“Oh, that’s nice,” Thomas snaps.
“Who’s the buyer?” I ask.
Thomas clears his throat and looks at May.
“Who?” I ask, looking at May.
“The Johnson family,” she says quietly but resolutely.”
Once again, my jaw drops.
“The Johnsons? The ones with the new Christmas tree plot across town that imports their trees from out of state? Those Johnsons?” I ask.
Thomas puts up his hands in surrender. “They’re offering cash on the barrel. You can’t be surprised they want the land. They’re expanding every year.”
“Yeah, the Johnsons are the reason why we’re losing business every year!” I exclaim.
May and Thomas exchange the look they give each other when I get riled up. They’ve been doing that look since I was four years old.
“The Johnsons and their selfie wall. The Johnsons and their gift shop full of candles made in China…” I mutter.
Thomas shrugs, “The Johnsons and their working needle-shaking machine, and netting machine…”
“We have those machines!” I push my rolling chair back from the desk.
May clears her throat. “Yeah, but half the time they don’t work properly.”
“That. Is. Exactly. My. Point. I need help!”
I’m done here.
Dad is opening the gate right now, and I should have had the pre-ordered trees netted and loaded onto the wagon already.
As I’m shoving my arms into my parka, May asks, “Where are you going?”
Blinking away my furious temper, I reply, “I’m going to work. You know, the same work everyone in this room grew up doing.I have trees to pull and hot cocoa to make and a wreath-making station to staff, without a staff. Oh, and then there’s the half-assed wagon rides for the kids since the sleigh doesn’t work, and I have to prep the horses. But thanks for offering to help. It’s great to see you guys.”
Furiously, I exit the office and let the old creaky door slam shut. The wreath falls off for the fourth time this morning, but I don’t care.
May and Thomas steer clear of me for the rest of the day, mainly staying warm in the craft shack with the wreath making and the hot cocoa. I appreciate the help with that, and feel guilty for being so angry. But then I remember they’ve been talking about selling the farm, and my mood grows pretty sour again.
The one bright spot is taking a break around noon to check on Mom. The twins are napping, thank goodness.
I find her puttering in the kitchen, with pots bubbling on the stove and something baking in the oven. She wears an apron around her too-thin waist and looks happy but tired.
“Hi, baby,” she says, smiling at me as she appears to be returning all the flour, sugar and spices from the counter back to the pantry.
“Mom, give me that,” I say, taking items out of her arms. “You don’t want to wear yourself out just because you’re having a good day.”
She jokes, “Your fault for leaving me unsupervised.”
“Go put your feet up and I’ll make you some tea,” I say.
“Can’t argue with that,” she says.
Moments later, I have her tea ready and find her in the living room, where she’s nestled in her comfy chair. I set the tea down on her side table and tuck a fuzzy blanket around her legs. “Where are your slippers? And your hat? Your head must be freezing,” I say. “I thought Thomas and May were helping you.”
She shrugs. “They were. After your little talk up at the office, Thomas helped me bake my blueberry pie, and May helped me with my e-reader. But then I sent them away to do some Christmas shopping with their old high school chums.”
