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Christmas Mittens

By Laura V. Hilton

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Chapter 1


Fifty Christmas trees. That’s all I need. Okay, I probably can use more, but I’m not positive I can get even fifty. Why is this so difficult? I’ve already called four of the five farms in the area. They each donate ten trees and I get my fifty.
Everyone said no.
No? Have they no compassion? It’s for Christmas! You’d think if anyone would have the Christmas spirit, it would be a tree farmer. Even if fewer customers wanted real trees. This economy stinks.
“Gracia? May I join you?” Elsie shuffles into my office at the senior citizen’s center, clutching her knitting bag. She doesn’t wait for me to answer. But I nod while she settles in the chair across from me. In the two years I’ve worked at the center I’ve never seen Elsie without something to do.
“How’re you doing today, Elsie?”
I already asked her that when she came in this morning and she apparently doesn’t see the need to answer it a second time, because she gets out her knitting without comment.
I look down at phone cradled in my hand. My stomach churns. Maybe Elsie would postpone this moment for awhile. I meet her eyes. “What can I do for you?”
Needles clack together. “I came in for emotional support.” She gives me a confident smile. “God has this, Gracia. Let Him handle it His way.”
A good reminder. I swallow a lump in my throat and close my eyes. “God… Help.”
When I open my eyes, I still don’t feel too confident calling tree farm number five. After all, everyone knows that Mr. Trivett has let the farm work go. When his wife died, Mr. Trivett appeared to lose all interest in the farm, and in living. He’s also lost all trace of kindness.
He’s my only hope.
Images of Mr. Trivett’s son, Jake, rise in my memory. The hunky guy I couldn’t help watching in Algebra. Of course, he usually could answer the questions and was the teacher’s pet.
I was the quiet, shy girl hiding in the back corner.
That has no bearing on this. Besides, Jake’s in sunny California. I swallow my fear, say a prayer for strength—another God, help—and push the numbers into the phone. “Okay, I’m going in.”
Elsie chuckles. The needles stop clicking. “I’m praying.”
“Trivett’s.”
The male voice sounds clipped, as if I called at a bad time.
I clutch the phone, resisting the urge to disconnect. Instead I dig through the mess on my desk looking for the prepared speech I’d written out. Wasn’t it just here a second ago?
“Trivett’s.”
Impatient. I frown. Of course, I hadn’t bothered to announce my presence.
“Um, hi.” Oh, now that’s a great start. Let’s wow him with confidence.
I glance over at Elsie in time to see her frown and bow her head.
I swallow and try again. “This is Gracia Hellums. I’m calling because—”
“Gracia.” The voice softened. Warmed. “How are you?”
I hesitate. I didn’t think Mr. Trivett knew me that well. Oh, shoot. I forgot to start with pleasantries. Where is my written out speech? I had all of it thought out, including the required niceties. I look away from Elsie’s bowed head. “I’m fine. How are you?”
“Great. Did you hear I’m back in town? Is that why you’re calling?” I hear papers rustle in the background. “There we go. I can do lunch next week on Tuesday.”
I raise my eyebrows. Lunch? Tuesday? “I’m sorry. Who am I speaking with?”
The paper rustling ceases. “Jake Trivett. Don’t tell me you called to talk to Dad.”
“You’re home?” It was a question that didn’t require an answer, and I didn’t get one. “Actually, I did call to talk to your father. Is he able to come to the phone?”
“No.” His voice is clipped again. “But maybe I can help you.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Any remnant of hope of a tree rescue crashes to the ground and shatters. I force myself to continue. “The senior citizen center where I work is hoping to run a Christmas tree lot and a craft store to benefit the center. We’re wondering if your father would donate some trees to the cause.” I exhale. All he can say is no. Everyone else has. Except I started out asking them for ten trees. Maybe I should’ve left it vague and let them fill in an amount. It’s desperate, really.
There is a long period of silence, except for that paper once again rustling in the background. I begin to think he’ll never answer. They’ll have to pry my cold, dead fingers from the phone.
I glance at Elsie. Her head is still bowed.
“Let’s meet for lunch Tuesday to discuss this.”
I shake my head. What is it with this man and lunch?
“I’m sorry. I’m at the center during the lunch hour. Is there another time? Maybe I could drive out to the farm after work.” Should I add that it’d be nice to connect with an old high school acquaintance? No. I don’t think so. I’m surprised he remembers me. I never bothered with the ten-year reunion this past summer. I doubt if I’ll go to the twentieth. What’s the point?
“How about tonight? I could meet you for dinner around seven. Are you free?”
Dinner? With Jake? My heart pounds. But no. The idea makes me too nervous. He’ll notice my heart on my sleeve. And figure out my former crush.
“Yes, but we don’t need to make it dinner. I could drive out to the farm.”
“No, I don’t think so. We don’t have anything edible in the house except a jar of peanut butter and a few slices of bread. That will be lunch today. I was going to the store to get a few things, but I’ll wait until tonight after dinner. I don’t know what Dad has been living on.”
That explains Jake’s fixation with meals.
“Okay. Seven. I’ll see you then.” I don’t need to ask where. There’s only one restaurant in town. One restaurant. Four bars. And no hospital. I click the phone shut, lay it on my cluttered, messy desk, and look into the faded blue eyes of the woman in front of me. “Trivett’s tree farm might donate.” I hope. Jake hadn’t exactly said one way or another.
