and sprinted down the stairs. By the time Gus reached the kitchen, Cyrus was gobbling eggs and bacon from a bowl that used to belong to old Buster.

Gus blinked. The table was set. On his mother's place mats. A plate full of eggs, bacon, sausage and toast waited for him along with a huge mug of coffee. Next to his plate was a large thermos. “Looks good,” Gus said, sitting down. He bowed his head and said a prayer the way his mother taught him to do before he dived in. It did not go unnoticed by his father.

Sam Moss raised his head and looked directly at his son. “Can you use another set of hands out there?”

Gus stopped chewing long enough to stare at his father. “I can use all the help I can get to clear the white pine field. How are you at taking orders?”

“'Bout as good as you are, Augustus. I can learn.”

“We're clearing
my
half of the fields. If you want me to work on
your
half, you're going to have to ask me, Pop. That's how this has to work.”

“Let's work on your half first. Don't expect big things out of me, Augustus. I haven't done any manual labor for a long time. I'm out of shape. I'll work your half of the farm. I don't have a problem with that.”

“I hope not, because I'm going to work you the way you worked me.”

The old man stroked his beard with a gnarled hand. “Payback time, eh? I worked you as a kid until you dropped to try to make a man out of you. Now you're going to work this old man to prove…what?”

Gus stood up. “To prove to me you're good enough to be my father. We're running late. Time is money. Remember those words?”

“Yep.” Sam pulled his mackinaw from the hook. He followed Gus and Cyrus out the door.

“Who's cleaning up that mess in the kitchen?” Gus called over his shoulder.

“The new housekeeper who starts today. I even gave her a menu for tonight.”

Gus hunched into his jacket as he headed for the pickup truck. He was grinning from ear to ear in the darkness.

It was ten o'clock when Amy pushed her chair away from the table. Earlier, she'd kicked off her shoes, and now she contemplated her pedicure as she tried to make sense out of her resentful mother. She hated being hard-nosed, but she really didn't have many options under the circumstances. She eyed her mother now as she tried to think of something nice to say. The words eluded her.

“Are we done here, Amy?”

“For now, Mom. Do you at least understand what a problem you created? I don't know if I can pull this off. I just wish you had consulted me when you first came up with the idea. It's a wonderful idea and if it works it will benefit the Seniors.”
There, that was something nice. Now they wouldn't go to bed angry with each other.

“But you don't think it will, is that it? Say it, Amy. Say what you're thinking. Let's get it all out in the open before we go any further.”

“I don't think we should go there, Mom. Let's go to bed, sleep on it and tackle it again in the morning. I have some savings I can use. I still have most of Dad's insurance left. My business is doing well, so I can cut some corners. I'm going to call the people you ordered the trees from and see if I can cancel the order in the morning. I just want you to know this is a seat-of-the-pants operation as of this moment.”

“I have things to do tomorrow. My day planner is full,” Tillie snapped.

“Not anymore it isn't,” Amy snapped. “You're mine now, Mother. From now till December 26, you will be working right alongside me. I want your word. Your word, Mom.”

“But…I can't possibly…I have plans…commitments. I don't know you anymore, Amy Margaret Baran.”

Amy bit down on her lower lip to try to stem the words she was thinking about, but they spewed out of her mouth because they were long overdue. “Like I know you, Mom! You stopped being my mother when I was four years old. Housekeepers cooked for me, washed my clothes, fed me, put me to bed. I lost count of how many we had. God knows what would have happened to me if it wasn't for Dad. You were never here. You didn't even show up at my high school graduation. You never talked to my teachers. You showed up five hours late for my college graduation. I still can't believe you showed up for your husband's funeral. You were never here for Christmas. Dad and I always got the tree and decorated it. Oh, you posed in front of it, then off you went. Dad bought the presents. Dad wrapped the presents. Dad taught me to roller skate. Dad taught me to ride a bike, and he taught me how to drive. I've always wanted to know, Mom.
Where were you all that time?
”

“Not now, Amy. I'm very tired right now. Let's just both agree that I was a horrible mother and let it go at that.”

Amy did her best to blink away her tears. “At least we can finally agree on something.”

Amy gathered her books and ledgers and all the notes she'd made earlier together in a nice, neat pile. She set them on the counter out of the way. Her shoes in her hands, she made her way to the second floor, where she threw herself on the bed and had what she intended to be her last cry where her mother was concerned.

