<< Go Back

The Kissing Tree

By Karen Witemeyer

Order Now!

Chapter 1
1891 – Huntsville, TX

Illogical business proposals made Barnabas Ackerly’s skin itch, but this one irritated like a hundred mosquito bites treated with a poison ivy poultice.
Barnabas eyed his employer warily. He’d been with Hollis Woodward for over five years, long enough to have earned his mentor’s respect and trust. Yet as brilliant as Mr. Woodward was when it came to land development, he had a blind spot the size of a house when it came to his daughter.

Tread carefully . . . “Mr. Woodward. Perhaps this isn’t the best—”

“Don’t give me that you-think-I’ve-got-a-screw-loose look, Ackerly.” Hollis Woodward shoved up from the chair behind his imposing mahogany desk and braced his fingertips against the well-polished surface with enough force to turn the knuckles on his tanned hands white. “I assure you, all of my mental hardware is fully fastened and functioning.” The man chuckled good-naturedly, but Barnabas wasn’t fooled. The steel in Hollis Woodward’s eyes wasn’t the type to bend.

Barnabas rose from his seat and set the papers he’d just examined atop the desk in front of him. “I respect what you’re trying to do here, sir, but I’d not be doing my job if I didn’t point out the flaws in this proposal. It’s simply not a viable investment.”

“Bah.” Hollis pushed away from the desk and waved a dismissive hand through the air as he advanced around the corner and invaded Barnabas’s territory.
“I know this project is a bit afield of the usual work I assign you.”

A bit afield? Apparently the moon was a bit afield of the Earth.

“You’re the magician, Ackerly. You’ll find a way to get the job done. You always do.”

Magic had nothing to do with it. Yes, he’d carved himself a place in the Woodward Land Development Company by cultivating the ability to sell the unsellable, but that came from long hours and hard-won experience. Not a wand covered in pixie dust or whatever concoction Hollis expected him to employ to transform this sow’s ear of an idea into a silk purse. He might specialize in repurposing unwanted vacant properties into desirable real estate, but even Merlin himself couldn’t conjure a spell strong enough to turn this wisp of nonsensical whimsy into a profitable venture.

“Sir, I believe this endeavor is beyond my powers. A romantic rendezvous retreat? In Oak Springs? No offense, sir, I know it’s your hometown, but no one outside a fifty-mile radius of the place is even aware of its existence. And few if any within that radius would . . .“ waste their hard-earned money on such impractical lodgings “. . . be interested in paying for a night at your daughter’s inn when they could visit the . . . ah . . . What did she call it?” He glanced back down at the first page of the proposal where the inanely sentimental name smiled up at him as if completely unaware of its own imbecility. “Ah, yes. The Kissing Tree. When they could simply visit the Kissing Tree of their own accord without a requisite stay at the inn.”

Hollis crossed his arms over his chest. “I suggested we fence in the tree when we bought the acreage for just that reason, but Phoebe wouldn’t hear of it. Said the tree belonged to everyone. The only reason she built the inn is to make it more accessible to outsiders.”

“Built?” A boulder of dread sank in Barnabas’s gut. “You’ve already built the inn?”

“Yep.”

That didn’t bode well. If Hollis had already invested funds, there’d be no going back. Their only hope was to throw the lever and switch tracks before the entire train derailed. But what lever could he pull?

“Perhaps we can turn it into a . . . community center of sorts. Or a boardinghouse.” Yes, a boardinghouse. Practical. Feasible. He’d just have to find a manager. A cook. Maybe a groundskeeper.

“Ma Granger already runs a boardinghouse,” Hollis said with a shake of his head, “and it’s only full up around harvest time. We don’t get many visitors.”

“Exactly my point!” Could the man not see the gaping holes in this plan?
Hollis unfolded his arms, pointed his right index finger, and deliberately prodded Barnabas in the hollow of his shoulder. “That, my boy, is precisely why I’m bringing you on board. You’re a genius at finding a way to make the improbable possible. Besides, Phoebe will help. She has several ideas about how to bring in clientele.”

Somehow he doubted a woman as out of touch with reality as Phoebe Woodward would be much help. Not that he would ever say so aloud. Hollis would sack anyone who disparaged his daughter. Besides, the young lady didn’t deserve his censure. She was kind-natured and bookish, two qualities he generally admired. Not to mention that she possessed enough sense to avoid the grasping guests during her father’s quarterly dinners at their home in Huntsville. A definite mark in her favor.

