For A Father's Love

by JoAnn A. Grote

  “All right, Jason.”

  He started down the hall toward the public phones he’d noticed earlier. He was growing accustomed to hearing himself called Jason again. At work, everyone called him J. P., for Jason Peter. His father had given him the nickname years ago, saying with a grin that the initials were good for a man in finance, the same initials as J. P. Morgan and J. P. Getty. Only his grandparents and Mandy never called him J. P.

  Mandy. A shiver reverberated through him at the memory of his name on her lips this morning. He’d hungered to hear her whisper his name for so long, but in love, not shock.

  For the foreseeable future he was back in the mountains he loved, the mountains he’d forced himself to leave, doing the work he’d loved and left as well, watching and worrying over Gramps.

  And living on the same farm as Mandy and her Christmas barn. The same Mandy who’d lived in his dreams for eight years, preventing him from giving his heart to another woman— not that he hadn’t tried.

  The picture of Mandy holding Bonnie flashed through his mind, and pain tore sharply through him. Mandy wasn’t the same person after all. She was a mother. And that meant she was a wife.

  Nineteen hours ago he’d thought himself in control of his life. He was good at his profession. He’d learned to live without the mountains and Mandy and was used to the dull pain those losses left inside him.

  The toughest months of his life were just ahead. “I never needed Your help more, Lord,” he whispered, lifting the pay phone from its cradle.

  Four

  I was sure right about that phone call to Neal, Jason thought a few days later as he walked from the groves to the farmhouse. Neal’s anger and frustration had heated the phone lines but hadn’t changed Jason’s mind.

  He’d been too busy to worry about Neal while working the trees, but he’d need to make his daily check-in call before too long. Maybe he could work it in during the supper break.

  Half an hour wasn’t nearly enough time to eat and renew himself for another round of work that evening. Jason had thought his daily jog and workout kept him in shape, but only determination not to be shown up by the locals and migrant workers had kept him going through the long days of physical labor, cutting trees and loading them into the binder and then onto trucks.

  Mouthwatering odors met him when he entered the old kitchen. He sniffed appreciatively. Roast beef. “I’m home, Gram,” he called. “Supper sure smells good.”

  “She isn’t here.”

  “Mandy.” He whirled toward the dining room door. Mandy wore one of Gram’s old terry-cloth aprons over a white shirt and jeans. His insides tightened with the pain of knowing she was unattainable. He felt too tired to fight his attraction for her. The knowledge sharpened his voice. “Where’s Gram?”

  Mandy pushed her hands into the apron pockets. He saw her make fists, bunching the material. “Grandma Tillie is still at the hospital. She asked me to make you dinner.” She waved a hand toward an orange slow cooker on the wooden counter. “Roast beef, browned potatoes, and carrots. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Hungry like a bear, but you don’t need to look after me. I’m quite accustomed to taking care of myself. Gram forgets that sometimes.”

  “She doesn’t forget. She cares about you. She knows how long the days are working the trees and wants to make things easier for you.”

  He hated the hurt-animal look his attitude had put in her eyes. “Sorry. Guess I’ve lived so long by myself that I’ve forgotten what family is like.”

  She removed an ironstone platter from the white, wooden standing cupboard, then forked the roast and vegetables onto the platter. “The gravy should be ready about the time you finish washing up.”

  He looked down at his pine-tar-covered hands and grimaced. Leaving his heavy boots beside the door and hanging his jacket on a peg above them, he walked to the sink. While washing up, he watched Mandy stir gravy in a cast-iron skillet. She didn’t look much older than when they’d dated. She’d spent lots of time at the farm with him then. It seemed natural to see her here. “Will you join me for dinner, Mandy?”

  Her startled gaze darted to him.

  No wonder his suggestion surprised her, considering the way he’d snapped at her earlier. Before he could let himself change his mind he wheedled, “You’re the one who made the meal. You deserve the pleasure of eating it.”

  Her cheeks dimpled. “Assuming it is a pleasure. You haven’t tasted it yet.”

  He grinned. “I’ll take my chances.”