Down the hall and across the room, Tillie Baran sat down on the edge of the bed, her shoulders shaking, tears rolling down her cheeks. She should have told her. Why didn't she? Why didn't she defend herself against her daughter's onslaught of hateful words? Because she was guilty, that's why. Too little, too late. The best she could hope for now was a civil relationship with her daughter until this Christmas tree fiasco she'd created was over and done with.

Tillie could see her reflection in the mirror across the room. She looked haggard, and she looked every one of her sixty-four years. She was old, and she had no purpose in life except to do what she called good deeds. If the truth were known, she didn't even really do good deeds. She had ideas for good deeds that other people carried out with a lot of hard work, then she got the credit for those good deeds. She heard her name on the local radio and TV news, and it was always her picture in the paper, never the drones who brought her ideas to fruition. In a million years she never thought her daughter would bring her to task the way she had down in the kitchen just moments ago.

Tillie knew she had to make things right with her daughter, somehow, some way, without damaging her thoughts and memories of her father. How could she possibly tell her daughter that three years into her marriage she'd found out her husband was a philanderer, that he needed a string of women to make his life happy. A wife at home tending the fires was just for photo ops in his political life as a roving ambassador to different countries. With offices in the Pentagon and access to the White House, there had been no shortage of young women to entertain and Aaron Nathaniel Baran entertained them all.

How well she remembered a well-meaning friend telling her she thought she should
know
about her husband's outside social activities. She'd gone into shock, became depressed and had a full-blown nervous breakdown. Amy had been five when she finally crawled out of her misery and started a life of her own. A life that didn't include her husband and the little girl who adored him. So long ago, and yet it was just like it was yesterday. The pain was the same today as it was then, only magnified now with Amy's attitude.

Tillie Baran knew she had some serious soul-searching to do. She wondered if it was too late to redeem herself in her daughter's eyes. Respect was all she could hope for. Love was simply out of the question and with no other options available to her, she would have to accept whatever Amy was willing to give her.

As Tillie prepared for bed, a plan started to form in her mind. Tomorrow, if Amy cut her some slack, she'd go out to Moss Farms and try to sweet-talk Sam. If she had to, she would trade on her old friendship with Sara and Sam. Then again, maybe she wouldn't do that. That was the way the old Tillie would have done it. This new Tillie was going to have to be up front and businesslike.

Tillie stared at herself in the mirror as she removed her makeup.
Why do I need all this glop?
If Amy's dire predictions came to pass, she wouldn't be able to afford it anyway. She didn't think twice about sweeping her arm across the vanity. She watched as bottles, jars, and tubes slid into the wastebasket. She didn't feel anything one way or the other. Tomorrow morning she would wash her face and put on some moisturizer and that would be that.

Bedtime reading. No novels tonight. Tonight it would be her latest brokerage statement and how she could make things right for Amy, for the Seniors and possibly herself. She shivered with guilt and humiliation when she recalled her daughter's tone and the expression on her face. That had to be right up there with the moment when she'd confronted her husband about his infidelities and his
so what
attitude.

It was almost midnight when Tillie slid the brokerage statement into the current folder. Obviously, she was going to have to sell the house, which was nothing more than a status symbol anyway. She'd get a townhouse somewhere and maybe she could get a job as a tour guide. She'd be good at that, she thought. She'd start clean, with no debts. A ripple of fear skittered around in her stomach at the mere thought. She said a small prayer then, asking God to give her the strength to follow through on her plans.

Tillie tossed and turned all night long. In the end she finally gave up, showered, smeared on some moisturizer and dressed in clothes she dug out of a trunk and smelled like mothballs. Old clothes, the kind she used to wear before she became a social gad-about. Corduroy trousers, wool socks, a heavy sweater, and a pair of ankle-high boots she had to clean before she could put them on. She couldn't remember why she'd saved all these clothes. Maybe she knew one day she would need them. “I guess this is the day,” she muttered to herself as she made her way downstairs to the kitchen where she would have made coffee if she had any. But since she didn't, she reached for her daughter's heavy jacket and left the house.

Tillie couldn't remember the last time she'd been out and about at four-thirty in the morning.

What would Sam Moss say when he opened the door to see her standing there? Well, she'd find out soon enough.

She stopped at the first fast-food establishment she came to, a Wendy's, and ordered two coffees to go. As Tillie sipped at the hot brew, she thought about the last time she'd gone to see Sam Moss and how it had turned out. Maybe Sam would be in a better mood.



Ten minutes away, Sam Moss was explaining to his son Gus that he would join him as soon as he picked up the new blades for the chain saw. “Henry doesn't open his shop till five o'clock. He told me he has two used saws. I want to take a look at them, and if he gives me a guarantee, I'll take them. I'll meet you in the Fraser fir field.”

