Page 11 of If You Give a Grump a Christmas Tree Farm
The smell of pine and sun-warmed earth hits my nose, and I breathe it in.
Rebecca gets out of her car and mimics me. “God, can you smell that? It’s so fresh out here in the country.”
“The sign needs painting,” I grumble.
“Perfect time for us to come up with a new logo.” She grins, turning toward the cabin.
A black dog is lying up on the porch. It stands, tail wagging, and approaches.
It looks like a black lab, and I wonder if it belongs to the farmer across the road. I reach out and scratch its ears. There’s no collar or tag. “Hey, buddy.”
He rubs against me.
I catch Rebecca’s eyes on me, and her cocky smirk.
So I like dogs. Big deal.
“Go on. Git,” I say, taking a step toward the dog, and it runs off, trotting down the drive.
I scan the area. There’s an old tire swing hanging from a big oak to the side of the cabin, and flashes of my brother and me playing on it hit me.
Gravel crunches under my boots. “You want to check out the cabin first?”
“Sure.” Rebecca falls in behind me.
The porch steps creak and bend beneath my weight, and my eyes catch the two rocking chairs I know my grandparents sat in every night to watch the sunset.
I turn and scan the view they had down the gently sloping hill and across the road to the farm beyond. Cows low in the pasture, and beyond are the Blue Ridge Mountains in the distance.
It’s a beautiful view. I can imagine a developer would build some nice homes up here.Expensivehomes… with that fantastic view. The thought of all this being sold off is depressing, but I can’t see keeping the place.
Rebecca steps forward with the keys and unlocks the door.
I’m not sure what to expect when we step across the threshold, but it’s like stepping back in time. The place hasn’t changed a bit. Though I know most of the items have been packed up, a lot is still here.
My grandfather’s flannel fleece-lined jacket hangs on a hook by the door. I touch the sleeve, running my thumb over the worn, faded fabric, and I swear I can smell his pipe tobacco.
The polished wood floors shine in the afternoon sun.
There’s a living area to the right with a fireplace, a dining table straight ahead with ladder-back chairs, and beyond that a kitchen. To the left, my grandparents’ bedroom and a staircase to the loft where my brother and I had twin beds.
Rebecca wanders toward the kitchen, and I follow her.
My gram’s apron still hangs off a hook on the pantry door.
Rebecca opens a few cabinets, but everything is gone except some old dishes and cast-iron pans.
“Your mother cleaned it out after your gramps died,” she says quietly, and I nod.
“Guess so.”
“It’s just been sitting here all this time.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. I can feel them here. Their presence is everywhere.
I step to the bedroom door and peek inside. Their wrought-iron bed that sags in the middle is covered with the hand-sewn quilt my grandmother made. Two nightstands hold old-fashioned stained-glass lamps.
I remember my grandmother lying in bed, reading at night, and I turn away, heading to the front door. “You want to check the property?”