  She continued stirring the gravy while she bit her bottom lip and looked as if she were debating his invitation. It rankled him that she hesitated. He whipped a blue-checked towel from the wooden towel rack above the sink. “Look, don’t think you need to stay.”

  “I don’t. I was thinking about Grandma Tillie. I promised to pick her up.”

  “Gram won’t leave the hospital for hours yet, even though Gramps is out of ICU now.”

  “There’s the store too. I need to check on things before going to the hospital.”

  Was it his imagination, or did she sound panicky? Did she find his company so unpleasant she couldn’t share a few minutes with him over dinner? “I need to be back in the fields in twenty-five minutes. You wouldn’t have to endure my company long.” He threw the towel down on the counter.

  “I didn’t say—”

  “You didn’t have to.” He heaved a sigh and ran a hand over his face. “Look, you have every right to leave. You’ve done more than enough making the meal.” He forced a smile. “I plan to enjoy every bite.”

  “Jason. . .”

  He yanked out a chair. Its legs scraped across the black-and-white linoleum. “You’ve given more time than our family could expect already.”

  “I was glad to make supper.” She set the platter down on the table, followed by two plates.

  His heart skipped a beat, then raced on. She’d decided to join him.

  “I’m not talking only about the meal.” He tried to keep his voice casual. “You’ve spent a lot of time chauffeuring Gram back and forth to the hospital and visiting Gramps.”

  “They’re friends.” Mandy’s eyes flashed. She settled her fists on her too-round-for-fashion, apron-clad hips. “People might not help friends in New York, but here it’s still considered the proper thing to do.”

  Laughter rumbled in his chest. He leaned back, balancing the chair on its hind legs. “I haven’t seen you spit fire like that since I sneaked the black snake into English lit class.”

  “And scared poor Professor Potts out of her wits.”

  “It was just a little black snake. Couldn’t hurt her any.”

  “Especially since she was standing on her desk, screaming bloody murder.”

  He shrugged. “Class needed some excitement.”

  “English lit was an elective. If you didn’t like it, why did you take it?”

  “You were in the class.”

  Her eyes widened. She glanced away from him and sat down. As she bowed her head, he did the same and said a silent grace.

  When he looked back up, she was lifting her fork. “A snake, Jason. Honestly.” A smile teased at the edge of her full lips, then grew. “You were impossible back then.” Her voice dropped to a soft level that set his pulse racing.

  He shrugged and picked up his own fork, hoping she couldn’t see how much she’d affected him. “I wasn’t impossible. I was just a typical college boy who didn’t know whether a certain girl liked him and wasn’t very sophisticated in his attempts to get her attention.”

  “You were never typical.”

  Her grin turned his insides to Jell-O.

  “Besides,” she continued, her attention focused on cutting her meat, “you had nothing to worry about concerning that girl’s affections.”

  He rested his forearms on the table and stared at her. “If that’s true, why are you living in the mountains when I’m living in New York?”

  Her gaze jerked to his. He saw disbelief
and pain in her eyes.

  His question hadn’t been a question at all. He saw she recognized it for the accusation he’d meant it.

  “You know the answer to that.” Her voice held no hint of the defense he’d expected. “I—”

  “You’re right.” He lifted one palm to stop her. His voice rose in anger. “Forget it.” He didn’t truly want to hear again that she hadn’t loved him enough to marry him and leave the mountains.

  Mandy pushed her chair back and stood. “I need to get back to the store.”

  “Mandy, I’m sorry. I—”

  She hurried to the door, grabbed a brown corduroy coat from the peg beside his jacket, and left. The door slammed behind her.

  Jason sighed and rubbed his eyes with a thumb and index finger. “Don’t know how to handle women any better than I did when I was a college kid.”

  Loneliness twisted through him. He shoved away his stillfull plate.

  Five

  The brass bells over the Christmas shop door announced another customer. The spicy scent of autumn leaves wafted inside on the October wind, reminding Mandy of the world outside the shop’s constant holiday environment.

  I should have put the closed sign on the door after the last customer left, Mandy thought. She glanced at the ornately carved cuckoo clock on the wall above the counter. Almost seven o’clock. At this rate she’d never get to the hospital to see Grandpa Seth and pick up Grandma Tillie.

