The Christmas Stocking Read online

  “No, thank you, Augustus. We have to be going. It was nice to see you again.”

  “Yes, it was. Nice to see you too. I’m glad you stopped by. I’ll take you down to the lobby.”

  “What are all those movie stars really like?” Ham asked.

  “Just like you and me. Underneath all the glitz and glamour, they’re real people. The glitz and glamour is what they do to earn a living. When they go home at night, they’re just like you and Miss Peggy.”

  Peggy snorted to show what she thought of that statement.

  The ride down to the lobby was made in silence. Gus stepped aside to allow the couple to walk out first. “Have a safe trip home. It was nice seeing you. Have a nice holiday.” He extended his hand to Ham who ignored it. Gus shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His gut was still churning.

  “Just how rich are you, Augustus?” Peggy asked.

  Stunned, Gus thought about the question and how his mother would respond. She’d say if a person had the guts to ask such a personal question, they deserved whatever answer you wanted to give. “Filthy rich!” he said cheerfully.

  Peggy snorted again. Ham held the door open for his wife before he scurried through. Neither one looked back. Gus wondered how all this was going to play out back home when the Bledsoes returned.

  Gus took the stairs to the fifth floor, his head buzzing. When he reached the fifth-floor landing, he sat down on the top step and dropped his head into his hands. For one wild moment he thought he could smell pine resin on his hands. He fought with his breathing to calm down. When his heartbeat returned to normal he let his thoughts drift. He thought about his dog Buster, his faithful companion during his childhood. He thought about Bixby, his buddy all through high school and college. He wondered where Bix was these days. He made a mental note to go on the Net to look him up.

  Gus felt his eyes fill with moisture. The Bledsoes were right—his father was a hard man. A cranky curmudgeon pretty well nailed it. Because he’d been big for his age, six foot three at the age of twelve, his father thought him capable of a man’s work—to his mother’s chagrin. No amount of interference on her behalf could change his father’s mind. He’d worked him from sunup until sundown. He’d get sick late at night and his mother would always be there promising his life would get better. And it did when he went off to college.

  Gus’s head jerked upright as he wondered if he hated his father or if he just didn’t like him. More likely the latter, since he didn’t hate anyone. He simply wasn’t capable of hating anyone.

  An hour later, Gus untangled himself and opened the door that led to his office. He felt like he was stepping onto foreign territory since his thoughts were back at Moss Farms. Nothing had changed in his absence. The tray with the coffee service and the leftover sticky buns was still in the middle of the conference table. The pine branch was still hanging over his drafting table. How strange that the Bledsoes hadn’t asked what it was or why a dried pine branch was hanging on his wall. Everyone who entered the office asked sooner or later.

  He decided right then and there that he didn’t like the Bledsoes any more than he liked his father.

  The phone on his desk rang. He picked it up and made small talk with a client who wanted to take him to dinner. “How about a rain check, Karl? I have to go out of town for a while. Let’s pencil in the first week of the New Year. Okay, glad it works for you. I’ll be in touch.”

  Gus whipped his day planner out of his backpack. He flipped through the pages to see what pressing matters had to be taken care of. Nothing that couldn’t wait, he decided.

  Five minutes later he made an announcement over the intercom. “Look alive, people, this is your boss. I’d like to see all of you in my office, STAT.”

  They came on the run the way they always did. When the boss called a special meeting it was of paramount importance. Gus Moss never sweated the small stuff.

  Gus wasted no time. “Look, guys, I need to go out of town for a couple of months. Actually, I have to go home. My father needs me.” He wondered if it was a lie or wishful thinking on his part. “Can you guys handle things?”

  “Surely you jest,” Derek Williams quipped. “It will be a vacation for all of us with you gone. We’ll party up a storm and drink a toast to you every night.”

  Gus grinned. They wouldn’t do any such thing and they all knew it.

  “Hey, man, you said you were going to watch Cyrus for me while I go to Costa Rica next month.” It was Max Whitfield who was Gus’s right hand.

  “Damn! Okay, okay, I’ll take him with me if that’s okay. He can run the farm all day. You okay with that, Max?”

  “Oh no, my dog does not fly in the cargo hold. Dogs die on airplanes.”

  “Then I’ll drive. Works for me if you’re okay with it. I promise to coddle him just the way you do. I’ll give him an apple and a carrot every day. I’ll make sure to give him his vitamins and will give him only bottled water, just the way you do. What I won’t do is dress him up in those designer duds you deck him out in.”

  Max, a string bean of a man, eyeballed his boss and then nodded. “When are you leaving?”

  “In the morning. Bring the dog to the office and I’ll take off from here. You guys sure you can handle things?”

  “Yes, Dad,” the little group said in unison.

  “Swear you won’t call us a hundred times a day,” Derek said.

  “I don’t think you have to worry about that. Okay, it’s all set then. Hillary, cancel the rest of my appointments. Reschedule.”

  Gus looked around at his loyal staff. A lump formed in his throat. They were the best of the best. He made a mental note to double their Christmas bonuses. He could do that tonight at home and hand them out in the morning. Loyalty was one thing he never skimped on. A long time ago his mother had told him a person was only as good as the people who worked for them. At the time he hadn’t understood what that meant. He knew now, though.

