Chapter 20: Pop's Gift

Jeff Henderson hoisted the burlap sack bulging with greenery over his shoulder. On any other November day, he'd rather be climbing trees, but the holly branches in the bag were his ticket to Radio City Music Hall.

Beyond the tree line, something moved. Jeff stepped behind a tree and peered around it.

A man bundled against the cold crouched behind a tripod, peering through a surveyor's transit. Nearby, another man held a tall measuring stick. Jeff dropped the bag and took off through the woods.

He was out of breath when he reached the house.

"Pop! Mom! Come quick."

"What's wrong?" Allie said in alarm. Pop rose from his armchair, the newspaper spilling to his feet.

"Surveyors!" Jeff said, catching his breath. "On our land."

Pop sank back down.

"Pop, what have you done?" Allie demanded. Pop didn't answer. "Pop, you didn't sell to Hank Pritchard."

"Pop would never sell. Tell her," Jeff pleaded. "As long as we have land we can grow things, we aren't poor. All those things you said, Pop."

"They're measuring for roads and houses," Pop said. "For Holly Estates, Phase Two."

"Pop, why didn't you say anything?" Allie said.

Pop got to his feet and walked to the fireplace. A photograph of a young Marine rested on the mantle. He picked it up, passed his hand over the frame.

"Before Bobby left for Korea, we walked in the woods," he said, his back to them. "He was worried about you, Allie, and you too, Jeff, even though you weren't born for a couple of months yet. I promised him I'd always take care of you two." He set the picture down and turned to them.

"I haven't been doing a very good job lately. You and your Mom have tried to help, but it's my responsibility. I knew if I sold the land we could finish out the season, Allie. And we'd have enough, Jeff, to put you through college someday. Your dad would want that." Defeated, he dropped into his chair. "For once, I thought I could be like that 'Millionaire' show fella."

"But Pop," Allie said, kneeling in front of him. "Why should you have to carry the load?"

"Why not?" he said. "Who should?"

"You're wrong. My dad wouldn't want you to sell," Jeff cried, and ran out of the house.

A PEBBLED GLASS DOOR stenciled "Donald Metcalf, Chief, Wage and Hour Division," swung open. "Turner!" Metcalf screamed. He clutched the Morning Chronicle, a vein bulging on his forehead. "Get in here!"

Metcalf threw the newspaper on the desk. "Labor Department Nixes Country Christmas." He jabbed the headline.

"What's this?" He snatched up the newspaper, scanned the story and read aloud. "Some observers likened Wage and Hour Division chief Metcalf to the Grinch who stole Christmas." He tossed the paper down. "I look like an idiot."

"I guess they thought it was news," Turner said innocently.

"And who do you suppose they got it from?" Metcalf demanded. "Everybody knows that hack Doyle is your press agent."

"Funny, you always liked his stories before, when we were shutting down sweatshops," Turner said.

"That's different."

"That's what I was trying to tell you," Turner said. "I guess I'm not the only one who sees it that way."

"I don't know what you're trying to accomplish with this stunt. The Holly Wreath Man is shut down. And he's staying that way. You're too late."

Turner nodded. "Maybe," he said. He looked down at the paper. "Maybe not." He pulled out his wallet and removed his badge and laid it on Metcalf's desk.

"I quit."

"What?" The intercom on Metcalf's desk buzzed. "Chief, it's the Associated Press. It's about the Holly Wreath Man."

"No comment," Metcalf snarled.

TO STAY AWAKE on the long drive to Tennyson, John Turner switched on the car radio. The staccato delivery of commentator Paul Harvey filled the air.

"Page... Two." the familiar voice intoned. "Having trouble buying Christmas wreaths for the front door? Not those plastic ones, but the real McCoy, fresh holly from the forest? Thank the U.S. Labor Department, the Scrooge in this Christmas Carol."

Turner laughed and hoped Metcalf was listening.

"In their bureaucratic wisdom," Harvey continued, "the Feds settled a wage dispute by shutting down Eben Henderson, the Holly Wreath Man, of tiny Tennyson. No merry Christmas for wreath-making farm families denied their only source of income during the cold winter. I know whose stocking I'd like to put a lump of coal in."

Next chapter: Turner's Gift