Gus waved, and a minute later was gone.

Sam sat down at the kitchen table, a second cup of coffee in front of him. He could see the clock on the wall across from the table. He was finishing the last of his coffee when he heard a knock on the kitchen door. He opened the door and then took a step backward. “Kind of early to be visiting, isn't it, Tillie?”

“Yes, it is early to be visiting. I was thinking about that on the drive out here. I wasn't sure…what I mean is, you all but ran me off the last time I was out here. I need to talk to you, Sam. Actually, the truth is, I need your help. I thought I could trade on our old friendship. It's cold out here, can I come in?”

Sam wiggled his nose. “You smell like mothballs, Tillie. Of course you can come in. Would you like some coffee?”

Tillie was glad she had left the coffee from Wendy's in the car.

“Yes, that would be nice. The smell…well, that's part of my problem. Do you think you can ignore it?”

Sam turned away, his mind racing. This visit couldn't be a good thing. He poured coffee into a mug and set it down in front of his old friend. That wasn't quite true; Tillie had been his wife's friend more than his. She'd always been nice to him, though. Sara had loved going to the Senior Citizen meetings and helped plan the social calendar with Tillie. He sat down across from her. He should apologize to her for running her off his property the last time she'd been out here to the farm. There was something different about her today, and it wasn't just the mothball smell.

“I've managed to get myself into some trouble, Sam. I know if I tell you, you won't go spreading my business all over town. That was one of the things I always liked about you—you didn't gossip like the rest of us. I'm here for advice and if you can see your way clear to helping me, that will be fine, but if not, I'll settle for the advice. Will you hear me out?”

Sam poured himself some more coffee before he settled down to listen. When Tillie finally wound down it was five-thirty. “All these years, and you never told your daughter about her father? Why, Tillie?”

Tillie shrugged. “She loved him, Sam. When I had my nervous breakdown, I abandoned her. He was all she had. He might have been a lousy husband but he was a good father to Amy. I screwed up. Everything she said about me is true. I don't know how to undo all those years. For now, I can do everything she wants me to do, but what about afterward? I'm going to cancel the tree order, pay for my mistake, sell my house and get something smaller. I don't need that big house. I should be okay if I get a job. I need some of your trees, Sam. I need you to sell them to me at cost. It's the only way I can make this work. It's not for me, Sam, it's for the Seniors.” Tillie's eyes filled with tears. She swiped them away with the back of her hand. “The young can be so cruel, Sam. What Amy said was all true, it was how she said it that burned to the quick. By the way, how is that son of yours who lives in California? Sara was so proud of him. Did you two make peace?”

It was Sam's turn to open up. When he finished, Tillie stared at him wide-eyed. “Oh, Sam, how wonderful for you. He came back to help you. That means he's forgiven you. That's what it means, isn't it?”

“Your girl came to help you. Do you think she's forgiven you?”

Tillie shook her head. “No. She's doing what she thinks a daughter should do. I guess your son is doing the same thing. How did we get to this place in time, Sam? We should be taking cruises, buying little treasures in gift stores, going to afternoon matinees, going to friends for dinner.” A lone tear rolled down her cheek. “We let it happen, Sam. We can't blame anyone else but ourselves. It's almost light out. I have to get back to the house. Will you think about what I asked and get back to me? I don't have a cell phone any longer. Amy took it away and ran it under the water because she said it was growing out of my ear. Call me at home even if the answer is no.”

Sam nodded, stood up, then stunned himself by saying, “Would you like to go out to dinner this evening?”

Tillie jammed a fur-lined hat on her head. “Sure, Sam. I'd like that. Is it a date?”

Sam had to think about the question. A date was where you got dressed up, rang the lady's doorbell. “Yep,” he said. “Just don't wear those clothes.”

“Okay,” Tillie said as she opened the kitchen door. “It might be better if I met you wherever it is you want to go for dinner. Amy doesn't need to know all my business.”

Sam nodded, understanding perfectly. “Do you like the Rafters?”

“I do. I'll meet you there at seven. Or is that too late?”

“No, that will work for me, Tillie. I'll have some answers for you tonight.”

Tillie didn't know why she did what she did at that moment. She stood on her toes and kissed Sam's cheek. Later she thought it was because she was just so relieved to have finally told someone her problems, someone who had actually listened. “I'll see you this evening. Have a nice day, Sam.”

Have a nice day, Sam
. She'd kissed his cheek. He could still smell her mothballs. Sam Moss laughed then, a belly laugh that was so deep the floor under his feet rumbled.