It was also the day the city of Salt Springs started working on the Christmas Jamboree and I’d just announced that I was stepping down as City Council president pro tempore after the holiday so I could run for mayor next year.
My phone was blowing up.
“Dad!” I shouted again, walking past the front desk decked in boughs of holly with silver and gold ornaments hanging from everything. Christmas music was being piped in from every corner. Rhonda, who had been running the front desk since Mom died, popped in from the office in the back.
“Hey,” I said, “the place looks great.”
“Thanks,” she said, her usual cheer muted. The reindeer leaping across the front of her sweater even seemed tired.
“You okay?” I asked, putting my phone in my pocket.
“Fine. But…I’ve told your father but I don’t think he’s listening to me or he forgot…”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Well, first, I’m leaving,” she said. “My daughter had a baby and I’m spending the holidays in Arizona.”
“That’s wonderful, congratulations, Grandma,” I said with a smile.
“Thank you. But I’m supposed to leave next week and your father thinks he’s going to run the front desk for the season.”
“Oh God, no,” I said.
“Right? We all remember what happened last time.”
Yes, the year of the great Yelp ratings massacre. My father was a charmer, authentic and real. But the man was not known for his patience. Or phone skills. “I’ll handle it,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure.”
“Well, the second thing is…bookings are down.”
“It’s the day after Thanksgiving, Rhonda. I’m sure—”
“They’re down for the whole season. Like, by a lot.”
We usually had people staying at the inn who were spending the holidays with family in town and a few who were vacationing at the Kringle Inn and Christmas Tree Farm to experience what they considered “real Christmas.” Snow-covered trees, ice skating on a frozen pond. Caroling. Sunday roast dinner at the pub. Sledding on the back hill.
Christmas was the Kringle family thing.
And between November and January we were usually booked solid with a waiting list.
“Thanks Rhonda, I’ve got it. You go visit your daughter with a clear conscience.”
“Thank you, Ethan. You’ve always been so good at handling problems.” She sighed, the reindeer looking nominally more cheerful. Since last year’s municipal nightmare and my stepping in as City Council president and convincing United Earth to build a factory and office on the edge of town—my reputation as a fixer of problems had become a thing. And considering my run for mayor next year—that was not at all a bad thing. “You’ve got my vote next year. You can count on that.”
“I appreciate that Rhonda. Now, do you know where my dad is?”
“Yes.” She shook her head. “The fool is out back with Paul getting ready to hang the wreath.”
“I told him to wait!”
“You know your father.”
I did. And he was a stubborn old man. I ran through the kitchen, out the back, past the cottages to the big red barn at the edge of the Christmas tree farm. There was my father climbing a giant ladder. I skidded to a stop next to Paul, the manager of the farm.
“Paul—”
He held up a hand. “He told me he didn’t need my help.”
“But—”
“He said he would fire me. And I like my job.”
“He’s—”
“Tell him yourself.”
Paul was a grumpy, bearded enigma, and without him the Christmas tree farm would fall to ruin. I was not about to cross Paul.
“Dad!” I yelled, stepping up to the ladder. The big wreath had been wrenched up to the peak of the barn roof and swayed over our heads, waiting for someone to hang it on the giant hook and untie the rope.
“Just a second, Ethan,” Dad said, climbing.
I grabbed onto the ladder, feeling it shake with each of my seventy-year-old father’s footsteps. “I came over here to do this. Will you get down and let me?”
“It’s mostly done.” He looked down at me, the aging Christmas hippie. He wore an old stocking cap over his shock of white hair and under his barn coat there was undoubtedly a Grateful Dead concert tee-shirt, threadbare and original. The fool was wearing Birkenstocks. Birkenstocks with bright red rag socks, but Birks nonetheless.
“You’re gonna fall.”
“Oh, ye of little faith, son. I’ve been hanging this wreath since before you were born.”
“You’re in sandals, Dad.”
“I’ve been wearing these Birks since before you were born, too.”
“That’s the problem. You can’t—”
My phone rang and I reached one hand into my pocket at the same time the wind kicked up from the east and sent the wreath swaying and spinning. Dad stretched for it.
“Dad!” I shouted, reaching for him, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Paul come running, but we were both too late. Dad landed in a heap at the bottom of the ladder.
I stepped out of Dad’s hospital room into the hushed hallway. He was sleeping. Finally. Exhausted, no doubt, from hours of telling everyone from doctors to nurses that he was fine. He’d had worse. The man had cast on his leg from ankle to midthigh. He wanted to go home and I didn’t blame him; being back in the Salt Spring Hospital was messing with both our heads. But doctors were keeping him overnight because of his age and a previous reaction to morphine.