Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 50080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 250(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 167(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50080 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 250(@200wpm)___ 200(@250wpm)___ 167(@300wpm)
My eyes roll, thinking about Mr. Whitaker working his fingers to the bone while his son is off living in the city, not caring about his father.
If I ever get my hands on that man.
I shake my head and sigh. I get that this small-town life isn’t for everyone, but I feel like there’s a certain responsibility we, as children, have when our parents own a business. Especially when it’s the busy season. As soon as the leaves start to change, tourists flock to Deer Ridge. Zane could easily come back a few weekends a month and at least visit. Then maybe his dad won’t look so sad all the time.
As soon as I turn onto Main Street, a car pulls away from the curb. I pull in easily and decide to leave my car running, so it’s nice and warm when I get back in. Thankfully, the line at Alma’s isn’t out the door. The second I walk in, my stomach growls. I should be embarrassed, but I’m not and if it did and anyone heard it, I’m sure theirs growled just as loudly.
“Evangeline,” Alma calls my name and waves me forward. I apologize as I move around people waiting in line. At the counter, she pushes a box forward.
“What’s this?”
“Noelle phoned in your order. She said you had a rough morning.”
“Wow.” I shake my head in disbelief. “Noelle is the best.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I tell Alma automatically. I’m not someone who shares all their bad news.
Alma’s eyebrow pops up. I fight to roll my eyes.
“Fine.” I groan. “My heat is out, which isn’t a big deal except the furnace is old and I’m afraid it’s going to cost me a ton.”
Alma reaches across the top of the display case. “It’ll all work out.”
I love her optimism because I need it. I thank her for the cinnamon rolls and head toward the café where the owner, Lila, raises a cup in the air.
“Let me guess, Noelle called in my order?”
“She did. Have a great day, Evangeline. My dad said to let you know or your dad know he’ll be by later today. What time will you close?”
“If you’re cutting your own, an hour before sundown. You don’t want to be traipsing through the woods at night.”
“I’ll tell him. See you later.”
“Thank you.” I hold my cup up, letting her know I appreciate the drink.
Outside, I pause and look across the street. Jake Simmons, one of the young men who works at the farm, is shaking out what’s left of the trees I brought over on Friday. Mr. Whitaker comes out of the store, carrying a bag of groceries for someone. I watch as he sets them in the back seat of the customer’s car and gives her a friendly wave. He pauses and looks at Jake, and then his head shakes. I can only imagine how much he misses Zane, especially at this time of the year.
Mr. Whitaker waves. I smile and wave back. “Good morning, Mr. Whitaker,” I yell across the street.
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Bernie?”
I wave away his question. “I know. I know.”
“Have a good day, Evangeline.” He waves again.
“You too,” I say before opening my car door. Inside, I absorb the warmth for a moment before pulling out of my spot. I wave at Mr. Whitaker again as I drive by and then turn toward my parents’ house when I get to the corner.
Unfortunately, part of living in a small town is getting stuck behind a tractor, and sure enough, this is where I find myself. The Fosters’ tractor is decorated with Christmas lights, not that I can see them very well because of the sunshine, but at night, one of the Foster boys will happily drive it around town, playing holiday music to entertain the locals.
One of the Foster boys—can’t tell who it is—waves at me around as soon as we clear the curve in the road. I honk and wave, and he returns the honk. Another half mile of driving brings me to my parents’ farm. Our small parking lot already has cars in it, even though we’re technically not open. I park, gather my things, and carry the box of pastries into the house.
I step in and inhale the peppermint and cookie aroma. A soft melody of music streams from the speaker in the kitchen. In there, I find my mom at the sink, looking out to the backyard.
“Morning.” I set my stuff down on the chair, putting the box on the counter. I go to my mom and kiss her cheek.
“You know I have coffee,” she says when she sees my to-go cup.
“Yes, but I want to enjoy my morning jolt and your coffee . . . well, it’s not good, Mom.”
She rolls her eyes. “You stopped at Alma’s?”