  Her gaze shifted to the man who’d entered. Jason. Her heart missed a beat. She hadn’t seen him since the roast beef meal two evenings earlier.

  She knew from Grandma Tillie that Jason divided his time between visits to the hospital, work in the Christmas tree groves, and phone calls to his New York office. Mandy had left hot meals in the slow cooker the last couple days, but she’d carefully stayed away from the house when she expected him there.

  Why was he here? He wore a cautious look. Likely he wondered what kind of welcome she’d give him after the other night. She wished he hadn’t brought up the subject of their breakup. Obviously he planned to live in New York permanently. Neither of their goals had changed. So why bring up a subject that could only open old wounds?

  Jason nodded a greeting, jammed his hands into the pockets of his stone-colored twill slacks, and began wandering around the shop.

  Smothering a sigh of relief, she turned her attention back to the middle-aged woman with the gray-streaked black hair seated in the wheelchair, and the burly, brown-bearded man standing beside her.

  A dozen Christmas cards with the look of hand-painted watercolors stretched across the counter. At one end lay a large painting of Seth and Tillie’s mountainside home in winter.

  “The cards are exquisite, Alma.” Mandy touched the deckled edge of one. “My customers will love them.”

  A grin wreathed Alma’s face. “I never thought I’d see my paintings outside my own home.” She glanced up at the large man beside her. “Or my boy’s home. I’d never have dared try sell them if not for you, Mandy.”

  “Thank your son.” Mandy smiled at the man. He smiled shyly back. “He’s the one who showed me your paintings. How could you keep such a talent secret?”

  “Not hard when you’re an invalid. People don’t expect much from invalids.” The words were said matter-of-factly, without self-pity.

  “People will know they’ve been wrong when they see your cards and paintings.”

  “That they will,” Tom Berry agreed.

  “Tom’s convinced other shops to carry my cards,” Alma said proudly, “but not around here. I want your store to be the only place to offer them in this area.”

  “I take samples along on my selling trips,” Tom explained. “Leaving next week on another. Last chance to get things into shops before Christmas. Most of the stores placed their orders six months ago.”

  “Tom?”

  Mandy jumped at the sound of Jason’s voice beside her.

  Jason reached out a hand. “Tom Berry? I didn’t recognize you until I heard your voice. Guess we’ve both changed a bit since we graduated from high school.”

  Tom shook Jason’s hand. “Good to see you, J. P.”

  Although Jason was a good-sized man and as tall as Tom, he looked slender and small beside him, Mandy thought.

  “How is your grandfather?” Alma asked.

  Jason filled them in, accepted their best wishes for his grandfather, then turned his attention to the greeting cards. “These are great. Your work, Tom?”

  “My work,” Alma corrected.

  Shock registered in Jason’s eyes. His glance fell to the hands lying useless in Alma’s lap. “I didn’t realize you painted.”

  Mandy wished she’d had a chance to tell Jason about Alma Berry’s talent. She knew he hadn’t meant to be rude.

  “I hold the brush in my mouth.” Alma’s voice was as stiff as her chair. “It takes awhile, but I get the work done.”

  “And beautifully.” Jason held one of the cards where the light could strike it better.

  “For an invalid?” There was a quiet challenge in her question.

  Jason met her gaze evenly. “For anyone. You have a true talent for catching the mountain’s beauty.”

  “Thank you.” Alma’s voice relaxed.

  His gaze slipped to the large painting. “My grandparents’ farm.”

  The woman laughed. “I’m glad you recognize it.”

  “It’s perfect.” He turned to Tom. “So if you’re not an artist, what do you do?”

  “I’m an artist of sorts—a potter. Didn’t take it up until after high school. Started out small, just doing local craft shows, but I’m doing pretty well at it now, thanks to this little lady.” He nodded his massive head in Mandy’s direction. “She managed a shop in Asheville. When she saw my work at a local craft show, she bought a few pieces for her shop. I never would have had the courage to try to sell to an upscale shop like that.”

  Mandy grinned at him. “I know talent when I see it, even if I can’t create masterpieces myself. Now his work is in demand throughout the surrounding states,” she told Jason.