  Time to go cross-country.

  Back to his childhood memories.

  Back to his father’s house.

  He hoped he was up to the challenge.

  Chapter Two

  A week later and three thousand miles away in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, thirty-four-year-old career woman Amy Baran was on an emotional high as she packed her already overstuffed briefcase. She looked around her cluttered office and sighed. One of these days she really had to give some thought to organizing things. She knew it wasn’t going to happen because she loved living in clutter, loved that she could instantly lay her hands on anything she needed.

  Amy Baran owned a small public relations firm in the heart of the Main Line District. It employed two full-time staff members; two part-time moms whose schedules she worked around; a receptionist-slash-secretary; and a battle-scarred, bushy-haired orange tabby cat named Cornelia she had found half-starved in the basement of the building she rented. If anyone reigned supreme at the Baran Agency, it was Cornelia who greeted clients by purring and strutting her stuff.

  Cornelia knew how to turn on the computer, flush the john, and even open the box of Tender Vittles when someone left it sitting on the kitchen counter.

  “You going to miss me, Linda?”

  “Does Cornelia need whipped cream on her catnip? Of course I’m going to miss you. That was a silly question, Amy. But things slow down at this time of year and you’re only a cell phone call away. You said your mom has a fax machine so I think we’re good to go in case something crops up. In a way, I envy you. Going home for the holidays is always kind of special and going all out on your mom’s project to help the Seniors is the icing on top as far as good feelings go. If anyone can make it work, you can.”

  Amy flopped down on her swivel chair, her long legs stretched out in front of her. “Easy to say, Linda. Mapping out a PR campaign to sell cosmetics or corn flakes is a lot different from selling Christmas trees. I know zip about Christmas trees other than you put them in a stand, string lights and ornaments and flick
the switch. Instant gratification.”

  “You got a plan, boss?”

  Amy laughed, the sound ricocheting off the walls. “Sort of, kind of. I’m thinking three tents. One for the stuff Mom wants to sell. You know, ornaments, lights, gift wrap, the big red velvet bows. I ordered tons of stuff a week ago when Mom hit me with this. I jumped right on it. Mom’s got the Seniors lined up to work the store, as she calls it. They’re going to be serving gingerbread and hot mulled cider the way they used to do at Moss Farms. I told you about that wonderful place from my childhood. I hate it that Mr. Moss let the farm go to ruin. I have such nice memories of going out there with my father. He always made it a special event. One year it actually snowed the day we went to pick up the tree. I was so excited I could hardly sleep the night before. Memories are wonderful, aren’t they?”

  Linda flicked the long braid that hung down to the middle of her back. “Memories are super as long as you don’t dwell on them. Maybe you’ll meet Prince Charming when you go home. I see it now: he appears out of nowhere, asks you to help him pick out the perfect tree. You do, and then he asks you to deliver it and help him set it up. You agree. You fall into his arms in front of the tree and voila, you now have a boyfriend!”

  “In your dreams! I don’t have time for boyfriends. I’m trying to build this business and working sixteen hours a day is more than any guy can understand. All in good time.”

  Linda eyed her boss. She would never understand how someone as personable, as pretty, as intelligent as Amy didn’t have men falling all over her. “Your clock is ticking, Amy. There’s more to life than building a business.”

  Amy sniffed as she fiddled with the comb that controlled her long, dark, curly hair. She fixed her green eyes on Linda and said, “You’re a year older and I don’t see you in any hurry to settle down.”

  “Yeah, well, at least I have a prospect. George loves me and would marry me in a heartbeat if I said the word. I’m thinking about it. I want us to have enough money saved up to put a down payment on a house. There’s no way I’m going to live in an apartment with kids. I want lots of kids and so does George. By next year we’ll have saved enough for a starter house. It’s my plan. You don’t even have a prospect, much less a plan, Amy.”

  Linda was right even though she didn’t want to admit it. She longed for Mr. Right but so far he had eluded her. Maybe Linda was right and she needed to cut back on the hours she worked and get some kind of personal life. Or she could go to the Internet and sign up on one of those matchmaking sites. Like that was really going to happen.

  Amy shrugged as she continued to stuff her briefcase. She had to sit on it so she could lock it. “I don’t know why I’m taking all this. Better to be prepared for anything and everything. Okay, okay, I’ll work on my social skills and try to snag a guy when I get home. You realize single guys do not buy Christmas trees. They buy artificial ones. Families, moms and dads and kids, buy trees. Having said that, I will do my best to find a man who will meet with your approval. If I come back empty handed, I will explore one of those dating sites, okay?”

  “Yeah. Look, if you need me, give me a call. I can take the train and be there in three hours. I’m going to miss Corny,” Linda said as she scooped up the tabby to settle her in the carryall. She pulled the zipper.

  Amy took a last look around. “It feels right, Linda. Going home, I mean. I hate leaving you for two whole months but like you said, I’m just a phone call away. You don’t think I’m making a mistake, do you?”

