Page 11 of The Grump Who Stole Christmas
The only living creatures that relied on me right now were trees. And I liked it that way.
“She talks to herself like I talk to you guys,” I said, standing halfway up the ladder, talking to the tree I was currently pruning. “Little does she know you’re way better company. Not grumpy at all in the morning and you don’t even need coffee.”
The Kringle Christmas Tree Farm was twenty acres of nothing but trees at various stages of growth. There was a mix of Douglas fir and Scotch pine, Douglas fir being more popular and less likely to shed its needles after being cut down. But Scotch pine grew faster and was more drought resistant. However, the pines required regular pruning to create the Christmas tree effect, which was what I was doing now to this beauty.
Having just come on board in September, I hadn’t had a hand in the planting of a new crop, but I would for next season. The trees were a nice cash crop, but of course took several years to go from seedling to a full height of five to seven feet.
I couldn’t wait to be part of that cycle.
Eight years, one place, one focus. It sounded like heaven.
Assuming the family kept me on that long.
“Still, she was sort of pretty,” I said.
I couldn’t help but notice. The long, dark, curly hair had been a rat’s nest this morning, but last night, with all the snow stuck to it, it was almost like she’d sparkled.
High cheeks, pointy little chin. Full lips. She had the face of someone you didn’t forget, even if it did always seemed to be a little pinched. I hadn’t noticed her eyes, but both Chris and Ethan had really dark blue eyes. Would she share that family trait? I would have to get close enough to see and that seemed like a dangerous proposition.
“No, my best bet is to stay as far away as I can,” I told my pines as I ran the electric shears up and down the sides, making them more narrow at the top. “She’s a typical New York corporate executive. Probably says things like in the weeds when she’s never been in a patch of weeds in her life. Or creative solutioning. I’m not even sure solutioning is a word. Like there is legit debate about that.”
“It’s a word. Solution can be a verb, so solutioning is perfectly acceptable within the rules of the English language.”
“Shit,” I muttered, immediately recognizing the voice at the bottom of the ladder. I looked at the tree branches in front of me and scowled. “You could have warned me.”
“Are you seriously talking to the tree right now?” Kristen asked me.
“Are you seriously going to call someone out for talking out loud?”
She folded her arms over her chest. She was wearing a knit hat and a warm winter coat, but her hands were bare and her nose was bright red. It annoyed me that I thought she looked cute.
Slowly I climbed down the ladder until we were on equal footing, although I had about six inches of height on her.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked her.
“Uh, hello. It’s my family farm.”
“Uh, hello. It’s acres of trees you have had absolutely nothing to do with in the three months I’ve been here.”
If possible, she crossed her arms harder against her chest. “Yeah, well, I’m taking an interest now. In everything. Let’s start with my father.”
“What about him?”
“Does he seem like he’s…fully in charge of everything?”
This was a tough question. I liked Pops. I liked him a lot. He was a good man who had no fancy airs about him. When he’d interviewed me, I hadn’t pulled any punches and neither had he. I was here to work, get my head straight, and grow healthy damn trees, and that was it.
If he stayed out of my way, I would stay out of his.
Only now his daughter was here and she was trying to pull me into a space I didn’t want to go.
How did I say that without pissing her off?
“No comment.”
Her jaw dropped. “Oh, come on. I’m not a freaking reporter. I’m just asking for your general observations about the inn and my dad.”
“Inn’s half full.”