  “Haven’t had the kind of success you’ve had, J. P.” Tom’s beard-surrounded grin showed he wasn’t jealous.

  Mandy thought Jason looked uncomfortable at Tom’s comment. Jason’s shoulders lifted his brown sweater in a shrug. “Everyone has their own definition of success.”

  Tom nodded. “Isn’t that the truth.”

  Mandy studied Jason’s face. Wasn’t he happy with the life he’d worked so hard to build in New York, making his father’s dream his own?

  The brass bells jangled as Beth and Bonnie burst into the room, followed by Ellen. The girls saw the Berrys and dashed over, throwing themselves against Tom’s trunklike legs. After he’d greeted them to their satisfaction, they turned to Alma, each standing on tiptoe to kiss the older woman’s cheek.

  They ignored Mandy and Jason. Mandy smiled. She knew the girls would greet her later. She was a fixture in their lives.

  Beth grabbed one of Tom’s arms with both hands. “Lift us up.”

  Bonnie grabbed the other arm. “Yes, lift us up.”

  “You two have grown so much, I might not be strong enough to lift you anymore.”

  Usually sober Beth giggled. “You’re strong enough.”

  “Yes,” Bonnie encouraged. “Lift us up.”

  “I’ll try. Beth first. Hang on tight.” He lifted his arm slowly. Beth swung from it, giggling so hard her face turned red. His own face showed the strain of her weight, but he lifted her until his arm reached shoulder height.

  Mandy chanced a glance at Jason’s face. Shock, then humor and admiration for Tom’s strength showed plainly.

  “Beth!” Ellen’s cry brought Mandy’s gaze to her. She’d forgotten Ellen hadn’t seen the girls and Tom pull this stunt.

  Ellen’s exclamation caught Tom’s attention too. He lowered Beth carefully to the floor.

  Ellen grabbed Beth’s shoulders. “That’s no way to b
ehave.”

  “But Tom always lifts us.”

  “That’s right.” Tom intervened.

  “It’s my turn.” Bonnie tugged at Tom’s hand.

  Tom glanced at Ellen and lifted thick brown eyebrows in question.

  Ellen grinned. “If you want to, go ahead, but don’t blame me for the veins bulging in your neck and forehead.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Fair enough. Ready, Bonnie?”

  Ellen watched Tom easily lift Bonnie, then turned to Mandy and asked whether the carpenter had shown up that day. He hadn’t. “I’m about ready to repair that chest myself,” Ellen said in disgust. “That’s the fourth time he’s promised to come and not shown.”

  “I’m pretty good at carpentry, Miss Ellen,” Tom offered. “I’d be glad to help you out.”

  “We couldn’t ask you to do that,” Mandy protested. “Especially at this time of year. You’re busy with your own work.”

  “I like doing something other than pottery. Relaxes me.”

  “Well, if you’re sure. . . ,” Ellen said, hesitating for his answer.

  “Then it’s settled.” Tom nodded at Ellen. “If you’ll show me what needs to be repaired, I’ll know what tools to bring.”

  She led him to the loft, the girls following at Tom’s heels.

  Mandy was relieved to see Jason start about the room again, examining the trees and other decorations. Alma began a conversation again, but Mandy had difficulty following it. Instead her mind followed Jason.

  Why had he come today? Did he have the same desire to talk with her that she had to talk with him? She’d heard a great deal about him through his grandparents over the last eight years, but she wanted to find out for herself if he was happy, if he’d found what he’d sought when he left her and the mountains for New York—whether it had been worth the cost of their love.

  He stopped briefly at a teddy bear tree, at another tree covered with Scandinavian woven-wheat and red wooden ornaments, and yet at another with delicate, handblown glass balls.

  He lingered longest at her favorite, a copy of the famous angel tree set up each year at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. The tree was covered with copies of eighteenth-century angels and cherubs. A large crèche stood beneath the tree. Shepherds, kings on camels, and animals spread out among the rocks and moss surrounding the crèche. She watched Jason run a finger lightly along an angel’s stiff, rose-colored gown.