Ginger468 likes to say, “You’re a teddy bear, Grak. And you deserve better.”
I don’t know if that’s true, but I do wish for something more.
I wish to be with her.
If she wished that in return, then perhaps it would be enough for me to leave.
Because, in wishing, there is real magic that could change anything.
Chapter Three
Ginger
The walkie-talkie on the desk crackles with static, breaking my focus on the computer screen.
“Merry Christmas, Gingersnap,” my dad says in his gravelly voice, using his nickname for me. “Opening day starts in fifteen minutes.”
My phone hides somewhere deep in the pockets of my parka, which hangs on a hook by the office door, so I glance at the festive wall clock above the glowing fireplace. Almost 9 a.m.
Yikes.
My stomach jumps with excitement, but it’s not the usual feeling I get when we open the gates the day after Thanksgiving at the Allman Family Christmas Tree Farm. This anticipation is mixed with dread. If the number of pre-ordered spruces and firs is proportionate to the crowd that shows up for the first-come, first-served trees, then this farm is sunk.
But maybe I’m wrong. The trees are looking healthier and fuller than ever, so that’s one plus.
Ideally, if things go well this season, we might be able to hire a handyman to help with the barn and stable repairs, giving us time to focus on Mom.
I smile, pick up the two-way radio, press the button, and speak into the mic. “I was just about to hike down to the gate.”
“I’ve got it,” Dad says. A familiar rumble comes through the static, telling me Dad’s already starting up his favorite four-wheeler. “I need a ride in the fresh air.”
Ron Allman’s version of “fresh air” usually involves barreling down the trail through his woods on the back of something fast and slightly dangerous. I prefer to walk the grounds on foot, able to hear myself think and not worrying about taking a hard corner too fast.
No judgment, though. Dad has worked hard his whole life and is an endlessly devoted dad and husband—even if my siblings don’t appreciate that. He deserves to let loose once in a while.
“Want me to go up to the house and get Mom ready for the day?” I ask.
“Nah,” he replies with a slight smile in his voice. That’s code for she got herself up, and today’s going to be one of the better days.
“That’s great. I’ll go check on her as soon as we have a lull,” I say.
“I should probably warn you before you head up to the house…” His words garble as the engine drowns him out.
“What? Dad?”
Dad shouts something I can’t quite understand, then signs off with something that sounds like, “You all need to work things out, okay?”
“Dad?” I try again, mashing the button, but he’s no longer responding. In fact, I can hear the engine buzzing past the office where I sit, zipping into the woods beyond the pre-cut tree area.
What in the world does that mean, I wonder. What am I supposed to work out, and with whom?
Whatever.
I go back to tallying the pre-orders we have on paper, and refreshing my email in hopes of adding more tree orders to the list.
As I stare at the screen, the office door whips open, and a cold wind hits me. The wreath on the door falls to the floor, reminding me I should really just hang it on the wall.
A booming voice not unlike my father’s says, “Are you making that scrunched-up face so I’ll give you a coupon for an injection at the spa?”