“The Trivett boy has his work cut out for him. He quit his big job out in California and moved back to help his dad run the farm, you know. Didn’t think he’d do that.”
I shrug. I hadn’t heard he was back. The way news travels in this town, I should have heard before his plane landed. Maybe my long-overdue visit to my brother had been at an inopportune time, keeping me from hearing this pertinent gossip.
“He got in late last night. Drove all the way from California. But I guess, if you’re moving, it’d be easier to drive than to fly. When I go out to visit my granddaughter, I fly. Those planes can get me there faster than I can drive to Minnesota. And usually the layover isn’t too bad. Just once, I think, I actually had a bit of a wait…” Elsie leans forward and pats my hand. “But never mind that. Did I tell you I’m making this scarf for the Trivett boy? After being in California all these years, he’ll need a good scarf.”
I look down at the nubby variegated blue yarn and the knitting needles. “That’s sweet of you, Elsie.” She makes a lot of gifts for others.
“If I work on it all day, maybe it’ll be finished for you to deliver on your big date tonight.”
Date? She obviously missed the whole point of our conversation.
My boss signals from the open doorway, but to Elsie I say, “I’ll be happy to take your scarf.”
“I think I’ll make you one next.” Elsie clicks the needles together as she knits. “Your old pink one looks rather worn. Would you like a different color, or is pink fine?”
“I love you, Elsie.” I stand and slide my cell phone into my pocket. “Pink would be great.”
“I love you, too, Gracia. And more important, God loves you.”
I smile and glance toward Debbie again. She signals me to follow. She probably needs my help with finishing up and serving lunch. Amy usually does, but she’s pregnant and trying to avoid looking at certain foods. I work my way through the maze of tables, pausing to stop and talk to a couple of regulars. I love these people. They are still independent enough to live at home, but they’re lonely and stay at the center the whole time it’s open. Playing games, knitting, shooting the breeze.
That’s why I need Christmas trees. So we can sell them and earn a little of the money necessary to keep the center operating. The state donates some, but we still need private donations—and if none are forthcoming, fundraisers.
Maybe I ought to encourage Elsie not to give her scarves away. She could sell them at the craft fair.
Debbie ducks into the kitchen as I near, and when I enter the room, she’s stirring a big pot of something. I try to remember what’s on the menu for today. Mmmm, the scent of tomatoes and peppers gives it away. Chili.
It’s only October, but an autumn chill has blanketed the area. The color tour is over, as all leaf-bearing trees have lost their leaves. Most trees around here are pines anyway.
One would think that would be the answer to my problems. I could just go out in the woods and cut down fifty trees. Maybe with a little help from some of the stronger men.
It doesn’t work that way. I may be surrounded by Christmas trees, but they are all on privately owned land.
“Any luck with your fundraising idea?” Debbie samples a bit of the chili, then reaches for the spice rack.
I peek into the oven to check the status of the pies. Sugar free, for the diabetics. There are still five minutes on the timer, but the juice is bubbling and the crusts have turned a beautiful gold.
“Not yet. I’ve a meeting with Jake Trivett tonight to discuss it further.”
“I heard he was back in town. His dad’s proud of him, becoming a top architect out in California. Heard he gave it all up to try to save the family farm. He should have chalked it up as a loss.”
Yeah, but I can’t wait to see him. Or maybe it’ll awaken all the feelings I tried to hide in high school. I sigh. “I think the whole town is proud of him.” I know I am. Jake seems to succeed at everything he puts his mind to.
“Mark Lund has been negotiating with Bob Trivett to buy the land.” Debbie shook her head. “Guess since Jake moved back, they decided not to sell.”
Mark Lund was my first call. And my first no. His trees ship to Madison and sell on lots there. He also has previous sales worked out with a handful of museums and the governor to supply their trees. Since he owns the largest tree farm in the area, I didn’t think it’d hurt him to donate ten trees.
Maybe this is why the center never sold trees in the past. It was my brilliant idea and it’s completely falling apart. I thought of it because I didn’t want to call and ask for monetary donations again. This would’ve been my third time soliciting funds. Maybe begging would have worked better.
“I’m going out for a smoke.” Debbie pulls one out of her pocket pack as she speaks and moves toward the back door. “Keep an eye on the kitchen for me.”
I nod. I pull on oven mitts and take the nicely browned pies out to cool.
I’m finishing up lunch preparations when Debbie comes back into the kitchen. She must have taken time for more than one cigarette. Either that or drew that one out slowly. She checks the chili and nods. “Lunch is ready.”
Amy, the other center employee, pokes her head in. “Gracia, some guy is here to see you.”
I look up, prepared to ask Amy to either direct him to wait in my office or to come back later. But Jake Trivett stands behind Amy, and he’s hunkier than ever. Tall, California blond hair, blue eyes, and at least a day’s growth on his chin.
My heart threatens to stop.
His smile is crooked. “I’m here for lunch. The bread’s moldy.”

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