Page 13 of The Grump Who Stole Christmas
Pink. Bono. Mick Jagger. I’d been into female punk and classic rock.
Strange, I didn’t know that I could name a popular song on the radio today. When had that happened? When had I stopped listening to Pink?
“What’s not to like? Dad’s getting older. Sure, maybe he’s slowing down a bit. If the business slows down with him, maybe that’s a good thing.”
I shook my head. Ethan was a lawyer. He cared about things like right and wrong. Good and evil. Justice for all. There was no doubt he was going to be the mayor of Salt Springs one day.
But he was an idiot when it came to the business.
“Ethan, that inn is Dad’s retirement. There are no real savings. No 401K for him. If the business falls to shit before he retires and decides to sell it, then he’ll be left with nothing.”
“Is that true?”
“Oh my God! Ethan! How can you not know that?”
I rolled off the bed and started pacing in front of Pink.
“Because it’s not something we’ve talked about. Besides, Dad hasn’t even hinted that there’s a problem,” Ethan said, and I could hear the defensiveness in his voice.
“I’m not sure he would even know,” I said. “You know how it was when Mom was alive. She handled the bookings, the finances, and left him to the tree farm. I’m going to have to dig into the books. See where things stand really.”
“And you’ll have time to do that? You don’t have to work remotely while you’re home?”
“Uh, no. My assistant has things handled for now back at the office.”
That was technically true.
“Then good,” Ethan said. “This is good. I’ve been trying to keep up, Kris, I swear I have. But with all the shit I’ve got going on, it’s nice to know that I’ve got some backup.”
“We should call Matt again. Tell him to get his ass home.”
“I tried,” Ethan said sharply. “He said he would pay for the nurse. He’s lucky I didn’t fly out to Chicago to kick him in the teeth.”
“Not the teeth,” I reminded Ethan. “You know he’s already lost three.”
“Yeah, well, he can afford a few new ones,” Ethan muttered.
“Hey, so, off topic,” I said, biting my lip. “What do you know about the new tree farmer?”
“Tree farmer?”
“Paul Bunyan.”
My brother snorted. “You mean Paul McCleer? Manager of Kringle Christmas Tree Farm?”
“Yes,” I said, slightly annoyed with how long Ethan was taking to get up to speed. I had to remind myself Salt Springs, Colorado, was not Manhattan. Things ran at their own pace. Mostly glacially slow.
“What about him?”
What kind of question was that? Everything about him. What was his background? Where did he come from? Had anyone done a background check on him before hiring him?
Was he single?
Stop. I didn’t care about that last part. Paul Bunyan with his beard and flannel shirts and surly attitude was not my type.
Typical New York corporate executive.
Says things likein the weeds.
