“Then get a hotel room,” she snapped. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“We can’t afford a hotel in the city. Just call me when you’re an hour out. And hurry up. We need to be ready to start selling trees first thing in the morning.”
He disconnected and Kerry scowled down at the phone. “Gonna be a fun few weeks, for sure.”
* * *
By the time she’d navigated the Lincoln Tunnel and emerged onto West Thirty-Eighth Street, Kerry’s hands were slippery with sweat and her pulse rate was sky high. If her GPS was correct, she was thirty minutes away from the corner in the West Village where Murphy had erected the tree stand.
She tapped his name on her call list and he picked up on the first ring. “Hey. You getting close?”
“According to my phone, I’m five miles away.” Her eyes burned with fatigue and her stomach roiled from the stress of the day.
“Well, I’ve got bad news. Some a-hole in a gray Mercedes parked in front of the stand. Pisses me off. Everybody in the neighborhood knows we park the trailer here this time of year. If it’s not moved, you’ll have to park down the block. I’ll put out some cones to try to block it off till you get here.”
“Okay. Whatever.” She wanted to ask Murphy why he hadn’t blocked off the spot in front of the tree stand before the rich a-hole parked there, but arguing with her brother was like howling into a hurricane. A waste of time.
As she got closer to Greenwich Village she held her breath and slowed her roll. She was terrified she’d sideswipe cars parked on both sides of the already narrow streets. As she passed street signs, old memories from those long-ago family trips to the city bubbled to the surface. Morton Street. She’d Rollerbladed down this block on a quiet Sunday, hanging on to a rope being towed behind Murphy on his bike. And yes, Christopher Street. There was a street vendor on this corner who sold roasted chestnuts, and wasn’t that the deli with the black-and-white cookies she’d never seen any place but New York?
The buzz of her phone yanked her back to reality.
“Look up ahead. I’m waving at you from the right side of the street.”
Sure enough, there was Murphy, who’d stepped off the curb at the next intersection and was waving both arms over his head.
At the same time she spotted the sign. TOLLIVER FAMILY CHRISTMAS TREES: FARM FRESH SINCE 1954, painted in Birdie’s neat hand-lettering. The tree stand was wrapped around the corner of Hudson and Twelfth, and the trees themselves were stacked upright against the rough-cut two-by-four fencing that Murphy had erected.
And just as he’d warned, a gleaming charcoal-gray Mercedes sedan was parked in front of the stand, squarely in the middle of two parking spaces and directly in front of Murphy’s pickup.
“A-hole,” Kerry muttered.
Her brother jogged over to where she was idling. “Slide over and I’ll get it parked across the street.” Murphy’s breath formed puffs in the cold night air. He pointed to a space on the cross street, several yards down, where he’d placed four traffic cones between two construction dumpsters.
“What? You don’t think a girl can park this trailer?” Kerry shot back. “Dad taught me how to back a trailer onto the boat ramp at the lake when I was fifteen. And I parked a horse trailer at shows all over the state for years.”
“Not on a street like this, with city traffic and cars parked on both sides of the street you didn’t,” Murphy said. “This ain’t about you being a girl. You’re not used to parking this trailer, and I am. Now shove over and let’s get this done, dammit.”
Instead, Kerry opened the door and jumped down onto the pavement. “Go ahead, Murphy. Mansplain to me how it’s done.”
The cold air hit her like a blast. When she’d dressed that morning, she’d dressed for North Carolina cold, with temperatures in the fifties. But this was New York City cold; temperatures were hovering in the high twenties. She was already regretting her windbreaker, jeans, and tennis shoes.
She ran across the street, dodging oncoming cars, and stood in front of the first dumpster. Murphy waited until the light changed, and while Kerry picked up the traffic cones to make room, he made a wide left turn onto the cross street, pulled the nose of the Ford in front of where she stood, and with no back and forth at all, nimbly slotted the truck and the trailer between the dumpsters.
Kerry stood, chagrined, with her mouth hanging open. Her brother got out of the truck cab and went around to the rear of the trailer, inspecting his parking job. She walked around and met him at the door to Spammy.
“Okay, you win,” she admitted. “That was amazing.”
Murphy grunted and opened the door of the trailer, ducking as he stepped inside with flashlight in hand. “Let’s hit the rack. Gonna be a busy day tomorrow.”
* * *
She watched as her brother pulled a sleeping bag from the cupboard beneath the kitchen dining booth. He lowered the pads from the benches on either side of the Formica-topped table so that they formed a mattress, then removed his jacket and balled it up to use as a pillow. Finally, he unlaced his boots, shoved them beneath the bunk, and stretched out, pulling the sleeping bag up until it reached his chin. He whistled, and Queenie joined him on the bunk.
“That’s it? You’re just gonna go to sleep?” Kerry stood looking down at Murphy. “It’s freezing cold in here. Where am I supposed to pee?”
He rolled on his side to face her but didn’t open his eyes. “We can’t hook up the electricity or the space heater until we move this thing over to the spot in front of the tree stand. There’s another sleeping bag and a couple extra blankets in the cupboard above your bunk. Me and Dad just use an old coffee can, but if you’re gonna be a priss-ass, go to Lombardi’s, the café across the street. You can use their bathroom, and if you’re hungry, ask Claudia for something to eat. Tell her you’re my sister. But go now because they close in thirty minutes.”
Murphy rolled over, turning his back to her. She’d been dismissed.
* * *
Kerry speed-walked to Lombardi’s. The café occupied the ground floor of a six-story brownstone. It was almost midnight, as Murphy had pointed out, and the place was nearly deserted. A server was washing glasses behind the bar that lined the right side of the room, and a curvy blonde stood at the hostess stand, rolling silver in linen napkins.
“Uh, hi,” Kerry started. “I’m Murphy Tolliver’s sister. I know it’s late, but he said you’d let me use your bathroom?”
The woman pointed toward the rear of the dining room. “On the left. Help yourself.”
The hostess was still at her post when Kerry emerged from the bathroom. “Thank you so much,” she told the woman. “Murphy said I should ask for Claudia?”