Ouch.
“I talked to him.”
“And?”
“And he showed me pictures of other farms he’s saved. Gave me the whole sales pitch.”
“Did you believe him?”
Wes opened his mouth to say no, to say of course not, to say bankers lie for a living. But the words stuck.
Because Jake hadn’t seemed like he was lying.
He’d seemed—what? Genuine? Confident? Like maybe he actually gave a shit about a struggling Christmas tree farm in the middle of nowhere, Georgia?
Stop it.
“I don’t know,” Wes said finally.
Henry picked up his spoon again. “Then maybe you should find out.”
“How?”
“Talk to him. Actually talk. Not just stand there being pissed off at the world.”
“I’m not?—”
“Yes, you are.” Henry pointed the spoon at him. “You’ve been pissed off since February, and I get it. I do. But this farm’s been in our family for three generations, Wes. If there’s a chance to save it, you owe it to your grandfather—hell, you owe it to yourself—to at least listen.”
Wes looked away, jaw tight.
Henry was right. Wes hated being wrong. He hated it even more when his father could see right through him.
“Fine,” he muttered.
“Good.” Henry went back to his soup. “This guy got a name?”
“Jake. Jake Marley.”
Henry’s eyebrows lifted. A slow smile spread across his face. “Like the ghost?”
“What?”
“Marley. FromA Christmas Carol. Jacob Marley. The ghost.” Henry chuckled hoarsely.
Wes blinked. He knew the story—everyone did, especially at Christmas. But connecting names had never been his strong suit. Reading neither. School had been a struggle.
“Guess I didn’t make the connection,” he said.
“Well, think about it. Maybe it’s a sign.”
“A sign of what?”
Henry smiled, the crooked one that still worked after the stroke. “Maybe he’s here to show you something you’re not seeing.”
“Like what?”
“Like…the future.”
