Page 12 of The Grump Who Stole Christmas
She huffed. “I know that!”
“Then why did you come down here to ask me?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Look, Paul Bunyan, don’t think for a second I’m falling for the thick-headed tree farmer act. You’ve been here for a couple of months. You were here before my dad had his fall—”
“I was here the day he fell too.” I stopped her. “He was at the top of a ladder, trying to hang a damn wreath that was twice as heavy as he could manage, on the barn. He’s lucky he only broke a leg and not his skull. I was the one who called the ambulance.”
“Why do I feel like you’re making me think that’s my fault?”
“Because he needs more people around him to talk sense into him. That’s what children are supposed to do with their aging parents.”
“And you would know?”
Fair question.
“Not really,” I muttered. “My dad doesn’t listen to me either.”
“Yeah, well, join the club. I’m here now, okay? I just want to know how he is.”
“Lonely,” I said, before thinking about it. “He’s lonely. Misses his kids. All of them. I’m not here to judge you, lady. I’m just giving you mygeneral observation.”
She stared down at the ground, covered by the inches of snow that had fallen last night. “A broken leg doesn’t make you lonely.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I agreed. “Just makes it harder to get around. But it also gives you time to just sit. You start to notice things about your life. Take stock. What you have, what you want.”
She nodded, as if what I said made sense.
“What does your dad do? When he’s not listening to you?”
“He’s a farmer.” It wasn’t a lie. Technically, he was a farmer. “And he likes to marry women. One at a time, mind you. But the last one was younger than me. I disapproved. We fought about it. So here I am.”
“Here you are,” she repeated. “Well, thank you for helping my dad. I’ll leave you so you can go back to your conversation with the trees.”
“It’s good for them,” I replied without shame.
She turned her back to me and started to walk away, but stopped. “Oh, and Paul Bunyan,” she said, with her head turned over her shoulder, an evil grin lighting up her eyes, which I now knew were as blue as her dad’s. “I’m not atypical New Yorkanything.”
“Noted,” I said and lifted my hand in a brief wave. “See you around, Kris Kringle.”
“No one calls me that,” she shouted back.
Cool, I thought. Now I knew what to call her every time.
* * *
Kristen
“Ethan,did you know the inn is only half full? And why didn’t you tell me about Rhonda quitting?”
I could hear my brother sigh on the other end of the phone. He’d started the conversation with the fact that he’d just gotten back from a town hall meeting and he was exhausted.
Was I supposed to feel sorry for him? Take pity? Not get the answers to my questions immediately?
He knew me better.
“I did tell you about Rhonda leaving, not that you actually listen to anything I say. And yes, I’m aware that bookings are down, but that could be for any number of reasons. Not that you would have noticed from New York, but I’ve got a lot on my plate too, sis. I can’t do my job and know everything that is happening at the inn every moment of the day.”
“I don’t like it,” I said. I was lying in my old bed, in my old room, looking at the old posters I’d used to cover my walls.