  “Am I hearing right? The famous Amy Baran is asking me if she’s making a mistake? The short answer is, no. Look, my mom passed away. I’d drop everything, even George, to have her back calling me to help out. You always have to give back, Amy. If you don’t, you’re just a shell of a person. I expect you to be an authority on Christmas trees when you get back. I can go on the Net and research Christmas tree farms and send out some query letters asking if they want to use our services next year. That’s assuming you pull this off and raise the money you need.”

  You don’t know my mother, Linda. “Good idea. You know what bothers me the most is the trucking fees. We’re starting out in debt. I don’t like that. If bad weather sets in, the trees might not be cut in time. I’m at growers’ and truckers’ mercies. Mom did all the initial contacting. I wish she had left it up to me instead of going with the first person she contacted. You need to shop around to get the best price. Well, I gotta be going. I packed everything up last night. Yes, yes, I will call you along the way and will call you when I get to Mom’s house. I’ll miss you, Linda. Two months is a long time,” Amy said wistfully.

  Linda threw her arm over her boss’s shoulder. “I think you’re going to be too busy to miss this place. Go on now before we both start blubbering.”

  Amy picked up Cornelia’s carrying case and threw it over her shoulder. The briefcase weighed a ton and she probably wouldn’t even open it once she got to Virginia. Her mother always said she overcompensated for everything. Her mother also said she was anal retentive, was an overachiever and needed to think inside the box instead of outside. So much for her loving mother.

  Amy settled Cornelia on the passenger seat before she unzipped the carryall. Cornelia poked her head up just long enough to see her surroundings before she curled up to sleep. Amy slipped a disc into the player and settled down to make the trip to Fairfax, Virginia.

  Four hours later with four stops along the way, Amy pulled into her mother’s driveway on Little Pumpkin Lane. She leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment. She was home. The house where she’d grown up. A house of secrets. The house where she’d been lonely, sad, angry. So many memories.

  Now why had she expected her mother to be standing in the doorway waiting to greet her? Because that’s what mothers usually did when an offspring returned home for a visit. A stupid expectation, Amy decided as she climbed out of the car. She left Cornelia in the car while she unloaded her bags and the boxes of things she’d brought with her. Four trips later, Amy carried Cornelia into the house and settled her and her litter box in the laundry room. She called her mother’s name, knowing there would be no answer. Her mother was a busy lady who did good deeds twenty-four/seven. All she did was sleep at the house. It was like that while she was growing up, too. Tillie Baran for the most part had always been an absentee mother with various housekeepers picking up her slack. When the housekeepers went home, her father took over, making sure she ate a good dinner, brushed her teeth, helped her with her homework and tucked her into bed at night. For some reason, though, she’d never felt cheated.

  All of that changed when her father died of a heart attack in the lobby of the Pentagon on the day after she graduated from college. If her mother had grieved, she hadn’t seen it. Armed with her substantial inheritance, Amy had relocated to Philadelphia where she worked for a PR firm to get her feet wet before she opened her own small agency.

  She called home once a week, usually early Sunday morning, to carry on an inane conversation with her mother that never lasted more than five minutes. She returned home for Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas—just day trips, because her mother was too busy to visit. For the past two years, though, she hadn’t returned home at all. Her mother didn’t seem to notice. No matter what, though, Amy kept up with her early Sunday morning phone calls because she wanted to be a good daughter.

  And now here she was. Home to do her mother’s bidding. For the first time in her entire life her mother had asked for her help. She couldn’t help but wonder if there was an ulterior motive to this particular command performance.

  Amy carried her bags, one at a time, to her old bedroom on the second floor. It all looked the same, neat as always, unlived in, smelling like lemon furniture polish. A cold, unfeeling house. Her mother’s fault? Her father’s?

  Amy hated the house. She thought about her cozy five room townhouse, chockful of doodads, knick-knacks and tons of green plants that she watered faithfully. In the winter she used her fireplac
e every single evening, not caring if the soot scattered from time to time or if the house smelled like woodsmoke. She had bright-colored, comfortable furniture and she didn’t mind if Cornelia slept on the couch or not. Her garage was full of junk and she loved every square inch of it. There simply was no comparison between her mother’s house and her own. None at all.

  Amy stopped in the hallway and opened the door to her father’s old room. It still smelled like him after all these years. How she’d loved her father. She looked around. It was stark, nothing out of place. A man’s room with rustic earthy colors. She opened the closet the way she always did when she returned home. All her father’s suits hung neatly on the double racks, exactly two inches apart. His shoes were still lined up against the wall. This was a room that didn’t include her mother. Amy had always wondered why. She backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  She had no interest in checking her mother’s room. Instead, she opened the door to her room. A bed, a dresser, a bookshelf and two night tables on each side of the twin bed. The drapes were the same; so was the bedspread. She hated the patchwork design.

  Long ago she’d taken everything from this room, even the things she no longer wanted. There was nothing here that said Amy Margaret Baran ever resided in this room. It was a guest room, nothing more. Well, she didn’t do guest rooms. In a fit of something she couldn’t explain, Amy carried her bags back down the hall and opened the door to her father’s room a second time. She would sleep here for the next two months. The bed was king-size, and there was a deep reading chair and a grand bathroom, complete with a Jacuzzi.