Page 10 of Holidate Scramble
"Go rest, dear," Marlene said, already arranging candy bowls. "You've earned it."
Piper grabbed her bag. "Ready to escape?"
"More than ready," I admitted, pulling off the elf apron.
We walked through the still-bustling market, dodging families with strollers and teenagers clustered around the hotcider stand. The afternoon sun was already starting to slant low, casting long shadows across the square.
"Thanks again for today," she said as we navigated the throng. "I know this wasn't what you signed up for when you agreed to judge a cookie contest."
"It was... educational."
She laughed. "That's one way to put it."
"Where's your car?"
"Behind the church." She pointed across the square. "You?"
"Town hall lot." Same direction, actually.
We fell into step together, and I became acutely aware of the height difference between us—she barely reached my shoulder. Everything about her seemed impossibly young and fresh, from her animated gestures to the way she greeted every third person we passed. What was I doing, noticing the delicate curve of her neck when she tilted her head to laugh? She was twenty-nine. I had a daughter only six years younger.
Her ancient Honda sat alone in the church lot—rust spots, duct tape holding the bumper, a crack across the windshield.
"Don't judge," she said, catching my expression. "It runs. Usually."
She turned the key. Nothing.
Tried again. The engine didn't even attempt to turn over.
"Oh, come on," she groaned, dropping her head against the steering wheel. "Not today."
"Pop the hood."
I checked the obvious problems—battery connections, belts, fluid levels. The starter clicked but wouldn't engage.
"Starter's dead," I diagnosed. "You need a tow."
She pulled out her phone, then winced. "Saturday afternoon, eight days before Christmas? That'll cost a fortune."
"I'll drive you home."
"You don't have to—"
"Piper." I closed her hood. "Your car is dead, it's getting cold, and my car is right there. Let me drive you home."
She studied my face, then nodded. "Okay. Thank you."
My BMW felt too quiet after the market's energy. She settled into the passenger seat, looking almost child-like against the black leather with her porcelain skin and rosy cheeks. Christ, what was wrong with me? She definitely wasn't a child. But she wasn't what I should be noticing either.
"Nice car," she said, running her fingers along the dashboard. "Very... clean."
"As opposed to?"
"Mine with its collection of coffee cups and parking tickets." She opened the glove compartment, laughing at my organized registration papers. "Of course."
She closed the compartment and settled back, and I caught myself watching her from the corner of my eye. The way afternoon light caught the blonde of her hair. The way she talked with her hands. I was supposed to be figuring out my life, caring for my mother, not cataloging details about a woman eighteen years my junior.
She directed me through Starlight Bay's streets, pointing out landmarks—where she'd broken her arm at seven, the park where they held summer concerts, the bakery that made the best cannoli outside Boston. Her whole history was here, woven into every corner.