Men clamored to strengthen business ties with the most successful developer in a dozen counties, and women hunted the wealthy widower for a more intimate connection. Few attended out of true friendship. Barnabas had run across Miss Woodward more than a time or two hiding in her father’s study, a book in her lap. He’d passed many a pleasant hour reading in her company without the pretense of polite conversation while other guests entertained themselves with vapid parlor games.

Until today, he’d considered her a thoughtful, intelligent soul. Now he realized the truth. All that novel reading had rotted the poor lady’s brain.

Barnabas cleared his throat and carefully weighed each word before letting it out of his mouth. “Even if she found a way to entice customers who possess the time, money, and inclination to travel to her inn, the logistics would create a barrier. The nearest rail stop is the Great Northern spur here in Huntsville. That would leave the clients twenty miles short of their final destination. I fear couples seeking a romantic getaway will be disillusioned by the realities of renting a buggy from the local livery and braving the unpredictable Texas weather for a four-hour trip to Oak Springs.”

Hollis’s expression hardened. “Guess you’ll just have to find a way around that little snag.”

“Sir, I simply can’t advise—”

“I’m not asking for your advice.” Hollis’s unyielding tone cut Barnabas off like a hatchet severing a tree limb. “I’m giving you an assignment.”

Barnabas’s pulse kicked so hard, he swore he could feel the vein in his neck knocking against his chin-high starched collar.

“You will find a way to make The Kissing Tree Inn work, Ackerly. I'll accept no less." The man he’d long considered a mentor and friend clasped his shoulder with a firmness that communicated confidence, yet at the same time, inspired a terrifying level of dread.

Disappointing Hollis Woodward was not an option. Not if Barnabas wanted to keep his position in the company. Woodward was fair, but he was first and foremost a man of business. Any employee who turned a profit and satisfied the customer was rewarded with more responsibility and a more lucrative clientele. Mediocre performance earned a loss of trust and, therefore, a loss of clients. Outright failure? Well, that tended to leave a fellow searching for a new position.

Barnabas wanted to believe that his excellent performance over the last several years would prevent one failure from costing him his career. But this was no ordinary project. No ordinary client. If Barnabas failed, so did Woodward's daughter. And that, he feared, would not be tolerated.

****
Oak Springs, TX

Phoebe Woodward nibbled on the edge of her thumbnail as she waited for the verdict. She never mailed a story to her editor at Lippincott’s without first getting her former teacher to look over her work. Mrs. Fisher was one of the few people who’d never counseled her to take her head out of her books and engage more fully with reality. No, from the time she was barely able to sound out her ABCs, Mrs. Fisher had encouraged her to delve even deeper into her stories and stretch her imagination.

When Phoebe’s mother died during her first year of school, it had been the stories Mrs. Fisher had read in class that offered an escape from the devastating loss handed to her by the real world. She’d been escaping into them ever since.

A tiny gasp cut through the silence of the Woodward parlor. Phoebe tensed, her hand falling back to her lap.

“Paper hearts?” Mrs. Fisher glanced up, a suspicious moisture gleaming in her eyes.

Phoebe’s stomach cramped. “I’m sorry. I never should have taken such liberties. I can rewrite the ending, take them out.” She tried to snatch the offending paper back, but her friend proved too quick, dodging to the left and stretching her arm to keep the page out of Phoebe’s reach.

“Don’t you dare take them out! They’re as beautiful on this page as they were the day Adam proposed.” Bella Fisher smiled even as she softened her stance long enough to wipe a tear from the edge of her eye with the back of her hand. “To have a piece of our story immortalized in print . . . it’s a gift, Phoebe. A beautiful, precious gift. I can’t wait to show Adam and the children once it’s published. Oh!” She suddenly straightened, her back thrusting away from the pale green upholstery of the chair. Her smile bloomed into a grin of pure delight. “I can order an extra issue and make new paper hearts. I can add the story hearts to the ones I kept from Adam’s proposal and have them framed for our anniversary. Oh, Phoebe. It will be perfect!”

Relief untwisted the knot in Phoebe’s stomach. “Are you sure? I changed the names and the entire plot of the story.”

