I hold down a stack of papers against the gust of air and glance up as those familiar high-shine boots step into the office. The old wooden door creaks on its hinges as it closes again. A pair of hands in supple leather gloves picks up the wreath and sets it back on its hook.
And then, Thomas Allman wants a hug.
I haven’t seen my brother since last Christmas, when he made a similar remark about the grooves in my forehead. And here he is, picking up right where we left off.
I stand up and brace myself. We Allman siblings have always been pretty blunt with each other, but it feels different when we haven’t spoken in a while. The jabs feel more mean-spirited.
Okay, I admit it. I’m holding a grudge. And I just can’t make my arms squeeze my brother back, no matter how nice it is to see him.
When Thomas releases me from the hug, I say with a wry smile, “Actually, I’m way more concerned about the age of these buildings than I am about time marching across my face.”
Thomas grins and tugs off his cashmere scarf. “You’re only 33,” he says. “If you start now, you can slow down this thing that’s happening along the sides of your chin…”
He gestures around the lower half of my face, and I swat him away.
I don’t want to end up where we ended last year on Christmas Day. And where was that? Oh, there I was, taking everything personally, calling Thomas shallow and insulting his career in the process. There was Thomas, storming out, leaving earlier than planned rather than fighting it out. And there was our sister May, the middle child, overwhelmed by her twin toddlers’ screaming, bursting into tears when I announced that neither of their opinions about the state of the farm mattered because they weren’t here to help.
I remember to breathe and control my temper. “Listen, I’d be a lot less worried if we had a fresh injection of help around the farm. That’s what we need,” I remind him.
“Oh,” Thomas says. “Well, can’t you hire someone just to get you through the season?”
It’s not that my brother is selfish or unhelpful, just out of touch.
“With Mom’s medical bills, we can’t afford extra workers right now.”
His reaction is unclear, except for the scrubbing of his hand through his premature salt-and-pepper hair.
“I can’t tell if these dire facts are actually registering with you. You must have gotten fresh fillers before coming by,” I say, tilting my head to examine his lack of crow’s feet around his 36-year-old eyes.
This earns me a glare. “Really?” Thomas says.
I shrug. “Sorry. I shouldn’t needle you like that.”
My brother shakes his head and laughs at my half-decent joke.
Thomas is handsome when he smiles. He has our dad’s angular features and striking eyes, and mom’s glorious, thick hair, now swept back from his face.
Our mom’s hair. Oof. Every time I think of it, my heart breaks a little more.
It’ll grow back. It will.
“Well, how bad is it? I can talk to my banker friend in New York about a low-interest loan, as a favor,” Thomas says.
I shake my head. “The last thing this farm needs is another loan payment.” I tried to explain that to him last Christmas, right after Mom’s diagnosis. That devolved into an argument about family obligations and quickly became toxic. “The local bank is already breathing down our necks. We have a balloon payment coming soon from the loan Dad took out when we added the horse stable for horses that pull the sleigh rides.”
Internally, I wince at the fact that the handmade sleigh has turned out to be a loss leader, given the overhead of caring for, feeding, and housing horses. Not to mention that the sleigh needs repairs, because though my dad is a great craftsman, he doesn’t know the first thing about welding or sleigh maintenance and is overwhelmed by the more critical parts of running a Christmas tree farm. And on top of that, we don’t always get enough snow here lately, an integral part of the “oh what fun” in sleighing.
“Why don’t you let me cover the medical bills. Would that help?”
It’s this kind of thing that keeps me from staying mad at Thomas. “Can you really afford that right now?” I ask, aware that he’s going through a divorce from his second wife.
Thomas makes good money, but most of his cash is tied up in lawyers and payroll.
“I can make it work,” he says.
“Dad’s not going to take money from you. Not now.”
“I thought I’d offer.”
