The Tree Keeper's Promise Part 15

Mark answered the few things that came to mind but regretted not finding out more before they came.

"And what about-was it your great-great-grandfather? Can you tell us more about him?"

Mark's mind went blank. He was failing not only the historical portion of the test but failing to answer the only question that mattered.

He saw Mrs. Shaw and Papa walk out of the side door of the farmhouse. Not wasting any time, he called to them and led the group to where Papa was.

"Papa, before you go, I'd like you to meet these visitors from the State Historical Commission." Mark handled the introductions and then repeated the last question he'd been unable to answer.

Knowing Papa, this could go either way.

"You mean Hans?" Papa clarified. "Sure, what do you want to know 'bout him?"

"Anything that might be significant relating to the history of the state or, if not, whatever you can tell us," the man said.

"Let's see, Hans Shafer was one of the first German settlers of Sutton. Wasn't easy, I suppose, with all the Englishmen already established around here. He had a kind of vision," Papa said.

Mark froze for a moment, hoping against hope he wasn't going to try to share keeper stories in place of historical facts. Then he remembered something Papa had told him. "He was one of the first commercial Christmas tree farmers, not only in Ma.s.sachusetts but in the country. Right, Papa?"

"Yep, about 1920, '21. Took years before he made any profit. He was a man before his time."

The woman pulled out her pen and took more notes while the men exchanged satisfied looks. They talked with Papa about some of the development he had witnessed as a resident of Sutton for over seventy years.

They told Mark they would send the nomination form in and he would either get a letter from the National Park Service or a call from Mrs. Simmons. Then they excused themselves and were on their way.

Papa turned to Mark. "You mighta just saved the trees. And good thing. Don't you have a dinner to get to?"

Mark looked at his watch: 4:45 p.m.

Chapter 13.

Angela parked her truck in the driveway of her home and tapped the steering wheel.

Thank you, thank you!

Forget redoing her hair. She'd barely have time to tame it. Apartment inspections in the rain had soaked it into a near-unmanageable mess. Add to that the fact that six days of rain and the resultant humidity had taken her naturally curly hair to new heights, very frizzy heights.

She heard her mother arrive and Caroline's chatter. She put on another layer of gloss and felt a twinge in her stomach. She refused to entertain the idea of Mark proposing.

I'm being ridiculous. This is just a date. So what if it's Thursday? And he asked to pick me up early. And said my little black dress would not be too formal. I have no reason to be nervous. Right?

With that unconvincing train of thought, she pulled out a different pair of heels. Slightly higher with straps. She stared at her feet in the mirror, one foot sporting a patent-leather bow and st.u.r.dy, low heel, and the other, the obvious winner, some eye-catching bling.

They hadn't done anything this formal since Valentine's Day and that was just for fun. She twisted her necklace around her neck, adjusting it needlessly. Saved from the endless, last-minute fussing by Caroline's voice calling from the front room.

"Mom? Isn't Mark supposed to be here now?"

Angela grabbed her wrap and purse and headed for the door. If only she could exit without pa.s.sing the inspection crew.

No such luck.

"Ooooh, you're so pretty." Caroline jumped up from the sofa, staring at her mom in wide-eyed awe.

"I'm glad to see you haven't gotten rid of all your formal wear. I haven't even seen those shoes before. Are those Zanotti or Blahnik?"

"Please, Mom. These cost me $40, not $800."

"That might have been why I couldn't place them exactly. At least they are subtle."

Subtle?

In her younger years, her mother would say "If you can't wear designer, at least don't call attention to it with anything loud. No need to advertise the imitation."

"Somehow I don't think Mark will be worried about the shoes I'm wearing," Angela said, mostly to herself.

"Where are you off to, then?" Cathy asked.

"Dinner. An early dinner."

Though he did mention dancing.

The low heels were sounding much better.

"An early formal dinner," Cathy said as she smiled.

"I have no idea. It could be an anniversary of ours I haven't thought of yet."

"You didn't know Mark last September," Caroline piped up innocently.

Angela opened the refrigerator and pulled a few things from the back. She was still talking about what they could eat for dinner when Caroline opened the door and Mark walked in.

No, he didn't walk. He strode. He moved so smoothly and easily into the room and yet filled up the s.p.a.ce with his suit-covered shoulders in such a way that Angela could not see anything else.

Or hear. Or think. Or do anything other than focus on her lungs to be sure she didn't stop breathing altogether. Not that she was thinking about any of this, but she was pretty sure she needed to keep breathing.

Mark smiled in her direction. She returned the smile but became awkwardly aware of the leftovers in her hand. Setting the containers down on the table, she greeted Mark.

"I'm ready. I was making sure Caroline and Mom would have plenty for dinner, but I'm ready to go."

"Go, then," Cathy said. "We'll be fine. Caroline has already taught me how to use your microwave. We might even try popcorn tonight."

Mark reached out his hand and Angela automatically reached out hers. She walked to his side as if they were the only two people in the room.

He kissed her cheek and said not too quietly, "You're beautiful."

