Sugar And Spice. Shirley Jump

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СКАЧАТЬ He watched, mesmerized when the purple hat and scarf came off, then the jacket. Lean and trim. Just the right kinds of curves. His love was perfect, and she was standing right there in his father’s kitchen.

      “Absolutely. Big slice or little slice?”

      His love laughed again, a tinkling sound that sent shivers up Gus’s spine. “Oh, a big slice. If you’re going to eat pie and ice cream, you need a big piece to really enjoy it. I haven’t had pie in a long time. What kind is it?”

      “Berry. What should I call you?” Gus said, turning his back on her to cut the pie.

      “I’m sorry; my manners are atrocious. Amy Baran. Nice to meet you, Gus Moss. I didn’t know Mr. Moss had a son. I used to come out here every September with my dad to tag a tree. Then we’d come back around Thanksgiving to take the tree home. It was the highlight of my life back then. Dad would always give me ten dollars to spend in the Christmas shop. I felt so grown-up when I’d sit down to eat the gingerbread and cider. Then I really grew up, and we didn’t do it anymore. Your mother always took time with the kids. Where were you?”

      “Out in the fields I guess.” Amy Baran. This was the young woman Peggy and Ham Bledsoe talked about. The same Amy Baran who returned home to help her mother. His competitor. He turned around, his expression blank. “Nice to meet you, Amy Baran.” Gus extended his hand and she grasped it. It was no wishy-washy handshake either. She gave as good as she got.

      Gus ate his pie as he tried to figure out what this…spy was doing sitting in his kitchen. He decided his eyes were bigger than his stomach. Suddenly, the pie and ice cream lost their appeal. He set the dish down on the floor for Cyrus. Amy continued to eat. She appeared to be enjoying every mouthful.

      “So what did you want to see my father about?”

      “To buy some trees. A lot of trees. My mother told me she heard in town that your father is selling all his trees this year for $45 to thin out his fields. We’d be happy to buy about ten thousand. For buying that many we’d like a discount of maybe 5 percent. It’s for the Seniors. No one will be making money off this deal, and that includes me and my mother. My mother asked me to come home to help out and to map out a PR campaign to sell the trees. I have to admit it was all a good idea, but my mother didn’t think it through and made some major goofs. It was left to me to pick up the pieces. When do you think I can talk to your father? Or do you make the decisions? That was certainly good pie. I enjoyed it.”

      “The housekeeper made it. I’ll pass on the compliment. That would be a loss of $55 a tree to Moss Farms. I don’t know who started that rumor. Moss Farms is in business to make money, not give it away. What are you planning on selling them for? A hundred bucks a pop? That’s a lot of money, Miss Baran. So you would still make a 25 percent return on the investment if I sold to you at $80 a tree.”

      “Yes, it is a lot of money, but it’s for the Seniors’ Building. There’s no other place to get funding. As it is, the building was left to the Senior Citizens in a member’s will. Are you following me here?”

      “I’m on the same page. Only half the fields will be ready to harvest. The half you’re talking about is overgrown. They haven’t been fertilized or irrigated. There are a lot of dead trees in those fields. I don’t have enough help to get them in shape for this season. Ah, I see by your expression that you aren’t following me. Let me explain. My father let the farm go to wrack and ruin. I came home last week from California to help out. A lot of people his age don’t want to hear from their whippersnapper sons, who think they know more than they do. My father…my father felt the same way. Push came to shove and, Miss Baran, I exercised my option to take over the half of the farm left to me by my mother, that wonderful lady who was always so nice to you. My trees will be ready to cut Thanksgiving week. If my father sells to you, you are going to have a lot of disgruntled customers. As they stand now, I wouldn’t pay twenty bucks for one of them. Business is business, and time is money. I learned that at my father’s knee,” Gus snapped.

      Amy’s jaw dropped as she tried to absorb what Gus Moss was telling her. Her back stiffened. “Let me be sure I understand what you’ve just said. As far as you know the $45 per tree is a rumor. Moss Farms is divided into two parts. You own half, your father owns half. You are working your tree fields, and your father’s are nothing but garbage. You’re willing to sell your trees to me for $80 a tree which is a 20 percent discount to the Seniors. Did I get that all right?”

      “That’s about it. We’ll trim the base, clip the straggly branches, drill the hole in the trunk and net the trees. We’ll divide the lot into three categories—small, medium and large trees. You can sell them for whatever you want. We’ll even deliver them to your site. That’s all gratis. Labor is expensive. It’s the best I can do.”

      “Well, that isn’t good enough, Mr. Moss. This is for charity, for the Senior Citizens of our town. Your father is a senior citizen, and so is my mother. One day you and I will be seniors. Shame on you, Gus Moss. I wouldn’t do business with you if you paid me my weight in gold. Who do you think you are?”

      His love was angry. Well, he was angry too. “I’m an architect. I’m not a tree farmer. I came here to help my father and to protect my interest in this farm. I put my personal life on hold to come here to do this and to make it work. And it is working. My fields are ready to go.”

      “Helloooo, Mr. Moss. I did the same thing. I’m going to make it work, but for all the right reasons. Not to make money for myself and to protect my investment.”

      The purple hat was suddenly on her head, the muffler whipping past his nose as she wrapped it around her neck. “You…you…Scrooge. Shame on you, Gus Moss. I hope you enjoy your ill-gotten gains. Thanks for the pie.” The door slammed behind Amy. Cyrus let out a shrill bark and slammed against the back door as he tried to understand the young woman’s angry tone.

      Gus flopped down on the chair he’d been sitting on during Amy Baran’s tirade. Scrooge! Scrooge! She’d called him, Gus Moss, a scrooge.

      Chapter Eight

      The Rafters was a secluded restaurant perched high on a hill. In the fall and winter when the trees were bare, the nation’s capitol could be seen in the distance. It wasn’t necessarily the kind of eatery where one went to be seen—just the opposite, as it afforded privacy and small rooms where one could dine without worrying about people stopping by to say hello. It was rumored that more than one senator and congressmen had dalliances in the private rooms. The owners of the establishment, the ladies Harriet and Olivia Neeson, were quick to deny all such rumors.

      Sam Moss had called ahead for a reservation and was assured by Harriet, who had been a dear friend of his wife, Sara, that she would reserve the best table in the house.

      Sam and Tillie were halfway through the meal when Sam realized he was enjoying himself. He liked the witty, sharp-tongued Tillie Baran. He knew he was going to be sorely disappointed if this outing turned out to be solely about Christmas trees.

      It had been ages, years actually, since he’d dined out. He always felt like a fish out of water sitting down in a restaurant by himself. When Sara was alive, they ate out every Saturday and Sunday to give her a break from cooking. He’d liked the fact that they both got slicked up. Sara preferred to say they got dressed up. Before his date with Tillie he’d dithered about what to wear and had trouble deciding if he should get dressed up. Finally, he settled on one of his vintage sport jackets. He was glad now that he hadn’t gone the suit-and-tie route, because Tillie was dressed casually. She smelled so good he kept sniffing her over the delectable aromas emanating from the kitchen. Yes sireee, he was enjoying himself.

      Tillie СКАЧАТЬ