The Tree Keeper's Promise Part 14

Angela watched his eyes dart to her before he answered.

"I, uh, I was looking for you, actually. I'm ordering some equipment-thought I better see if you needed anything for the barn."

Mrs. Shaw set down her paintbrush and wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n. She pushed her chair away from the table. "I'd say I'm pretty well stocked. Papa's been seeing to that." She looked to Angela though she was still addressing Mark.

"Great. It'll be another day or two. If you think of anything, let me know," he said and paused.

Mrs. Shaw popped up out of her chair. "Let me check my book by the register. There may be something I need after all." On that last word, she looked to Angela again.

Though she knew exactly what Mrs. Shaw was up to, she wasn't happy about it. She and Mark were going to dinner tomorrow. They'd have alone time then. But Mrs. Shaw was already disappearing behind the door, and Mark still stood closer to the doorway than to her.

She put her paintbrush down and straightened up her works.p.a.ce.

"We're about done," she said, keeping her voice neutral.

"Do you have a few minutes before you go? There's something I want to show you."

Angela turned enough to see his face. The question was still in his eyes. His heart-melting eyes.

"Sure, I just need to get home to Caroline soon."

"It won't take long," he said.

"Let me clean some of this up."

Without talking, he walked over and helped with the paint bottles and butcher paper. Mrs. Shaw returned and asked about the possibility of purchasing another dolly. She said the one they had was rather large and if she could have a smaller one, it would allow her to move boxes around without risking injury.

They headed back to the farmhouse and entered through the side door. Mark led them past the dining room and stopped at the painter's plastic draped strategically to obscure as much of the room as possible.

"I'm waiting for one last order-" He seemed to stop himself from elaborating. "I was going to wait until it was done, but I want to show you now."

Angela watched as he pulled some of the plastic down. She reached to take a sheet of it from his hands. It felt like they were unwrapping a present, and though she knew what it was, her stomach fluttered in excitement all the same.

Mark pulled away another sheet and took her hand to pull her through. She stood on a wide wooden floor that stretched to the wall where two large windows opened up to a stunning view of the trees.

Her breath caught, and she looked to Mark, a bit confused.

"Is this a ... dining room?

Mark only smiled. He walked her over to the adjoining room. She saw a control panel, chairs, a microphone-a music studio!

"Mark. This isn't a bedroom. It's not another master."

"You said you didn't need a larger one," he reminded her, checking her face. She heard a slight defensiveness in his tone.

"You're right, I don't. But all this time I thought ... I thought you were building one anyway." She walked forward and let her fingers rest on the panel.

A recording room. A music room. She looked through a window to the room with the wooden floor. "And that is?" She turned back to ask Mark, but he was already at her side. He turned a few controls, adjusted the volume, and took her by the hand again.

In a blur of motion, they were in the middle of the floor, one of Angela's songs was playing, and they were dancing.

"How did you get my song? Was this always going to be a studio? ... It had to be." She was answering her own questions. "You started this in the spring." She couldn't process it all quickly enough. As they turned, the trees kept coming into view and Mark still hadn't said anything. But he was smiling. She could almost hear his smile it was so broad.

"So to be clear, this is a dance floor?"

"You catch on quick," he said.

She loved it when they danced. Mark was happy, and she loved to be close to him when he was. Not to mention the feel of his arm draped across her back, her hands clasped around his neck.

Her song ended, and one of his started-the one she'd heard last week. She didn't welcome the thought of what had happened in her music studio, but a new realization settled over her. When Todd had left her, it felt like he had taken her dream of producing music with him. Here Mark was making that dream possible again. He had provided a place for them to work on their music together. A new place for the two of them.

"I'm in love. Can't get enough. Turning me upside down."

He pulled her close, clasping his hands at the small of her back, then leaned in and whispered, "I'm sorry, Angela. I never want to do anything to hurt you." He gently rested his head against hers.

She buried her head in his shoulder. She may or may not have been fighting back tears.

A few moments pa.s.sed as they swayed to the music.

