Page 30 of The Grump Who Stole Christmas
I stood up then and towered over him. “Fine. You want plain speaking. If we don’t turn it around, you’ll only have two options. Sell or go bankrupt. And I can’t sell the place unless I can make it attractive to a buyer.”
My dad snorted and fidgeted in his chair. “Oh, and you think a few brownies are going to do that.”
“No. That’s the easiest task on my list. But it’s done, which means I can move on to the next.”
That’s when it happened. A wave of sadness washed over his face so deep and profound it made me catch my breath.
“I don’t do things like her. Like your mother,” he said softly. “She just had this way. Made it all seem so easy and simple. I thought it was a lot of fuss and I didn’t bother. Things…they started to change.”
I crouched down again so I was below eye level for him.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
He harumphed. “You wait until you have kids someday. And you have to tell them how you failed them. Failed their legacy.”
“Dad, you did not fail! Mom died. You were grieving and lost and…”
I stopped because the words I was going to say next were almost too hard to hear. But I had to say them. That’s why I did. I said the hard part out loud.
“And I didn’t come home to help,” I finished. “You needed me and I was oblivious to all of it.”
“You were in New York. Living your life. That’s all your mother and I wanted for you kids. To live your lives, fulfill your dreams.”
I smiled up at him. His sweet face, his gray beard, his round belly. If there was anyone who embodied the spirit of Santa it was this man. I stood again and patted him on the shoulder.
“Being right here. With you. This is living my life and fulfilling my dreams.”
He snorted. “You’re going to tell me the Kringle Inn is as exciting as running a big-deal insurance company in Manhattan.”
No, maybe not as exciting. But it was a heck of a lot more important.
“I need to go make a call,” I told him. “Then I want to check out the tree farm. At least that’s making a small profit. Maybe we can expand on it some.”
“Who are you calling?”
“Our new public relations manager. She’s going to fill this inn by Christmas. No matter what it takes.”
I’d read Jasmine’s proposal. She hadn’t needed all the time I gave her and I liked that. She wanted the job, which meant she’d be motivated.
“A PR person,” my dad moaned. “That’s worse than baked goods. What’s Ethan got to say about all of this?”
“Dad, Ethan is a lawyer and a politician. You want to save a business, you call a business person. I will let Ethan know exactly what I’m doing. Matt, too, if he even cares. But I’m not making decisions by committee. This is my show, I’m running it how I see fit, and you’re all going to accept that.”
“I don’t get a say in my own inn?” my dad snapped.
I’d forgotten how proud my father was. He didn’t come off that way. More the low-key, relaxed hippie he’d always been. But there was still steel in his spine. I needed to remember that.
“You’ll get a say. Because it is your inn. I’m just telling you we can’t have that many fingers in the pot. Let Ethan do his thing, Matt do his thing, and we’ll do ours. Together.”
His face changed again. This time when he looked at me there was only love and pride. He reached out to grab my hand and squeezed.
“Together,” he said softly. “I like the sound of that.”
Strangely, because I didn’t think I was the type to compromise very well, but when it came to my dad I liked the sound of it, too.
EIGHT
Kringle Christmas Tree Farm
