The Forever Christmas Tree

by Sandra Hill

  Originally, her mother had made them to give to the church to sell at its summer bazaar, with a duplicate set for her own family. She probably could have sold them in one of the local stores, but she’d lost interest in making any more. The illness had already set in.

  And then there were the special ones. The ones Ethan had given her, knowing how much she loved Christmas and tree decorations with a provenance. She wouldn’t have put these particular ornaments on the tree, but Geek had already opened the box, and she hadn’t wanted to call attention to her distress.

  She smiled at the cardboard heart cut out of a valentine. It was signed in pencil by Ethan, except it was spelled ƎTHAN. They’d been in first grade at the time. In return, she’d given him five Necco candy conversation hearts from her lunchbox that her mother had packed for her that morning. Ethan told her years later that he’d eaten four and saved the one that said XOXO.

  The starfish was purchased for her by Ethan on a tenth-grade field trip to Myrtle Beach. He’d bought it for her in a shell shop, along with a bead bracelet. Somewhere in the attic, if it hadn’t been thrown away, was one of those hokey, boardwalk photobooth, period costume pictures of Ethan dressed as a riverboat gambler with a mustache and her as a dance hall girl.

  A meticulously hand-carved blue spruce tree, about three inches tall, had been made by Ethan in the high school wood shop the Christmas following his fifteenth birthday, a simulation of the blue spruce tree the two of them had planted out on the family’s local tree farm. His father, who had been experimenting for years, mostly futile attempts to raise evergreens on the Outer Banks, had been delighted at Ethan’s interest. Little did he know, he and Wendy had planted the tree, which they called their Forever Tree . . . (yeah, hokey, but then, they were only fifteen, and in luuuuve) . . . with the idea that by the time it was full-grown, it could be their Christmas tree the first year of their marriage.

  They’d babied that seedling with fertilizer, netting for protection from the sun and wind, bug repellants, and lots of love. And it grew. Very slowly, but by the time of their high school graduation, it had been four feet tall. But it had survived. A miracle, his father had said. Probably the fertilizer, his grandmother had proclaimed. But she and Ethan had known why the little tree survived. Their love.

  The blasted tree was probably dead by now.

  Back to the tree in front of Wendy. There were so many keepsakes-turned-ornaments that tugged at her heartstrings, but the one that made her heart ache was the miniature lighthouse Ethan had given her to mark the place where they’d first made love. Her father and Aunt Mildred probably thought it was just a souvenir from visiting the Bell Cove lighthouse before it closed. She and Ethan had known it meant so much more.

  She swiped at the tears that slipped from her eyes and determined to toss all these items in the trash before she returned to California. But just then, the house phone rang in the hall. In the distance, she could hear the town clocks tolling the hour. Who would be calling at midnight?

  If it was the guys or Diane, they would have called her cell phone. But maybe something had happened, and it was the police, or a hospital calling. She rushed to the vintage telephone chair stand in the hall, sometimes called a “gossip bench,” to pick up the cordless before it awakened others in the house.

  “Hello.”

  A moment of silence. Then a male voice said, “We need to talk.”

  She put a hand to her chest, as if that could still her wildly beating heart.

  “Meet me tomorrow at four.”

  “Where?” she asked, although she knew—she just knew—what he was going to say.

  “The lighthouse.”

  Chapter 10

  Oh, how clueless some men could be! . . .

  Ethan couldn’t sleep at all that night.

  So, he got up at five and prepared to fly over to the mainland tree farm, earlier than he’d originally planned, but that would give him plenty of time to be back by four. An opportunity had come up suddenly for him to purchase a hundred acres of adjacent land, which he’d been after for the past year. If this transaction worked out, he could double his production and profits within five years. Plus, he could diversify with some new species adaptable to a warmer climate. Shades of my father and grandfather!

  Which was one more reason why he should move to the mainland. But his grandmother wouldn’t budge, no matter the incentives he offered her.

  “I’ll build you a new house, with all the amenities.”

  “I like my house, and what’s wrong with the amenities here? The stove cooks, the fridge freezes.”

  “You’d have free time to go back to your painting.”