"Do you like it?" Mark asked quietly. "I want you to love it here. I want this to feel like home."

The only word that came to her mind was Mrs. Shaw's gracious.

How could she be anything but?

"I love it Mark. And I love you," she said as she picked up her head and their lips met for a soft and earnest kiss.

Chapter 12.

Mark never thought he'd be this excited for the first day of autumn. It wasn't the fall foliage. It wasn't the cooler temperatures. It was the start of the fourth season-the not-so-serious reason Angela had given for waiting to get married.

"You should know a man four seasons before you marry him," her mother had told her once. And somewhere along the way it had become a line in the sand. But it wasn't all bad. Mark noticed that Angela and her mother had been able to spend more time together. And it gave him time to add on to the house.

But the calendar was on his side now, and the ring had been cleaned and appraised. They could have a little dinner, visit the gazebo, and come back to the farmhouse for some dancing. He would need to double-check with Papa to confirm he could spend some time at Mrs. Shaw's apartment.

He walked to the farmhouse and studied the cloud pattern in the sky.

At least it's not raining-at the moment.

He needed to order the sales tags for the upcoming season and check their quant.i.ties of herbicide-as well as pick up his new suit downtown. He was cutting it close having the alterations done and picking it up on the day of, but by the time he'd found a place to do it, there hadn't been much choice.

The phone rang. Mrs. Simmons wanted to talk to him right away.

"Good news. Are you ready for this?" She sounded out of breath. "A representative or two of the Ma.s.sachusetts Historical Commission want to visit your farm today. Can you believe it? Neither can I. This is good news, Mark. They only meet quarterly, so I called them after you stopped by. It's a good thing I did."

"Today?" Mark asked, concerned his schedule would now be too tight.

"That's right. They wouldn't send someone out unless they thought the property deserved consideration. This means they will likely put it to a vote." Her voice reached a higher pitch as she finished, sounding like the property was as good as listed.

"Do you know what time?" He closed the equipment catalog on his desk, stood, and paced around the office. "What will I need to do?"

"The woman said three o'clock. That's okay with you, isn't it? I hope it is, since I already told her it was. Their meeting is next Friday, and they only had certain days for field visits. Are you getting a sense of what a miracle this is?"

"Yes, Mrs. Simmons, I can't thank you enough."

"Mark?" Her voice was now more intense. "Will you be ready to give her a tour? Do you have your criteria ready?"

"My criteria?" Mark stopped pacing and looked up at the trees through the office window.

"Please tell me you did your research. You do realize they will want to know your reasons." She sighed a heavy sigh. Mark could picture her in front of his English cla.s.s again, like he'd gotten an a.s.signment wrong-that he hadn't even turned in!

"Do you have something to write with? Between now and three o'clock you'll need to have an answer for these questions."

She spoke hurriedly. Mark scrawled the questions onto some note paper, asking her to repeat phrases only when absolutely necessary.

"How is the property a.s.sociated with events of significant contribution to our history?"

"How is the property a.s.sociated with the lives of significant persons in our past?"

Or was it "our significant past?"

Mark was trying to keep up. "Embodiment of distinctive characteristics," he wasn't sure he was spelling any of this correctly. "Yielding information significant in history."

At that, Mark felt the National Register possibility slip away. His voice had to have shown it as Mrs. Simmons began to be more encouraging.

"The farm only has to meet one of those criteria, Mark," she said, sounding pleased with herself. "Good luck, and tell me how it goes."

After the call, Mark sat back down at his desk and reread his notes.

This could take a while.

Deep into the history of Sutton and absorbed by the story of Rufus Putnam, a Revolutionary War soldier who helped defend Dorchester Heights and forced the British to abandon Boston, Mark was startled by the phone.

"Shafer Tree Farm, Mark speaking," he said with his eyes still on the computer.

"Checking in with you. I'll be in Sutton tomorrow. Have you had time to think about my offer?"

It took Mark a second-or less-to recognize John Jackson's voice. He was about to simply hang up, but something prevented him.