When she’d started penning the stories for her Tales from the Kissing Tree quarterly column, she’d made an unspoken vow to Oak Springs to protect the anonymity of their residents. While each of the romantic tales she wove featured real initials carved into the bark of the giant oak locals had taken to calling The Kissing Tree, she never used true names or circumstances. To do so felt too much like stealing. Love between a husband and wife was a sacred gift bestowed by God. The stories surrounding that love were sacred as well. Deeply personal and private. Phoebe would never intentionally profit from someone else’s love story. Until now, her tales had been inspired by unidentified sets of initials and had been pure figments of her imagination. But when Mrs. Fisher had read her column and volunteered the details of her own personal Kissing Tree love story, Phoebe had been so enchanted, she’d borrowed a few of the details.

“The story isn’t so different.” Mrs. Fisher winked. “Betina the seamstress—an occupation I planned to pursue until I injured my arm—paired with Abram the blacksmith—a man familiar with mechanics and machinery? I can see the similarities. Though, it was the paper hearts that gave it away.”

“You truly don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” Mrs. Fisher returned the final page to the stack in her lap then leaned forward to tidy the pile by tapping the edges on the tea table positioned in front of their cater-cornered chairs. “In fact, I insist you mail it off today.” She extended the manuscript.

Phoebe grasped the slender stack, fighting the urge to clutch them to her bosom like a secret she wanted to hide from prying eyes. It made no logical sense to be shy about her work when hundreds, if not thousands, of subscribers would be reading it in a couple months’ time. But those readers were strangers. Mrs. Fisher was a dear friend. As much as she trusted her former teacher, these encounters always left her feeling vulnerable and exposed. The stories might not be a part of her real life, but they were a real part of her soul.

“Now all we have to do is find you a love story of your own.” Mrs. Fisher patted Phoebe’s knee, then pushed to her feet.

Phoebe stifled a groan and busied her hands by setting the manuscript aside and fiddling with the wire rims of her spectacles in order to avoid making eye contact with her friend while she rose and accompanied her to the door. She’d long ago learned it was better to say nothing and let the subject of beaus and marriage die a quick death. Refuting it only prolonged the torture.

Twenty-three-year-old spinsters who were plain of face and odd in temperament did not attract suitors. A fact proven true to Phoebe year after year as her schoolmates paired off and married while she remained unattached and largely ignored. Oh, a few hearty fellows had tried wooing her in a misguided effort to win her father’s favor and advance their careers, but she’d developed a talent for ferreting out motives. Decades of watching life unfold from the sidelines could teach a girl a thing or two about relationships. Which ones would last. Which would ones would lead to heartache. Which had little to no emotion invested at all. Phoebe had always been a good student, and love was her favorite subject. It fascinated her. Lured her. Sparked her imagination.

Did she secretly crave a loving husband and babies of her own? She’d be lying if she said she didn’t. But she’d not waste her days pining for what she could not have. She refused to become one of those dried-up spinsters who sucked the joy out of every room they entered. No, she would fuel her happiness by investing in the romance and love of others, encouraging their dreams and fostering their devotion to one another.

That’s why her inn was so important. It was her way to make a difference in the real world, not just inside the framework of her own imagination. Her inn would be a tangible place to celebrate the rare and precious gift of emotional connection. A place that reminded couples of their love for each other, that reinvigorated older relationships and created memories for new relationships to build upon.

“You really should reconsider the pie social, Phoebe. It’s a great way to meet people. Male people to be specific.”

As if the twinkle in her friend’s eye hadn’t made that point rather obvious. Phoebe made an effort to look as if she were considering the notion instead of mentally tossing it in the waste basket.

Bella Fisher shook her head as if she saw right through the pretense. “It doesn’t hurt to try, Phoebe.”

Well, sometimes it did. Like when Elliott Rayburn dropped a watermelon on her toe three years ago while trying to show off for one of the younger girls by carrying two melons at a time. Her foot had ached for a week.

“Eligible men aren’t just going to line up at your front door, you know.”

Oh, she knew.

Phoebe pulled open the door in question, but the good-bye perched on the edge of her tongue immediately glued itself to the back of her teeth. Barnabas Ackerly in his perfectly pressed suit, stiff white collar, and black Fedora stood on her front stoop with arm raised to knock. His blue eyes widened at her unexpected appearance, but his clean-shaven jaw never so much as twitched as he lowered his arm back to his side.

“Then again,” Mrs. Fisher said softly out of the corner of her mouth, “I could be wrong.”

Order Now!

<< Go Back