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)
As I approach the display case, I inhale deeply and scrunch my face in hunger when my stomach growls. Alma must see my expression because she chuckles lightly.
“Did you eat this morning?”
I lift my shoulder halfway and grimace. “There may have been a donut hole and a quick cup of coffee before I loaded the truck for these deliveries.”
Alma rolls her eyes and goes behind the counter. My mouth waters, and my stomach growls even louder when I see her plucking one of her famous cinnamon rolls from the metal pan. She sets it on a tray, cuts it into bite-sized squares, and piles them into a to-go box before drizzling warm frosting over the top. She brings the box over to me, along with a fork and a pile of napkins. “I know you have other stops, but this should hold you over until you’re able to get some lunch.”
“Thank you, Alma,” I say with a kind smile as I set my midmorning snack in the box of apple, pumpkin, and pecan pies that Alma has made for our shack. Despite its humble name, our shack is anything but ordinary. My father transformed a shed into a store and vegetable stand by adding electricity, a wood stove, a refrigerator, and even a television. In the scorching summer, we keep all the windows open to let in some breeze. But during the winter, it’s perfect. Dad starts a fire in the stove first thing in the morning, ensuring that it’s nice and toasty for both us and our customers. During the holiday season, we serve hot chocolate and hot apple cider daily, hand out free candy canes, and sell Alma’s delicious pies along with other goods from the local merchants.
“See you later, Alma,” I say as I bid farewell.
“Tell your dad I’ll be by later to get my tree.”
“Will do.” If I had to guess, Alma and her husband visited my parents sometime in the spring or early summer to choose the tree they wanted from the acres of land my parents own. It’s a privilege that my father extends mostly to friends and family⎯the ability to pick their Christmas trees from our own property.
I manage to balance the heavy box of pies on top of my arm, prop my knee on the sidestep, and rest my chin on one of the pie boxes while opening the passenger side of the truck cab. It’s a bit of a struggle, but I successfully place the box on the floor of the truck. After shutting the door, I realize I forgot to close the tailgate before entering Alma’s.
“Crap,” I mutter under my breath, quickly counting the boxes. It’s not that the people of Deer Ridge are untrustworthy; it’s the out-of-towners who don’t quite understand the meaning of a small town that make me wary. I let out a sigh of relief when I confirm all the boxes are accounted for. Although a closed tailgate wouldn’t necessarily deter someone, it might give them second thoughts.
Next on my list is Whitaker’s General Store. They purchase wreaths and trees from us at a wholesale price, as my dad and Mr. Whitaker have been close friends since high school. Whitaker’s is one of the few places where my dad sells his trees at a discount.
Later today, I’ll return with my dad, driving a truck bed full of trees, to help Mr. Whitaker set up his own display. He’s been doing this for a few years now, ever since his son, Zane, went off to New York City for his fancy internship and never returned. He didn’t even bother showing up for law school graduation. Not that I’m bitter or anything. This time, I take Mr. Whitaker’s box out of the back of my truck and maneuver my body and the box enough to close the tailgate. Instead of using the crosswalk, I opt to wait for the traffic to clear and then quickly cross the street, slipping between two parked cars and hopping the curb. Mr. Whitaker closely observes my every move and bursts into laughter. I join in, realizing that running across the road isn’t the smartest choice, especially with so many people out and about, but it saves me some time by disobeying the law.
“Hello, Eve,” he greets me as he pauses from breaking up a patch of ice on the sidewalk. “Those wreaths look lovely.” He gestures toward the tops of the wreaths peeking out from the box.
“I'll let my mom know,” I reply, setting the box down and letting out a small sigh. “If you need help with the ice, just say the word. Dad has extra guys with him today to assist with setting up. I can send one of them over.”
“Thank you. I might take you up on that offer if I can’t manage it alone.”