Libby snorted. “Michael is getting twenty-percent commission and free counter help at the same time.”
“And you’re getting your product seen,” Kate returned warmly. “People are going to grab these up for Christmas presents.” She fingered one of the birds, a bright red cardinal male. “This would be nice with a green velvet blouse. Will you make me one to wear at our Christmas party?”
“We’re having a party?”
Kate turned and frowned. “Of course we are. We’ll invite all the MacKeages, the Dolans, Michael, Robbie, John, and Father Daar.” Excitement lighting her eyes, she walked around the counter, found a pen and paper, and started writing. “Let’s plan the menu. It should be simple and tasteful. Do you think we can get lobster this time of year?” she asked, looking up at Libby. “And when should we have it? Christmas Eve or a few days before?”
“Mom, we’re going to be too busy to have a party. This is Michael’s working season. We
’re going to be in this shop from daylight until after dark every day, including Christmas Eve.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Kate said, waving that away. “I can plan a party with my eyes closed.
Now, we’ll need to find a florist.” She stopped suddenly, biting the end of her pencil and thinking. “Would sending invitations in the mail be too uppity? They are our friends. Maybe just asking them would be more personal.”
Libby had learned a long time ago that it was much easier just to go along with her mother when Kate got a bee up her skirt about something. And parties, for Kate, were the thing of friendships.
“Asking them in person would probably be better,” Libby agreed as she returned to decorating the ten-foot Douglas fir Michael had set up in the center of his shop.
It was absolutely beautiful—one of his prize trees, Libby was guessing. One she’d managed to miss with her car. It hadn’t been rigidly trimmed this past summer, and the ends of the branches were soft and curving slightly downward, giving it a natural look.
Libby had never thought much about where Christmas trees came from; she’d just gone to the local sales lot and picked out whichever one caught her fancy. She now knew that it took plenty of work and planning and a good deal of artistry to grow them. And patience—which Michael seemed to have in spades. He’d told her this tree was twelve years old, a long time to wait for a return on an investment. Yes, growing Christmas trees took time, care, worry, and skill, as well as a nurturing instinct.
Michael had plenty of that, too.
God save her, she really was falling in love with him. And just as Grace MacKeage had predicted, he was driving her crazy. But it was such a nice, warm, and fuzzy kind of crazy Libby was all but bursting with joy.
“Oh, here come our first customers,” Kate said excitedly, looking out the window at the car driving up.
A man, a woman, and six kids got out. The children, ranging in age from about ten down to two, hit the ground running, headed for the closest field of Christmas trees. The woman captured the toddler, picked her up, and slowly started after the brood. The man, his expression resigned, came into the shop.
Kate smoothed down her hair and perked up, her smile warm and inviting. “Good morning,” she said cheerily. “Do you need a saw?”
“I do,” he answered, eyeing Kate suspiciously as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “Ah, where’s John?”
Kate sobered. “He’s spending the day with the Pottses, and having Thanksgiving dinner with them,” she told him. “We were all worried today might be hard for him… without Ellen.”
The man nodded. “That’s good, then. Ellen was the foundation of this place.” He eyed the doughnuts and frowned, looking back at Kate. “And you would be?” he asked.
“Oh. I’m Kate Hart,” she said, and then waved her hand toward Libby. “And this is my daughter, Libby Hart,” she added.
The man turned, and Libby smiled in greeting.
“Libby Hart?” he repeated. “You the doctor I heard about, living in Mary Sutter’s place?”
Libby wasn’t sure how to respond, so she nodded mutely.
“Are you going to hang out a shingle in town?” he asked. “We’ve been trying to get a doctor here for years now.”
“I-I’m a surgeon, Mr… .?”
His face tinged red. “Sorry,” he said, nodding to both Libby and Kate. “Alan Brewer. I own the welding shop in town.”
“Mr. Brewer,” Libby acknowledged. “I’m not really trained in general medicine. I worked in a trauma center.”
“We got trauma cases here,” he said, suddenly looking even more interested. “Most work in these parts is dangerous, what with the mills and logging operations, not to mention the rugged terrain. I’ve seen it happen that a person’s had to wait more than an hour to be airlifted all the way to Bangor. A few have even died before help arrived.”
Again, Libby didn’t know how to respond. But she’d bet a penny the next time an accident happened, she’d be getting a call. Well, that was okay, she supposed. She couldn’t in good conscience refuse to help when she might be able to save someone’s life.
She probably should think about throwing together a triage kit and carrying it in her truck.
“Here’s the saw, Mr. Brewer,” Kate said, handing it across the counter, smartly saving Libby from having to respond.
“And when you’re done, bring your children in for doughnuts. We have hot cocoa and warm cider for them, too, and coffee for you and your wife.”
“It’ll probably take a while,” he said with a pained sigh, handing his money to Kate and taking the saw. “Last year, we were in the field for nearly an hour. I swear, everyone’s got an opinion on what a tree should look like. I’ll see you a bit later, then. Missus Kate.
Doc Libby,” he said with a nod to each of them, tucking the saw under his arm and leaving to catch up with his family.
“Well, that was… ”
“Awkward?” Libby finished for her mom, groaning heavily. “I guess word’s out that Pine Creek has a new doctor in residence.”
“I’d forgotten what small-town life was like,” Kate said.
“Libby, you know you’re going to get called if there’s a bad accident, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I can see that. Lord, are people going to be calling me Doc Libby now?”
Well, it seemed that they were and that Kate’s reminder of small-town life would be proven true. At least, every other person trooping through the Christmas shop that day
—and there must have been fifty—knew a doctor had moved into town. Heck, people from out of town knew and asked questions, their eyes filled with hope and a good deal of relief.
By closing time, both Libby and Kate were beat ragged from smiling and fielding questions, making cocoa and coffee, giving opinions on customers’ choices of the perfect tree, and apologizing for the sad condition of their doughnuts. And in between all that, Libby had to keep running into the house and basting the turkey, peeling vegetables, and setting the table for their own Thanksgiving feast.
Michael spent his day loading yet three more tractor-trailers with trees headed out of state, so he wasn’t much help to Kate and Libby. Neither was Robbie, who had been given the duty of counting every tree being loaded. And Ian MacKeage, when he wasn’t inside eating doughnuts and teasing Kate, was outdoors, binding the fat Christmas trees and helping to load them on top of cars and trucks so they could be lugged home.
At seven o’clock, they were finally sitting at the table, ready to feast on a twenty-pound turkey, everyone dog tired and hungry as a bear.
And that was when the phone rang, and Kate’s prediction was made a reality, when Michael walked back to the table and quietly told Libby that both Alan Brewer and his oldest son had just fallen off the roof of their house.
Chapter Twenty-two