Read Online Sugar And Spice by Joanne Fluke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joanne Fluke
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it. We’ll trim the base, clip the straggly branches, drill the hole in the trunk and net the trees. We’ll divide the lot into three categories—small, medium and large trees. You can sell them for whatever you want. We’ll even deliver them to your site. That’s all gratis. Labor is expensive. It’s the best I can do.”
“Well, that isn’t good enough, Mr. Moss. This is for charity, for the Senior Citizens of our town. Your father is a senior citizen, and so is my mother. One day you and I will be seniors. Shame on you, Gus Moss. I wouldn’t do business with you if you paid me my weight in gold. Who do you think you are?”
His love was angry. Well, he was angry too. “I’m an architect. I’m not a tree farmer. I came here to help my father and to protect my interest in this farm. I put my personal life on hold to come here to do this and to make it work. And it is working. My fields are ready to go.”
“Helloooo, Mr. Moss. I did the same thing. I’m going to make it work, but for all the right reasons. Not to make money for myself and to protect my investment.”
The purple hat was suddenly on her head, the muffler whipping past his nose as she wrapped it around her neck. “You…you…Scrooge. Shame on you, Gus Moss. I hope you enjoy your ill-gotten gains. Thanks for the pie.” The door slammed behind Amy. Cyrus let out a shrill bark and slammed against the back door as he tried to understand the young woman’s angry tone.
Gus flopped down on the chair he’d been sitting on during Amy Baran’s tirade. Scrooge! Scrooge! She’d called him, Gus Moss, a scrooge.
Chapter Eight
The Rafters was a secluded restaurant perched high on a hill. In the fall and winter when the trees were bare, the nation’s capitol could be seen in the distance. It wasn’t necessarily the kind of eatery where one went to be seen—just the opposite, as it afforded privacy and small rooms where one could dine without worrying about people stopping by to say hello. It was rumored that more than one senator and congressmen had dalliances in the private rooms. The owners of the establishment, the ladies Harriet and Olivia Neeson, were quick to deny all such rumors.
Sam Moss had called ahead for a reservation and was assured by Harriet, who had been a dear friend of his wife, Sara, that she would reserve the best table in the house.
Sam and Tillie were halfway through the meal when Sam realized he was enjoying himself. He liked the witty, sharp-tongued Tillie Baran. He knew he was going to be sorely disappointed if this outing turned out to be solely about Christmas trees.
It had been ages, years actually, since he’d dined out. He always felt like a fish out of water sitting down in a restaurant by himself. When Sara was alive, they ate out every Saturday and Sunday to give her a break from cooking. He’d liked the fact that they both got slicked up. Sara preferred to say they got dressed up. Before his date with Tillie he’d dithered about what to wear and had trouble deciding if he should get dressed up. Finally, he settled on one of his vintage sport jackets. He was glad now that he hadn’t gone the suit-and-tie route, because Tillie was dressed casually. She smelled so good he kept sniffing her over the delectable aromas emanating from the kitchen. Yes sireee, he was enjoying himself.
Tillie looked up from her pecan-crusted salmon she was eating and said, “I can’t help but notice how you keep sniffing, Sam. Do I still smell like mothballs?”
“No, no. I’m trying to decide which smells better, the aromas from the kitchen or your perfume. It’s been a long time since I smelled perfume. The truth is, I haven’t been out with a lady since Sara died.”
Tillie pushed her plate away. “I can top that, Sam. I haven’t been with a man in twenty-eight years. What I mean is, I haven’t…never mind. It must have been very hard on you when Sara passed away. My husband…it was different. I know you and Sara
“Well, that isn’t good enough, Mr. Moss. This is for charity, for the Senior Citizens of our town. Your father is a senior citizen, and so is my mother. One day you and I will be seniors. Shame on you, Gus Moss. I wouldn’t do business with you if you paid me my weight in gold. Who do you think you are?”
His love was angry. Well, he was angry too. “I’m an architect. I’m not a tree farmer. I came here to help my father and to protect my interest in this farm. I put my personal life on hold to come here to do this and to make it work. And it is working. My fields are ready to go.”
“Helloooo, Mr. Moss. I did the same thing. I’m going to make it work, but for all the right reasons. Not to make money for myself and to protect my investment.”
The purple hat was suddenly on her head, the muffler whipping past his nose as she wrapped it around her neck. “You…you…Scrooge. Shame on you, Gus Moss. I hope you enjoy your ill-gotten gains. Thanks for the pie.” The door slammed behind Amy. Cyrus let out a shrill bark and slammed against the back door as he tried to understand the young woman’s angry tone.
Gus flopped down on the chair he’d been sitting on during Amy Baran’s tirade. Scrooge! Scrooge! She’d called him, Gus Moss, a scrooge.
Chapter Eight
The Rafters was a secluded restaurant perched high on a hill. In the fall and winter when the trees were bare, the nation’s capitol could be seen in the distance. It wasn’t necessarily the kind of eatery where one went to be seen—just the opposite, as it afforded privacy and small rooms where one could dine without worrying about people stopping by to say hello. It was rumored that more than one senator and congressmen had dalliances in the private rooms. The owners of the establishment, the ladies Harriet and Olivia Neeson, were quick to deny all such rumors.
Sam Moss had called ahead for a reservation and was assured by Harriet, who had been a dear friend of his wife, Sara, that she would reserve the best table in the house.
Sam and Tillie were halfway through the meal when Sam realized he was enjoying himself. He liked the witty, sharp-tongued Tillie Baran. He knew he was going to be sorely disappointed if this outing turned out to be solely about Christmas trees.
It had been ages, years actually, since he’d dined out. He always felt like a fish out of water sitting down in a restaurant by himself. When Sara was alive, they ate out every Saturday and Sunday to give her a break from cooking. He’d liked the fact that they both got slicked up. Sara preferred to say they got dressed up. Before his date with Tillie he’d dithered about what to wear and had trouble deciding if he should get dressed up. Finally, he settled on one of his vintage sport jackets. He was glad now that he hadn’t gone the suit-and-tie route, because Tillie was dressed casually. She smelled so good he kept sniffing her over the delectable aromas emanating from the kitchen. Yes sireee, he was enjoying himself.
Tillie looked up from her pecan-crusted salmon she was eating and said, “I can’t help but notice how you keep sniffing, Sam. Do I still smell like mothballs?”
“No, no. I’m trying to decide which smells better, the aromas from the kitchen or your perfume. It’s been a long time since I smelled perfume. The truth is, I haven’t been out with a lady since Sara died.”
Tillie pushed her plate away. “I can top that, Sam. I haven’t been with a man in twenty-eight years. What I mean is, I haven’t…never mind. It must have been very hard on you when Sara passed away. My husband…it was different. I know you and Sara
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