Sugar And Spice. Shirley Jump

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 fireplace 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.

      As Amy unpacked her bags she wondered if her father’s spirit would visit her. She didn’t know if she believed in such things or not but she had an open mind. If it happened, it happened. If not, her life would go on.

      She set her laptop on her father’s desk, her clothes hanging next to her father’s. The picture of her and her father on her sixteenth birthday—taken by the housekeeper whose name she couldn’t remember—went on the night table next to the house phone. She looked around as she tried to decide what she should do next. She walked over to the entertainment center that took up a whole wall. Underneath was a minifridge. She opened it to see beer and Coca-Colas. She wondered when the drinks had been added. She popped a Coke and looked for the expiration date. Whoever the housekeeper was, she was up-to-date.

      Amy settled herself in the lounge chair and sipped her drink. All she had to do now was wait for her mother.

      Cornelia leaped into her lap and started to purr. Amy stroked her, crooning words a mother would croon to a small child. Eventually her eyes closed and she slept, her sleep invaded by a familiar dream.

      …She knew it was late because her room was totally dark and only thin slivers of moonlight showed between the slats of the blinds. She had to go to the bathroom but knew she wouldn’t get up and go out to the hall because she could hear the angry voices. She scrunched herself into a tight ball with her hands over her ears but she could still hear the voices….

      Chapter Three

      Exhausted from his long trip, Cyrus antsy to get out and run, Gus pulled up to the entrance of Moss Farms and looked at the dilapidated sign swinging on one hinge from the carved post. A lump rose in his throat. A few nails, new hinges, some paint, and it would be good as new. The lump stayed in his throat as he put his Porsche Cayenne into gear and drove through the opening.

      Gus ascended a steep hill lined with ancient fragrant evergreens, their massive trunks covered in dark green moss. His mother always said it was so fitting because their name was Moss.

      At the top of the hill, Gus shifted into park and got out of the car to look down at the valley full of every kind of evergreen imaginable. He saw the Douglas firs; the blue spruce field; and to the left of that, the long-needle Scotch pine. He shaded his eyes from the sun to better see the fields of balsam fir, Fraser firs, and Norway Spruce. To the left as far as the eye could see were the fields of white pines and the white firs. The Austrian pines looked glorious, and the three fields of Virginia pines seemed to go on to infinity. Thousands and thousands of trees. The lump was still in his throat when he tried to whistle for Cyrus, who came on the run.

      Gus coasted down the hill to the valley where his old homestead rested. It looked as shabby and dilapidated as the entrance sign. What does my father do all day?

      Gus wasn’t disappointed at the lack of a welcoming committee. He really hadn’t expected his father to run out and greet him. Still, it would have been nice. He parked the car at the side of the house and climbed out. He whistled for Cyrus, who was busy smelling everything in sight. “Hey, Pop!” he bellowed. Cyrus stopped his sniffing long enough to lift his head to see what was going on.

      A tall man with a shaggy gray-white beard appeared out of nowhere. He was wearing a red plaid jacket with a matching hunting cap. “No need to shout, son. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing. You on your way to somewhere or are you visiting?”

      Gus licked at his lips. What happened to, “Nice to see you, son” or “Good to see you, son”? Maybe a handshake or a hug.

      “I came for a visit. I thought I’d help with the trees this year. Looks kind of dead around here. What’s going on, Pop?”

      “Like you said, it’s dead around here. I let everyone go. I’m retired now.”

      “Just like that, you retired? Why didn’t you tell me?”

      “Didn’t much think you’d care. Nice looking dog. Not as nice as old Buster, though. Buster was one of a kind.”

      Gus jammed his hands into his pockets. “Why would you think I wouldn’t care? If you needed my help all you had to do was ask. Are you just going to let those trees grow wild? That’s just like throwing money down the drain.”

      “You’re a little late in coming around, son. When I needed you, you were in California making fancy houses for fancy people. When you left here you said you didn’t want to be a farmer. I took you at your word.”

      Gus flinched. The old man had him there. He didn’t want to be a farmer; he wanted to do exactly what he was doing. Well, I’m here now, so I’ll just have to make the best of it.

      “I’m here to help. The first thing I’m going to do is fix the steps on the front porch before you kill yourself. Then I’m going to hire some people to thin the fields and then I’m going to set up shop and sell Christmas trees. I’ll find someone to operate the Christmas store and then when you’re back on your feet, you can take over.”

      “Don’t need your help, Augustus. If that’s why you came here, you can just climb into that fancy rig of yours and drive back to California and all those fancy people you like so much.”

      Gus dug the heels of his sneakers into the soft ground and rocked back. “I kind of figured you’d say that, Pop. So, let me put it another way. I came home to protect my investment, my half of Moss Farms. The half Mom left to me. If you don’t want me staying in the house I can get a room at a hotel in town. It doesn’t matter to me. The farm does matter. So, Pop, like it or not, I’m going to go to work.”

      “Won’t do you any good. Some group of women in town will be selling trees this year. A lady all prissy and dressed up came out here to ask me to sell her my trees. She wanted them at cut-rate prices. I said no. You want to go up against her, go ahead. I always said you were a smart aleck,” Sam Moss said as he turned to lumber away. “Stay in the house if you want; I don’t care, just pick up after yourself.”

      “Yeah, Pop, you always did say that. And a bunch of other