Reid doesn’t offer a smile or greeting as we approach. His booth isn’t decorated like the others, and he has a small, white tray covered in marzipan fruits.
Everett’s eyes find mine, and he lifts a brow.
“Hi, Reid,” I try.
“Hello.”
“These look good,” Everett says, reaching out and taking one shaped like a lemon. He pops it in his mouth and wrinkles his nose. I watch as he does his best to pretend like he’s enjoying the candy as he slowly chews it and then swallows hard.
Picking up one shaped like a pear, I take a bite of the side of it, plastering on as much of a fake smile as I can as I chew.
It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever eaten, but it’s definitely not the best.
“Thank you,” I say, and we quickly score his entry. We all pose for a photo then move to the next booth.
“Please tell me whatever is next is going to be better than that,” Everett whispers.
“Stella?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Could we get a couple bottles of water?”
“Oh, of course. I’ll be right back.” She turns to leave as we approach Ginger’s booth.
“Hello, Nuttalls,” she trills.
“Did the kids help you make these?” I ask, eyeing the dessert. Messy icing and lots of sprinkles cover a plate full of sugar cookies—they look like Christmases past, and nostalgia hits me right in the chest.
Ginger’s children maze around us, playing in the snow. One of her girls stops and watches as Everett and I reach forward for a cookie.
“I helped make the green angel,” she says, flashing a toothy grin. “Try mine, Mrs. Claire.”
“Okay, sweetheart,” I say, taking an angel shaped cookie covered in green icing and pink sprinkles.
Reaching forward, Everett takes a red Christmas bell covered in green sprinkles.
It’s soft and chewy, and it unlocks a memory of making cookies with my grandmother as a little girl.
“Do you like my cookie,” the little girl asks.
“It’s very good,” I assure her.
Stella returns and hands both of us water. Sipping it, I do my best to judge the entry, but it feels harder than it should be.
“Let’s get a photo with The Nuttalls, Ginger, and all the kids,” Stella says, directing the photographer.
“Kids,” Ginger calls. “Ms. Stella wants a picture with Coach Everett and Mrs. Claire. Come on now.”
Everett and I move together in front of the counter. Ginger and her kids circle around us.
“Saycookie,” Ginger chimes.
We begin to move toward the last booth, and Everett’s hand finds mine.
“Judging some of these is harder than I thought it would be,” I admit. “I just feel like we’ve gotten to know these people, and I don’t want to hurt their feelings.”
He squeezes my hand. “They know we were given a job and it’s not personal, but I agree—I’m going to really miss everyone.”