  “And what good would that do me? I paint Outer Banks lighthouse scenes.”

  And so, he stayed. He owed his grandmother too much for all she’d done for him, caring for Beth Anne and Cassie. Hell, she’d cared for him, too, when he’d been a walking zombie for months there, back when . . .

  Which brought him to the reason for his sleeplessness. Wendy. He wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish by meeting with her. He must be a glutton for punishment. But, no, it was just the opposite. Time to end the punishment with a shot of hard-reality closure. Just like his grandmother kept hammering away about.

  It’s not like he hadn’t thought about Wendy over the past twelve years, but somehow he’d managed to push the memories to the background. The crushing hurt of her leaving had slowly morphed into a mere sore spot when he’d allowed himself to think about her at all. But now, since she’d come back, it had become an open, festering wound. So much guilt! So much bitterness! So many questions!

  It had to stop.

  Sure, he could ride it out. She’d leave again in another week or so. Then, he could go back to the way things were.

  Or could he?

  It didn’t help that those buffer-than-Rambo Navy SEAL buddies of hers showed up at the tree lot last night. And they’d been nice. Dammit. It would have been better if he could picture her with a bunch of brain-dead apes. Instead, they’d been articulate and friendly, although the female with them kept giving him the stink eye, as if she knew something about him.

  All was quiet in the house when he left. His grandmother wouldn’t get up till seven, then would go in to the tree lot to open up at nine.

  When he got to his office on the mainland, he took some ribbing over the grinch contest, news of which continued to spread, mainly due to daily reports being given on NBX’s Morning Show. The subject even came up at his meeting later with the irascible old man, Jeb Parkins, farmer-turned-real-estate-magnate (picture Beverly Hillbilly in a Walmart suit), who did, in fact, sell Ethan the land he wanted, for more than it was worth.

  Once they’d settled on an amount, Jeb added, “Let’s put another thousand on top of that and I’ll donate it to that grinch thing over at Bell Cove.” Parkins winked at Matt Holter, Ethan’s lawyer and best friend, who came to the negotiating session with him, having already been on the mainland this week on a court case. Parkins’s wink conveyed where that thousand bucks would go. Two hundred votes. For guess who? Not Matt.

  “How about we put another thousand on that,” Ethan suggested through gritted teeth, “and you don’t step foot in Bell Cove for the next month or so?”

  “Why would I want to step foot in Bell Cove? I’m off to the Bahamas once your check clears.”

  “Oh?” Ethan gritted his teeth even tighter at the implication his check might bounce. “Bet the missus is packing as we speak.”

  “The missus died three years ago, ya fool. I’m going with my main squeeze, Suzie Q here.”

  Ethan and Matt both gaped for just a second at the young legal aide, Suzanne Ellison, taking notes for Parkins, him being too tight to hire an actual lawyer. Her face bloomed with color but she didn’t deny the old man’s claim.

  After the meeting, Ethan asked Matt, “Do you think he’s serious?”

  Matt shrugged. “Could be.”

  “Why would a young, good-loo
king woman date a man old enough to be her grandfather? I mean, he has dentures and wild hairs sticking out of his ears.”

  “Welcome to the real world, my friend. Money, money, money.”

  “And notice I said ‘date.’ I don’t even want to think about him naked and making his moves.” He shivered with distaste. “Some things aren’t worth the money.”

  Matt laughed. “Sad to think that the old man is getting more action than you and I these days. Unless . . . I’ve been out of town all week, but I hear Wendy’s back in Dodge.” He raised his brows in question.

  “And you think she’s suddenly hopping in my bed? More like the shoot-out at the OK Corral since she’s been ‘back in Dodge.’”

  “You’ve got your Old West towns mixed up, pal,” Matt pointed out with a laugh, then asked, “That bad?”

  “Not yet, but it probably will be.” He wasn’t about to mention his meeting this afternoon with Wendy. Matt would say he was a fool. He was.

  “She used to consider you irresistible.”

  “My irresistibility factor has dropped to about zilch.”

  “And how about hers?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  Matt just grinned. He’d been around back then. He knew Ethan almost as well as he knew himself. No fooling him.

