Page 9 of Merry Little Sugar Rush
Those first few weeks, Burk hated it. It was hot, a different type of heat than what we have in Colorado. Plus, he didn’t know anyone and would complain as such. We kept in contact the old-fashioned way, with letters. But we also sent texts and emails.
However, when school began shortly after his arrival in South Carolina, he started making friends, he joined the basketball team, and even a few clubs. Slowly, over the next few months, the letters started to get fewer and fewer. The texts practically stopped and there were no more emails. Our friendship…moved on.
For me too. I started high school. I had always been friends with Krista, but we became inseparable. We both played volleyball and joined the FFA, and suddenly, our lives were changing. Evolving. I do remember the last time I had texted him though. It was that following Christmas, and I received an online subscription to a baking platform from my parents. All my friends were asking for designer clothes or the latest name in athletic shoes. But not me. I wanted this online subscription that had articles, videos, and interviews with the biggest bakers in the world. Not to mention, recipes. I was so thrilled, the first person I wanted to tell was Burk.
He replied right away, super excited on my behalf. He knew what this gift meant to me, probably because I talked about it all year. It wasn’t even that expensive of a gift, but it still held more value than anything else I could have possibly received, and I was thrilled to receive it.
But that was the last time I texted him, and he in return. Our lives were consumed with school, friends, and everything you’d imagine two fourteen-year-olds did. I played in the snow. Hewent on trips to the beach with friends. We changed, and so did the landscape of our friendship.
Have I thought about him over the years? Of course I have. Many times. Every year when I’d go to the tree farm to pick my tree for that season, I’d picture two little kids running and playing through the rows of evergreens. I’d see us sitting at a picnic table, eating an apple donut and enjoying hot cocoa. I’d see him surrounded by family, the same people who still run the tree farm to this day.
As far as I know, Burk and his parents never returned to Snowflake Falls. I heard his grandma went out for his high school graduation, something she shared with my mom while at a hair appointment right before she left for the trip. I wanted to send a message for Burk with her, but by the time I was told she was going, she was already off to South Carolina.
His grandpa didn’t go. There were harsh words said by both father and son that fateful day fifteen years ago, but I was told he sent his love to his oldest grandson. I’ve always wondered how deep that wedge had to be driven for family to walk away the way Burk’s father and mother did. Personally, I can’t imagine not seeing or speaking to my parents almost daily, and I could never envision living any other place than right here in Snowflake Falls.
And I’ve never witnessed that side of Dale Whitman either. He’s always been nothing short of kind and gentle, even when he was working long, hard days at the farm. He very much reminds me of my own grandpa, who passed away when I was twenty-three. I don’t remember my mom’s dad, who passed when I was just a couple years old.
I spend the afternoon preparing sweet treats for tonight’s pop-up opening. Krista and I will be selling gingerbread cookies and Christmas cake pops from five to six forty-five, or until sold out. I’m also limiting our drink menu to a hot gingerbread latteor a decadent raspberry and dark chocolate mocha, since hot cocoa and coffee is available at the main stand near the park entrance.
Our downtown is a square, with a city block-sized park smack dab in the middle, complete with playground, pavilion, and gazebo. My favorite part, however, is the ice-skating rink. I spend random winter nights there often, mostly because it’s directly across the street. During the week, it’s not nearly as used. There are even times I have to clean the freshly fallen snow off the ice to skate. The city employees take great care of it, but when snow falls as often as it does here, they can’t always keep up with it.
At four thirty, the back door opens and in walks Krista. “Hello,” she hollers, wearing a festive sweater and dark jeans.
“Hey,” I reply, starting to take today’s offerings to the front display case.
“I think it might snow,” she says, slipping off her coat, gloves, and stocking cap and hanging them on the hook by the back door.
“I love when it snows during the pageant,” I confess, secretly hoping to see the flakes fly before the end of the night.
Our pageant isn’t quite like others. It’s pretty short, all things considered, and there aren’t nearly as many categories as most pageants. An introduction portion, talent, and then evening gown, which always includes layers for warmth and usually a fuzzy shawl or jacket.
“You would,” she retorts, jumping right in to carry the trays to the front. “What are we serving tonight?”
“Christmas cake pops. They’re chocolate cake pops with a white chocolate coating and festive sprinkles, and gingerbread cookies with royal icing.”
“Mmm,” she practically sings as we load up the case.
As we prepare to open the doors, I say, “Uhh, do you remember Burk Whitman?”
Krista whips around. “Of course I do. I remember when he moved away right before we went to high school. Why?”
I swallow over the dryness in my throat. “He came in today.”
“What? Really?”
I shrug. “He’s here helping his family, since Dale Whitman is out for the season from his stroke.”
“You two were really good friends when you were younger.”
“Yeah, we were, but we haven’t really talked for, like, fifteen years,” I say, making sure we’re ready to make our two specialty drinks.
“Huh,” she starts, reading over the recipe cards for both drinks. Turning my way, she asks, “Is he cute?”
My heart rate jumps at the thought. “I…I mean, he’s all right.”
My best friend gasps. “Oh my God, you think he’s cute!”
“I do not,” I retort, a little too forcefully. I practically have guilty written across my forehead.
