Chapters (43)
- Title Page
- Table of Contents
- Dedication
- Author's Note
- Prologue
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
- Also from the author
“It’s okay, Dad, I got it,” I say, rushing to his side.
His mouth opens, and he makes a sound, as if he’s trying to tell me something. A few muffled words come out, but none that make sense. My stomach twists. I look away as I help him get up, then drape his black dressing gown over his T-shirt and pajama pants, teeth clenched.
This.
This is why I can’t wait for Wren to win our case. Not because I now need to take care of the farm, or because my dad isn’t in the same physical shape as before. No, it’s because my father was my best friend. The one person I could talk to about anything and who would never judge me. I love my mother, but when she doesn’t agree with my choices, she’ll never let me off the hook. Dad was the kind of person who would listen to all you had to say, then think about it and give you one or two sentences that clarified whatever situation you were in. He was a man of few words, but the words he did use were reflected on and always pertinent. And now he can’t even tell me what he’s thinking, no matter how much he wants to. And what kind of son would I be if I told him about my problems when I knew he couldn’t help me with his advice, no matter how much he might want to? It would for sure make him feel even worse than if I said nothing, which is what I’ve decided to stick with.
Staying behind him, I make my way to the kitchen, where Wren says, “Good morning, Dennis.” She’s apparently less bothered than I am by the fact that he won’t answer.
Hopefully, I’ll eventually be able to learn from her.
“So,” Ma says to Wren with a giddy expression once we’ve all sat down, “are you ready for your taste buds to be blown away?”
* * *
“So people just come here and pick the tree they want?” Wren asks me as we walk through the small portion of trees we keep for customer access. Fairy lights are strung above—a real pain to put up, trust me—zigzagging around the trail. “Baby Please Come Home” by Michael Bublé is playing in the hidden speakers while a light snow falls softly. That last part wasn’t planned but definitely adds to the atmosphere.