  “Word is that Wendy has a hot babe as a houseguest. And here I was hoping we could double date.”

  “What are you, like, fourteen and horny?”

  “Thirty and horny.”

  “I know the feeling. Maybe we ought to follow Parkins’s cue and get ourselves a money honey. Slam, bam, it’s been swell, ma’am. No commitment. No hassle.”

  They both actually seemed to consider the idea for a moment, then laughed, and at the same time, said, “Nah!”

  Matt went back to the Rutledge Trees office with Ethan and waited while he outlined to his staff all they would need to do to prepare the newly purchased fields so they would be ready for a spring planting. After that, he and Matt flew back to the Outer Banks, then hopped in Ethan’s pickup for the ride to Bell Cove.

  Matt went off to his law office, and Ethan decided to do some last-minute Christmas shopping. The town bells rang out the hour. Only two. He had plenty of time. Most of his holiday purchases had been made on the Internet, but he liked to spend his dollars locally wherever and whenever he could.

  His first clue that something was amiss came when he went into Monique’s Boutique where he was picking up a coat he’d special ordered for his grandmother. It was the kind of thing she’d never buy for herself, even though it was nothing fancy. A long, cashmere belted coat in a shade of blue that would match her eyes. He’d noticed her looking at it in Monique’s window, but when he’d checked last week, discovered they would have to order it in her size.

  “So, is it true you’re buying more land on the mainland so you can close your business here?” Monique, whose real name was Molly O’Brien, stood glaring at him with her hands on her ample hips. She’d moved here five years ago and had always seemed a friendly sort. Not so friendly now!

  “Huh?” Ethan said. At the same time he noticed the coolness of Monique’s voice, he saw the grinch contest jar on the counter with the poster showing his name had suddenly jumped sky-high.

  How did word of his business across the sound travel so fast? And how did the story get so twisted? Probably Baxter. Or maybe that contrary old fart Parkins. Ethan wouldn’t put it past either of them.

  “No, I am not moving, Monique. And I have no plans to close my business here.” Not immediately anyhow.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” she said, unconvinced. But then she relented and showed him the coat. “It’s beautiful. I know Mrs. Rutledge will love it. Should I gift wrap it?”

  “Please. I’ll pick it up in a half hour.” He inserted his debit card into the chip reader on the counter and punched in his PIN number. When the transaction was complete, he said, “Pass the word if you can, Molly. No move by Ethan Rutledge.”

  “Got it,” she said.

  But it was probably too late.

  Next, he stopped at The Book Den where the new owner, Clare Hunter, was behind the counter ringing up an order while an assistant was waiting on another customer. It was one of the Navy SEALs that Ethan had met last night, the Hispanic one, except now he was sporting a black eye.

  “Hey,” the guy said, coming over to shake hands. “Christmas shopping?”

  “Yeah. For my little girl. What’s with the shiner?”

  “I ran into one of your locals at a bar last night, and he took exception to my ethnicity, and my hairstyle.”

  “That’s why I stay away from bars late at night,” Ethan said with a laugh. “It was probably Stoney Adams. He usually manages to piss off one newcomer to town per month.”

  “Well, it earned me a spot on your town’s grinch list. Near the bottom, with only ten votes, not like you raking in the big bucks, but who would waste fifty dollars on me?”

  “It’s for a good cause,” Ethan said, repeating the lame mantra everyone chanted his way whenever he asked the very same question. “Where’s the rest of your gang?”

  “Flipper is helping Aunt Mildred and Elmer Fudd make fudge for some church bazaar or something. Grizz is hibernating with a good book. Geek and K-4 are jogging.”

  Ethan must have looked puzzled because the SEAL laughed and explained, “Nicknames. We all get them during Hell Week. Wendy’s is Flipper because she swims like a fish. Grizz shot a bear one time. Merrill is Geek because he would be the first to admit that’s what he is. And Kevin Fortunato is K-4 for obvious reasons. And me, JAM for Jacob Alvarez Mendozo.”

