Outside, the crisp air tingles my nostrils as an icy chill settles in, even though it’s midday. I can scent snow looming on the breeze, hidden up in the heavy white clouds.
Lark’s laughter wraps me up in a hug as we make our way through the town and onto the busy street. Today, vendors line the sidewalks like a market. A food truck is parked at the far end of town with a small pop-up table for people to eat. Bloom has a flower stand outside, while the bakery beside her has baskets full of bread.
My imagination runs wild with the beauty of the town in the spring and summer months, when it isn’t too cold to walk outside. Yet I recall what Arlo said about the town and Christmas. Some of the store owners stand on ladders as they hang lights from their shops and the trees that line the walkway.
“Mom.” Lark’s hand slips into mine as we head past the closed garage.
I can’t help but wonder where Arlo is and if he is already at his mom’s preparing for our non-date. “Yeah, kiddo?”
“What do you think the town will look like covered in lights?” I know what she’s asking—if it will really be as magical as Arlo claims. It’s a thought that has passed through my head on multiple occasions as well.
I don’t have an answer for her either. “I believe Arlo said we just have to see it to believe it.”
“Yes, but what do you think it will look like?” she presses, then on the same breath she continues, “Bread for dinner?”
“Yes, all the carbs.” Marching across the street once more, I think about her question. “Artisan, please.” I nod to the cherub-faced woman peddling carbs.
“French, and those sweet little dinner rolls,” Lark adds, slowly reducing our cash flow, but she’s so excited, I don’t question her.
“I’ll add it to your tab,” the bakery owner supplies with a dramatic wink.
I swear they all do that to keep me here. “Thanks.” Grabbing our bags, we hurry down the street toward the covered bridge as I gather my words. “Like those postcards.”
“What postcard?” Unable to wait until dinner, Lark pulls out a sweet roll and bites into it with a happy sigh. The hunger of a preteen is real and mind-blowing.
“You know, like the ones Robin sent when he was in Germany or Sweden.” Little towns with cobblestone streets like in the square here, lit up with lights with a mountain in the background. I can almost see it. Turning around, I walk backwards before pausing, because I’m just not that coordinated.
“Like the ones with the little villages?” Lark asks around a mouthful of food, turning to look back at the town.
The mountain looms in the distance, and the big pine tree in the middle of the square rises high with its turning leaves. I can just see it, the lights, and maybe even a carriage ride.
I nod in answer to her question. “Do you think there will be horses?”
“The ones with the fancy tails?” She looks at me in horror. “I’ve never seen a horse.”
“In person? Nor have I. Do they put lights on horses?”
“That’s a terrible question.” She bites into the roll once more, and then we carry on down the road, the covered bridge rising before us.
“I hope they put lights on the bridge.” A thought strikes me, and I hop up and down. “That would be the perfect postcard. The covered bridge lit up with a horse and sleigh coming through. Uncle Robin would love that.”
“You know…” s he begins, and I already know what she’s going to say before she says it. “Uncle Robin will love it here when he visits for Thanksgiving.”
“No one here talks about Thanksgiving,” I hiss. “It’s a conspiracy.”
“It’s my favorite meal of the year. I refuse to not have Thanksgiving.” Her tone takes on a hard edge I know so well because it comes out of my voice box daily.
“I agree. How about this? When we get back to the house, we’ll ask Saffron about the whole Thanksgiving issue.” I point to the house as we pass Autumn’s closed pub. Usually, she opens late afternoon, not that I was stalking her or anything. Because I wasn’t.
I just want to avoid her.
“There she is.” Lark points to the cemetery, where Saffron slowly walks with a long black veil over her head.
“The whole mourning widow situation disturbs me.”
“She is a widow,” Lark points out as we ascend the steps.
I wince at my word vomit as we head inside, where the blast of heat confuses my body. My legs turn all tingly, and I become tempted to consume whatever pastry lies inside this Styrofoam container.