"John? Yeah, not sure what offer you're talking about, so no. I'm busy at the moment."

"I have an interested buyer. Not gonna lie-hard to come by with rumors flying about the expansion. And they aren't offering as much as you could have made last year. But given the circ.u.mstances, I can almost guarantee you'll make more than you would if you have to settle with the state."

Mark closed his eyes. He tried to breathe and count but didn't want to give John any more airtime that he already had.

He answered calmly. "The farm is not for sale, John. Not last year, not this year. And there won't be any settlement. I have good reason to believe the state will need to change its recommendation about the farm."

John scoffed. "Mark, do you hear yourself? The Department of Transportation gets whatever it wants around here, or haven't you noticed? I can save you a lot of grief. My buyer can meet-"

"Your buyer can go visit the Blackstone Street Bridge." Mark didn't raise his voice, but he could feel his temper rising. "The farm is being considered as a historic property, to be listed on the National Register."

Mark wished he'd hung up at the start. He didn't relish giving John any details, but he was determined to be done with his hara.s.sment.

"Are you kiddin' me? You think that's gonna happen?" John laughed-not a polite laugh. "Did you know Ma.s.sachusetts has the most historic places listed on the National Register of any state in the country? Well, second to New York, but half their properties were probably bribes. Anyone can figure it out. They don't want any new listings from this state. There are over four thousand already. Ask me how I know. I'll tell you, selling real estate around this place, they're like landmines-everywhere you turn there's another place on the NR."

Mark listened, staring at his notes from Mrs. Simmons and the other notes he'd made from his research and doubted any of it would be enough.

"Unless you have, I don't know, Noah's ark in your backyard. I hate to be the one to tell you, but you don't have a chance."

Right. He loves being the one to tell me.

Mark glanced at the clock. It was approaching three.

"We'll see about that, John."

The rain had held off for most of the day, but the ground was saturated and water levels in the surrounding lakes were at record highs. At least the representatives of the Ma.s.sachusetts Historical Commission didn't have to carry umbrellas.

Two men and a woman arrived in a Jeep. They all wore jeans, raincoats, and boots. Ready for the terrain. With John Jackson's words and laughter echoing in his ears, Mark greeted the group and invited them inside the farmhouse first. Maybe he could relax. If only John's call hadn't come before their inspection. If only it hadn't rattled his nerves.

The representatives were gracious and appeared genuinely interested in the farm. One of the men asked Mark how long he'd worked there, delighted to hear he was the descendant of the original settler. He saw the woman making notes. It didn't surprise him, but it didn't put him at ease either.

Once outside, he led them to the back lot of trees, avoiding the sales lot and Donna's barn. He wanted to downplay the commercial aspects of the farm. Based on Mrs. Simmons's questions, he thought that might count against him.

He spoke rapidly about tree varieties, planting schedules, and weather patterns. He detailed the types of herbicide they used, their procedures for controlling rodents, and even the best methods to ensure seedling survival.

When their eyes appeared gla.s.sed over, he began rambling about the several years of drought that had likely contributed to a large fire one year.

"My parents died in that fire," he said unintentionally.

At that, he stopped talking, stunned into silence at the thought that he had shared too much about the care of the trees and his personal life. They stood by the back of the farmhouse, having come full circle around the property.

He vaguely remembered the questions Mrs. Simmons had given him to research. He couldn't recall even one of them or an answer that might meet the listed criteria.

Finally, the woman slipped her pen into her raincoat pocket and said, "I'm sorry about your parents. That must have been very difficult for you. I'm sure it would please them very much to know you're taking such good care of the trees." She smiled and looked to the other gentlemen.

Mark exhaled. He hadn't intended to appeal to their sympathy. His nerves must have gotten the better of him.

"Can you tell me about your sales? You sell the trees for the holiday, right?" one of the men asked.

"Yes, we do. We have a small lot up front, to the side. We open after Thanksgiving and have a good number of families who return each year." Again, Mark wondered if any of this would hurt the application.

"Can you tell us about the cabin structure?" the other man asked.