Page 6 of This Christmas
“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 thoughwe’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?”
“I did. I don’t have any heat at the fire station. Noelle called in an order for me.”
“I don’t know why you bought that place.”
I take some plates out of the cupboard, grab some forks, and open the box. Some of the frosting is on the inside of the lid, and I use my finger to scoop it up and put it in my mouth, ignoring her statement.
“What does Alma put in her frosting to make it so good?”
“If she told any of us, we’d put her out of business.”
I hand my mom one roll and plate one for myself. She follows me to the table, and we sit.
“Did you call about the furnace?”
I nod while I chew. “Noelle said she’d do it for me.”
“You should sell.”
“Mom, you know why I bought it.”
“Nostalgia costs a lot of money.”
“But my memories are free.”
The firehouse-turned-office, and now my home, was once the station my grandfather used to be captain of. I grew up there, playing on the trucks and sliding down the pole. Being there makes me feel close to him. Besides, it’s a wicked cool building, and I love it.
FOUR
ZANE
Caryn sleeps in the passenger seat next to me. Her head rests against the window and her mouth is ajar. She emits these little snores, which are cute, and brings a smile to my face. Although, my smile quickly changes to a grimace when I hit a pothole or have to quickly spin the steering wheel to dodge one. I’m afraid she’s going to smack her head against the window if I’m not careful.
I readjust my position, looking for a bit of comfort. The drive time from the city to my dad’s is about four hours, with no traffic. The thing is, there is always traffic. I can’t think of a day since I moved to New York when there hasn’t been traffic. Even at three in the morning when I stumbled my way home from the bar. And then there’s interstate 91. It has to be the worst drive ever. As soon as we’re out of Massachusetts, the towns in Vermont become far and few between, not to mention driving over the mountain pass is treacherous, especially in the winter.
My eyes glance into the rearview mirror and then drift to the luggage in the back. I shake my head at how much stuff Caryn brought. None of it is gifts, and I don’t want to know how much she spent. I’m just thankful it didn’t come out of my pockets. Money is something we don’t agree on, and it’s hard for me to swallow. My father always took care of our family, and I intend to do the same thing. However, Caryn doesn’t want to live on a budget or not spend her parents’ money. She says I should appreciate it, but it makes me feel like less of a man. There’s no reason she needed ten new pairs of heels to come to Vermont. What she needed was L.L.Bean winter wear, not crap from Bloomingdale’s.
My body sighs as soon as we’re off the mountain. I flex my hands a couple of times, hoping to remove the stiffness after white-knuckling it for the past twenty or thirty minutes. I’m thankful it’s not snowing and hasn’t snowed in the past few days. Driving over the pass with slush on the road makes driving sketchy. Especially when you’re behind or meeting an oncoming semi. They don’t slow down and there isn’t anywhere for them to go.
Caryn stretches and yawns. She looks at me. I smile at how rumpled she looks. It won’t last and as soon as she pulls the visor down, she’ll fix her hair and worry about the sleep creases on her face. I wish she’d understand that I’m in love with her and not the way she looks or how she dresses.
“Are we almost there?”
“We are.” I point at the sign coming up, showing how many miles there is until Deer Ridge.