Page 25 of Sweet Trouble
“He crammed his hat down on his head and said,No thank you,” Dad replied, giving the man a pinched voice, his hands flying as he pretended to cram a hat down on his head and march away.
Mom giggled like a schoolgirl.
“What was that?” Tripp asked as he came in.
“Well, it’s the story I wanted to tell you,” Dad said, chuckling. “But now you heard the ending.”
“What’s the beginning?” Tripp asked.
“One of the new flatlanders asked at the town meeting if he could play Santa this year,” Mom recounted.
That wouldn’t have gone down well. Kris Olafsson was the town’s mailman. But he had played Santa for generations of Sugarville Grove children. Suggesting a new Santa would practically be sacrilege around here.
Though of course theflatlanders,as locals called them, were all from out of town, most of them fleeing the cities for what they thought would be a simplerlife. This poor man wouldn’t have known how sacred Sugarville Grove’s mailman Santa was to everyone.
“They told him no immediately,” Mom put in. “Of course.”
“But then he said,I guess there’s no room for anything new in this town,” Dad added, in a perfect imitation of a city man’s injured huff. “So Kris told him he could be his new elf. And the man just crammed his hat down on his head and left.”
“Maybe it’s not nice of us to laugh at him,” Mom said gently, shaking her head. “But he hardly sounds like the kind of person who would make a good Santa Claus.”
“You’re saying a good Santa should be willing to work his way up from a humble elf position?” Dad asked, which only made Mom laugh again.
Tripp smiled and headed over to grab himself a quick cup of coffee.
It was easy to see that his parents were still madly in love after so many years and so many kids and grandkids together. He was grateful for it, and at times a little envious too. Who was going to laugh at his silly stories when he was their age?
“You’re wearing your good shirt,” Mom noticed as he headed back to the table.
“Figured I’d better clean up a little,” he said, carrying the carafe over with him. “Anyone need a warmup?”
Both his parents accepted a bit more coffee. He poured it, then returned the carafe and came back with milk. The little ritual calmed his nerves a bit.
“So, the Johnsons are finally going to let you get yourhands on the whole house?” Dad asked as Tripp took his seat.
“Jillian seems to think so,” Tripp said, pouring a splash of milk in his coffee. “Though it’s entirely possible that I’ll get over there and she won’t have them convinced.”
“I don’t see why not,” Mom said. “You care about them, and you won’t charge them.”
“It’s one thing to have a contractor come in and point out everything that needs fixing,” Dad said. “It’s another for someone who knows you to see how you’re living.”
They were all silent for a moment at that thought.
It was a sad idea that things might get to a point where you felt ashamed about your home. But Coach and Mrs. Johnson didn’t have any kids who still lived in the area, so it made perfect sense that some of the maintenance would be a little too much for the older couple to keep up with. When Tripp thought about all the things he did around his own parents’ house without even thinking about it, he could appreciate how quickly things might get out of hand if he wasn’t around.
“Bring over some blueberries,” Mom suggested. “Max got really nice ones in at the store, and I brought home too many.”
“Are you sure?” Tripp asked.
“Oh yes,” Mom said. “There’s nothing worse than wasting blueberries.”
Tripp was pretty sure that no berry would ever go to waste in this house. Dad would make a pie or Mom would rinse them and put them out in a bowl when grandkids started piling inafter school.
But he appreciated the gesture. He’d made it a bit of a mission to keep the Johnson kitchen stocked anyway.
“That’s a great idea,” he said. “I know they’ll enjoy ‘em.”
“And you’ll say hello for us,” Dad added.
