Page 3 of Merry Little Sugar Rush
My hands cover my mouth as I gasp. “What? No!”
He glances down, clearly upset about his good friend’s health. “A couple of nights ago. Carol called me pretty late.”
I move to where he sits and reach for his hand. “That’s why you’re up so early.”
He shrugs, not arguing. “I was up, so I thought I’d get a jump on clearing sidewalks.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. How is he?” I ask, thinking about the old man who’s not only been my father’s employer for more than a decade, but also a friend.
“They’re waiting on the results of some testing, which they’ll do today.” He sighs loudly and shakes his head. “He’s always been this larger-than-life presence, you know? It’s hard to picture Whitmans’ Tree Farm without him buzzing around on a tractor or harvesting pumpkins each fall.”
My throat is thick and dry, and I find it hard to swallow. “I’m sure he’ll be okay, Dad, and he’ll be back on that tractor and picking pumpkins before you know it.”
Whitmans’ Tree Farm is an institution in Snowflake Falls. Not only is it a live tree farm, where you can cut down your own Christmas tree, but it’s a family-friendly outing destination. They offer horse-drawn carriage rides, ornament making, carolers on Sundays, and so much more. Plus, they’re open year-round with greenhouses, gardening supplies, and a pumpkin patch. I have as many memories at the tree farm as I do attending the festival. It’s woven into my blood, into the genes of this very town.
“Well, at least Karl is still there. Plus, Sheila, Klint and Tasha,” I say, referring to Dale’s youngest son, daughter-in-law, and two of his grandkids. Not to mention Klint’s wife, Gretchen, helps out often while their son, Noah, is in school. It truly is a family-run business.
He nods. “Yeah, but I don’t think Gretchen will be much help for a bit. She fell on the ice a few days ago and messed up her knee. Plus, I’m sure Carol’s going to be at the hospital while Dale is there, and Tasha has classes until closer to the holidays.”
My heart drops in my chest. “I bet as soon as word spreads about Dale, you’ll have more help than you know what to do with,” I tell him reassuringly. That’s one of the beautiful things about a small town. If someone needs help, there’s usually a line of friends and townspeople ready to jump in.
“Yeah, I’m sure you’re right,” he replies, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I can tell he’s upset, but also a little worried about work. This is their busiest time of year, and being down one or two employees can be pretty rough on a small business. “Well, I’ve yapped at you too long. You have a shop to open soon,” he adds proudly, standing up and reaching for his coffee cup.
“Can I top that off for you before you go?” I ask, extending my hand.
He grins. “I wouldn’t say no to that.”
We step out into the main part of the bakery, and I refill his coffee, adding the right amount of sugar and cream before grabbing a lid and securing it to the top. “Here ya go.” I don’t miss the fact there’s already a twenty in the tip jar for the day. That’s one of the many arguments we’ve had over the years. I refuse to charge him or Mom, so they always make sure to overtip way more than the worth of what they ate or drank.
“Thanks, sweetie.” He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Have a great day.”
“You too,” I tell him, walking him to the door.
He glances around and smiles. “This place looks beautiful. That tree is the perfect fit.”
We picked out one of my trees together over the weekend, and he delivered it yesterday. I spent all evening decorating the bakery and still have to tackle my apartment upstairs. “It is,” I confirm, loving how the tall, skinny tree fills the corner of the room without being in the way of any of the tables. “Keep me posted on Dale,” I add as he slips his gloves back on and steps outside.
“I will, honey. Oh, and make sure you take your mom one of those Danishes. You know how she loves cranberries.”
“I’ll save her and Eve each one,” I reply, even though I know my sister isn’t a fan of cranberries. Yet, she always eats and enjoys whatever I make with them in it, which makes me secretly preen like a peacock.
“Love you,” he hollers, grabbing his shovel and heading to where his truck is parked along the road.
“Love you more!” I reply with a wave.
The first peeks of sunlight are rising above the old buildings in our beautiful downtown square, shimmering off the glistening snow, but my heart is heavy. The Whitman family means so much to so many, myself included. My love for their tree farm isn’t just because my dad has worked there for the last ten-plus years. I used to run those rows of trees and helped pick pumpkins growing up.
With Burk.
My oldest friend.
The one I haven’t seen since he left town the summer after our eighth-grade year.
But now isn’t the time to wonder what happened to an old friend. I have to finish preparing today’s pastries, as well as get some loaves of bread ready. Not to mention I need to start baking gingerbread cookies and cake pops for this weekend. The bakery will be open prior to the start of the Miss Snowflake Falls Princess competition.
Lots to do and little time to do it in.
That still doesn’t stop my brain from conjuring up an image of a lanky boy with braces and shaggy brown hair.
