Sugar And Spice. Shirley Jump

licked her lips. “Were you trying to scare me before when you said I was liable for all…for all those bills?”

      Amy leaned across the table. “Read my lips, Mom. You signed the work orders. That means you are liable.”

      “That…that would wipe out my nest egg. I would have to get a job.”

      “That’s what it means, Mom. Look at it this way, ’tis the season of miracles—or almost, anyway.”

      Chapter Five

      Sam Moss sat on the top of the newly repaired steps that to the front porch. There was a time when the porch held pumpkins with lit candles, cornstalks, and a few scarecrows. So long ago. Now the porch was empty, just the way he was empty.

      It was full dark now, an hour past supper. The only thing he’d eaten today was a frozen TV dinner at lunchtime that tasted like cardboard because the pot of stew he’d made wasn’t done cooking. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered.

      Out of the corner of his eye he could see a line of headlights heading out of the fields. The drivers of the vehicles wouldn’t see him sitting on the steps because the big blue spruce at the corner of the house blocked the view of the porch. Gus’s workers, that’s how he thought of them, wouldn’t be gazing about anyway. They’d be in a hurry to get home to their families and a warm supper. Gus would be the last one to come down the road.

      His son had been home six full days, and what the boy—which was how he thought of his son, the boy—had accomplished stunned him. In all of his sixty-four years he had never seen such single-minded determination to get the farm up and running. A river of guilt rushed through him at what he was allowing to go on. What really bothered him was the boy hadn’t asked him for a penny. He knew from the talk in town that Gus was paying his workers more than a decent wage plus overtime. He’d never in his life paid overtime to an employee. Sara always said he was behind the times, a fuddy-duddy with tunnel vision. If she were here right now, sitting on the steps right next to him, she’d give him a poke on the arm and say, “See, Sam, I told you our son is the best of the best.” Like he didn’t know that.

      How he wished he was more like Sara, who was so outgoing and loved by everyone. Was outgoing. Was loved by everyone. Especially by Gus. That hurt, but he’d accepted that the boy liked his mother more than him. Because of that, without really meaning to, he’d been extra hard on him. In his own defense, he’d said things like, hard work never hurt anyone, hard work builds character. He’d truly believed that because of him, Gus was the man he was today. Until yesterday afternoon, when it started to rain and Gus had come in for a slicker. They’d eyeballed each other until Gus finally said, “Yeah, I know, Pop, working in freezing rain won’t kill me, and it will build my character. Well guess what, if your next line is ‘I’m the man I am today because of you,’ think again. I’m the man I am because of Mom. Not you. Never you.” Then he’d stomped out in the cold rain to continue working the fields, to correct what his father had let go to wrack and ruin.

      “So, I’m a horse’s patoot,” Sam Moss muttered as he got up to go into the house.

      He’d cooked a pot of stew earlier in the day. It was the one thing he did well. It was simmering on the stove now, ready to be eaten. If he got into the kitchen in time, he could casually mention the stew and even set the table. Maybe they could talk. Maybe he could offer…

      Sam removed the red plaid mackinaw and hung it on the hook by the back door. He was setting the table when Gus walked in. “Made some stew today. You’re welcome to sit down and eat. Got some frozen bread warming in the oven,” he said gruffly.

      “No, thanks. I’m too tired to eat. Maybe later. Since you seem to be talking to me today, one of my guys told me he heard in town that you’re going to be selling trees for $45 each to clear the fields. I sure as hell hope you’re talking about your half of the farm and not my half. I’ll be selling mine at market value. You better get it in gear, Pop, or you’re going to look like…”

      “A horse’s patoot?”

      Gus reared back. “I was going to be a little more blunt and say a horse’s ass. That’s if the rumor is true. If it isn’t true, I’ll take back my opinion.” Without another word, Gus left the room.

      Sam turned away to hide his grin. The boy had grit, he had to give him that. He ladled the fragrant stew in to his bowl and sat down to eat.

      Sam’s mind roamed as he ate. He now knew his son’s habits at the end of the workday. He showered, slept for three hours, came downstairs to eat, did some paperwork and went back to bed. It was during Gus’s three-hour nap that Sam went out to the fields to check the day’s work. After his inspection, on the walk back to the house, he always felt like puffing out his chest. The boy had grit and promise. He frowned as he broke a piece of bread off the loaf on the table. He really hadn’t expected the rumor he started to get back to Gus so quickly. He still couldn’t believe he’d purposely started it. How stupid of him to think people would flock to buy the trees Gus cut down at a giveaway price. Gus’s trees. He had to remember that.

      Upstairs, Gus stood in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. Who the hell was that wild-looking guy with the six-day growth of beard staring back at him? His face was windburned and his eyes were bloodshot. The beard itched. He was so cold he thought he’d snap in two before he could get into the hot shower. Nothing, not even rousing sex, felt as good as the hot water running over his body. He let his shoulders droop as he turned this way and that in an effort to get warm. Stew. Hot stew. He couldn’t remember when he smelled something half as good. Made by his father, who had issued an invitation. Maybe he was finally coming around. Or maybe his father thought he was going to fall on his face. Maybe he thought he didn’t have the stamina to carry through on his plan. Who the hell knew what the old man thinks. Still, an invitation was an invitation. His mouth started to water at the thought of the savory stew and crusty bread.

      Bone tired, Gus stepped out of the shower, dressed and headed downstairs. He was stunned to see a place set for him at the table. There was even a napkin. Salt, pepper and butter were in the middle of the table. He helped himself. He’d dined in five-star restaurants, eaten gourmet food, but nothing had ever tasted as good as what he was eating. He had two bowls of the delicious stew, drank a bottle of beer and ate half the loaf of bread. Beyond stuffed, Gus cleaned up, transferred the contents of the pot into a huge bowl and set it in the refrigerator. He wrapped the leftover bread in foil.

      With no idea where his father was, Gus turned off the light and switched on the night-light over the stove before he headed upstairs where he turned on his laptop and proceeded to go shopping at L.L. Bean. He ordered thermal underwear, flannel shirts, foot warmers, hand warmers, several wool watch caps, and four pairs of boots. He ordered his own slicker, two shearling jackets, heavy corduroy trousers, and a dozen pairs of wool socks. He completed his order and hit the button for overnight delivery.

      With the temperatures in the low forties, he wanted to be prepared.

      His eyes drooping, his stomach full, Gus fell into bed. He slept soundly until the shrill of the alarm woke him at four o’clock. He groaned, rolled over, tussled with Cyrus for a few minutes, then climbed out of bed to get dressed. He sniffed. Was that coffee and bacon he smelled? He wondered if his father was making breakfast for himself. Or for him. Nah, lightning doesn’t strike twice. Yesterday had to be a fluke. How could he possibly be hungry after all he’d eaten last night? Yet he was starved, his stomach rumbling.

      Cyrus loped ahead of him and sprinted down the stairs. By the time Gus reached the kitchen, Cyrus was gobbling eggs and bacon from a bowl that used to belong to old Buster.

      Gus blinked. The table was set. On his mother’s place mats. A plate full of eggs, bacon, sausage and toast waited for him along with a huge mug of coffee. Next to his plate was a large thermos. “Looks good,” Gus said, sitting down. He bowed his head and said a prayer the way his mother taught him to do before he dived in. It did not go unnoticed by his father.

      Sam Moss raised his head and looked directly at his son. “Can you use another