“Afraid so,” Murphy said. “Patrick McCaleb, meet my little sister, Kerry. She’s, uh, worked up because we’ve been waiting for this spot to open up. You know, because it’s where we always set up the trailer, in front of the tree stand.”
Patrick looked over at the tree stand, and then at the trailer. He slapped his forehead. “Oh, man. Sorry. Of course you guys always park here. My bad. I wish you’d said something earlier. I feel awful.”
“I didn’t realize this car was yours, or I would have,” Murphy said. “But, uh, would you mind? We need to park the trailer here so we can run the power line from the café.”
“Moving it right now,” Patrick said. “And, uh, I do apologize.” He held out his hand, gloved in fine leather, to Kerry, whose fingertips were stained orange from the Doritos.
“Yeah, I’m sorry too,” Kerry said, wiping her hands on the back of her jeans. “Guess I kind of lost it there. Nice to meet you, Patrick.”
“Likewise,” Patrick said. He got in the Mercedes, started the engine, and pulled into the street.
chapter 5
Murphy made a fire in a steel drum trash can, feeding it with Christmas tree trimmings and a stash of firewood he’d brought along in his own truck. Kerry stood in front of the fire, extending her hands to the warmth.
“Okay, I’m hitting the sack now,” her brother announced. He handed her his phone and the credit card square attached to it. “Anyone wants their tree delivered, take down the address and phone number. Got it?”
Queenie thumped her feathery tail and moved beside Murphy, who held out his hand, palm down. “Stay, girl. Stay with Kerry.”
“Wait. You know that guy?”
Murphy yawned. “Which guy?”
“Patrick. Mercedes Man.”
“Yeah. He’s all right. Lives in the neighborhood. Does something in an office.”
“I saw him with a boy earlier. Is that his son?”
“Yeah. Austin. Okay, I’m out. Wake me up at nine and I’ll take the night shift.”
Murphy clambered into the trailer and closed the door. The snoring commenced.
* * *
Business was slow. A skinny redheaded teen rolled up to the stand on his skateboard. He took his time examining the trees, standing each one up, walking around it, humming softly.
“What kinda trees are these?”
“Fraser firs,” Kerry said.
The skateboarder held up a three-foot tree with a yellow ribbon tied to a branch.
“How much is this one?”
Kerry pointed to the sign. “Sixty dollars.”
“For real? Dude, I can buy a fake one for half that.”
“Okay.” She went back to her book. “Go buy a fake tree. Dude.”
He thrust a crumpled twenty-dollar bill in her face. “Here.”
“No,” she said. “It’s sixty. Not forty, not twenty.”
“That’s crazy,” he countered. “I bet it’s not even organic.”
She sighed and looked up. “My family grows these trees on a farm in North Carolina. They plant the seedlings and baby them, then transplant them and fertilize and shear them. It takes seven years to grow a tree this size. It’s hard work. We had a late-season frost this past May. Lost a lot of trees, which means we lost a lot of money. My brother cut and baled these trees last week, and my brother drove them up here, but my father couldn’t come because he recently had a heart attack. If you want a certified organic fake tree made in an overseas sweatshop, go buy one. But in the meantime, you should definitely go away.”
“Wow. Harsh!” the kid said, pocketing his money. He kicked the tree he’d been examining and laughed when it fell to the pavement.
Queenie, who’d been lounging at Kerry’s feet, stood up and gave a low, menacing growl.
The kid scooted away on his skateboard.
“You’re definitely Murphy’s sister.”
She turned to see Patrick, the Mercedes Man, had walked up during her exchange with the redhead.
“Sorry. I haven’t had much sleep, and he was really getting under my skin.”
“Hey, is all that stuff you told him about growing Christmas trees really true?” Patrick turned his head and sneezed, then sneezed again.
“Absolutely,” Kerry told him. “I mean, it’s not like I spend a lot of time on the farm, but it’s definitely a labor of love for my dad and brother.”
“I’m sorry to hear about Jock,” Patrick said. His eyes, she noticed, were red and watering.
“The doctors say he’ll be fine. If my mother doesn’t kill him while she’s nursing him back to health. Speaking of which. Are you okay?”
He sniffled. “It’s not a cold, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m allergic to pollen. Especially conifer pollen.”
“Wow, guess you’re in the wrong place.”
He smiled and rubbed at his eyes. “Antihistamines usually help.” He looked around. “But this is a lot of trees.”
“A whole tractor-trailer load,” Kerry said. “Dad lost over a hundred good-sized trees when we had that hard freeze back in May.”
“You’d think Christmas trees could stand cold weather,” Patrick said, looking around at the mini forest surrounding them.
“Normally they can, but when it starts to warm up in the spring, the trees start sending out new growth, and then this hard, prolonged freeze hit, and the cold settled at the fields down at the lowest elevation of the farm. It looked like they’d all burnt up.”
“Fascinating,” he said.
“Really?” Kerry shrugged. “I’ve always thought it was sort of boring. We’re the largest Christmas-tree-growing county in the state of North Carolina, which is the second-largest grower in the country, behind Oregon.”
“I take it you’re not into farming?”
“No,” she said quickly.
“May I ask what you are into?” He had an old-world politeness that Kerry found touching, coming from a secret-agent rock-star type.
“I’m an art director for an ad agency,” she said. “Was an art director. Currently I’m what my dad calls self-unemployed.”
“So that’s why you’ve branched out into selling Christmas trees?” He chuckled at his own pun and Kerry couldn’t help but smile.
“I’m here because my mother guilt-tripped me into coming along to help Murphy. Mom and I used to come too, until she and Jock split up when I was seven. It takes a minimum of two people to run the stand, and someone had to drive Spammy up. And since my dad is recovering from heart surgery, that left me.”
“Your mom is taking care of your dad?” He raised one eyebrow. “How very civilized.”
“You’d have to know Birdie,” Kerry said.
“Can’t imagine my ex doing that for me,” Patrick said.
“How long have you been divorced? If you don’t mind my asking,” she added hastily.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Separated for a year, divorced for a year.”
“Sorry.”
“We’ve finally worked things out, I think. At least, as far as Austin is concerned.”
“Good for you,” Kerry said.
“Pat?” A woman appeared on the sidewalk a few yards away. She had a rolling suitcase in hand. “I’m taking off. I put Austin’s clothes in the dryer, but I can’t find his library book.”
“It’s already in his bookbag for tomorrow,” Patrick called back.
The woman was petite, with long, dark hair. “You’ll feed him dinner, right?”
“Have I ever not fed my son?” he said, sounding offended. “See you Thursday.”