What was going on here? Angela had gotten used to their Sat.u.r.day-night dates. Casual, predictable, reliable. They had a good time. They were getting along fine. But this-what had changed? And it couldn't be just the suit, could it? For all her impatience with Ashley and the girl's obsession with men's fashion, she had to admit it had an effect.

"Is something wrong?" Mark asked.

"No. Not at all. I was um ..." Angela looked down to Mark's feet and back up to his eyes. "I was admiring your suit. Have I ever seen you in this one?"

Mark laughed. "Ha. No, this is new for the occasion."

"And what occasion is that?" Cathy asked.

"Angela didn't tell you?"

All eyes were on a bewildered Angela. Mark held his lips together in a deliberate grin.

Finally he relented.

"It's the autumnal equinox," he said and whisked Angela out of the door before her mother or Caroline could ask any more questions. "And we've got reservations."

The restaurant had been quiet-not surprising for a weeknight. Mark dodged any questions about the equinox comment. He seemed happy but nervous, talkative but quick to change subjects.

Angela, though hungry from the longer-than-expected day she'd had, found she couldn't eat as much as she wanted. So what if he's in a suit, she told herself, and acting funny. That doesn't mean anything. I have no reason to be nervous.

His cell phone rang. She sipped her drink.

"We have to go," he said, waving to their waiter and standing up. He reached for cash from his wallet.

"What? Now?"

Was this part of the plan for the night? Did he have a surprise party waiting for them or something?

But Mark was alarmed, frantic almost. "The farm. The rain. Brett said there might be overbank flooding from Lake Singletary."

"Isn't that ten miles away?"

"About that far. He said they don't know where the water's coming from, but a new channel of water has cut through the two-year-old's lot."

"Isn't that behind Donna's barn?"

"That's exactly where it is."

They both jumped out of Mark's truck as soon as he pulled up to the front door of the farmhouse. A quick glance at the ground and they could see that most of the water was rushing behind the house.

Mark pulled off his suit coat and threw it back into the truck. He did the same with his tie. He took the keys and put them in Angela's hand.

"Head inside. See if anyone else has been called. If you want to change into dry clothes"-he paused when they heard the sound of snapping branches-"there aren't any women's, but help yourself to anything dry that fits."

He bolted around the house. Angela stood for a moment, watching him go. Thunder cracked above her head. It shook her ribs and sent her running inside. She pulled off her strappy-heels, which were now useless, and made a beeline to Mark's bedroom only to see Papa's clothes in the drawer.

That's right. They traded places. How am I supposed to fit into any of this?

She opened and closed drawers and pulled open the closet doors. There, on the top of the closet shelf were some of Mark's clothes. She found a T-shirt and hoodie. Not that either would be helpful over the rain-soaked dress she had on. She pulled out the drawer with Papa's clothes one more time. There were several pairs of his jeans and one pair of carpenter-style Khaki's. She held them up to her waist and shook her head.

What difference does it make? He needs me out there.

She rolled the waist enough to tighten it and tucked the T-shirt in. Pulling the hoodie over her head, she could tell her hair was a lost cause. Without a ponytail holder, she wrestled it into a braided bun at the base of her neck.

Now dry, she ran to the phone at the front counter. Before she could call anyone, Brett came through the front door.

"Mark told me to call a few others," she said.

"Papa already called our seasonal team leader," Brett answered.

"Great, let's get out there," Angela said as she came out from around the counter.

Brett stared at her bare feet. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Blasted shoes. What size does Papa wear Never mind, I'll figure something out."

"I'm bringing the truck around back with more sandbags," he said and left through the side door.

Angela dug into Mark's closet. She found a well-worn pair of boots, probably two sizes too big, but she stuffed one pair of socks in each of the toes, put another pair on, and laced up the boots.

She got to the side of Donna's barn a few minutes after Brett arrived. She didn't announce herself but grabbed a sandbag from the back of the truck Brett had driven to the side of the barn.

"Angela, is that you?" Mark called.

"Who did you think it was?"

"A much prettier Papa," Mark said without laughing. "You don't have to be out here."

"Whatever. You think I'm going to sit inside and sip hot cocoa?"

They moved in tandem, though Mark and Brett could lift two sandbags in the time it took Angela to lift one. Others filed in and without much discussion helped move the small mountain of sand to form a wall-protecting Donna's barn from the newly formed river beside it.

"Do you think the rain will let up?" Brett yelled to Mark.

"At this point, it doesn't much matter. I'm guessing Lake Singletary couldn't hold a week's worth of rain. I hope it's not the dam at the chasm. I don't know what else could cause this kind of water," Mark answered.

"Does that mean you don't usually have to worry about floods?" Angela asked.

"Papa said he hadn't seen it flood like this since '65," Brett said.

"Where is Papa, anyway?" Mark asked. They each paused and looked around. Somewhere in the frantic activity of the wall-building, they hadn't noticed he'd left.

Mark, Angela, and Brett approached Papa leaning on his shovel on top of the ridge behind the cabin. Together they surveyed the water. The volume had decreased but was flowing freely through the gulley that ran in between two lots of trees.

"Water found a way through here, but not before the swell took a piece of the cabin," Papa said.