  Good thing he’d reminded him of his name, which Ethan had forgotten. But that was way more info than he’d wanted and he certainly hadn’t meant to ask about Wendy. But Flipper? He smiled.

  Clare came over then, and Ethan introduced her to Jacob Mendozo as a Navy friend of Wendy Patterson, whom Clare had yet to meet. The two of them—JAM and Clare—immediately began talking about California where Clare had a sister, and about how JAM had always thought it would be cool to run a bookstore in a small town like Bell Cove. Clearly, there was an instant attraction going on, so Ethan sidled away.

  And, yes, he had to think that this guy must not be Wendy’s lover if he was looking at another woman that way. But then, maybe he was a hound. Or maybe that’s how they did things in California. Not that it was any of his business.

  With a grunt of disgust, he moved to the tween section of the bookstore. Cassie was an avid reader, and if he let her, would probably be devouring novels way too adult for her still-childish mind. She loved Harry Potter and the Narnia chronicles, and had reread them several times, but she still liked books like Anne of Green Gables, and even Winnie the Pooh, which he supposed had a message for kids of all ages, even adults. He wouldn’t let her buy the Twilight series. Not yet. He also bypassed the huge display of How the Grinch Stole Christmas books, which she already had. However, against his fatherly misgivings, he purchased the three Hunger Games books.

  He noticed the ladies coming out of the hair salon still sported an orange skin tone, but it was lighter now, more like a rutabaga than a yam. Francine must still be fine-tuning her machine. Who knew what would be next in her produce line? Squash?

  Too late he realized that he should have avoided this side of the square because he was in front of The Bell newspaper office where the windows were plastered with upcoming events. Apparently the town council had been busy little bees at the emergency meeting he’d missed last evening.

  He thought about going inside to ask Laura what was up, but then through a small section of the window not covered with “latest news” he saw Gabe Conti inside leaning against the counter talking with Bell Cove’s very own Katharine Graham, a.k.a. Laura Atler. That was either good news or bad news, that they were chatting each other up, but he wasn’t sticking around long enough to find out. Instead, he put a dollar in the vending machine and took out a paper to read late
r.

  By the time he got back to his truck, a half-dozen people had stopped him on the street to ask about his dumping Bell Cove for the mainland. Another half dozen just gave him dirty looks. And Ina Rogers stepped on his toe with her walker in passing. He was pretty sure it was deliberate.

  He drove out to the tree lot where both his grandmother and Cassie were working. Cassie was behind the counter on a high stool, chatting up customers, under orders not to put too much strain on her hip by walking around if she wanted to be well enough to participate in all the holiday events the next few days. His grandmother manned the register, and three high school boys, including the infamous Zach the Teenage Heartthrob, took care of customers out on the lot.

  “How did it go?” his grandmother asked.

  “A done deal. But how did word spread so fast? Have you been talking?”

  “Me?”

  “Well, someone must have mentioned my meeting with Parkins today. Now, everyone’s voting me top grinch because they think I’m closing shop here.”

  “Don’t blame me. Maybe people are voting for you because you deserve the honor. Did you ever think about that, Mr. Scrooge?”

  “Huh? What burr’s got under your saddle?”

  “Nana’s upset because Maybelle Foster was in this morning and bragged about all her Christmas shopping being done, the gifts wrapped, the tree decorated, and Nana hasn’t even had a chance to make any of her homemade Christmas cookies yet.”

  “Buy the damn cookies from the supermarket. Who needs homemade?”

  “Bite your tongue, boy.”

  “Go to the church bazaar then, and buy a whole table of homemade goodies.”

  “And let everyone know I was too lazy to make any of my own?” His grandmother looked at him as if he’d lost a few screws.

  “We’re not moving, are we, Dad?” Cassie asked, giving a quick glance out the door to where Zach was carrying a bound tree to someone’s car.

  “No, sweetheart, we’re not moving.” Anytime soon. To his grandmother, he said, “I’m going home to change clothes and make some calls. I’ll be back in a bit. And, honestly, if you’re feeling overwhelmed, take tomorrow off. That high school girl, Pastor Morgan’s daughter, has been wanting extra hours.”