“We can take a new family photo for above the mantel.” She went on. “George!”
My lasagna was probably ice cold by now. I needed to put it in the oven before I got into the shower.
And maybe I’d have that winebeforedinner.
“Mom—”
“Okay, honey. It was good talking to you. Let me know what day you’ll be here. Love you!” She hung up before I could even say a word.
I dropped my phone on the bed, stripped off the rest of my clothes, and padded into the bathroom to turn on the shower. As the water heated, I grabbed a fresh towel and sighed.
Winterbury for Christmas. I used to love it. The lights, traditions, people, and food. Not any more, though, not afterheruined it.
I would just avoid him and his farm. It was a small town but not that small. Besides, it was his busy season. He probably wouldn’t be out and about. And if he was, so what? I wasn’t a teenager anymore. I was a grown man who’d moved on from silly feuds and flimsy crushes.
Except they weren’t silly. They hurt.
Archer Hodge was nothing more than a sour memory, and I wouldn’t spare him another single second of thought.
2
Archer
The wintry airwas so sharp and crisp it was near eyewatering as I walked along the rows of spruce and balsam fir, tails of the long red tags fluttering around where I gripped them.
It could only mean one thing. Snow.
The fact that we hadn’t had more than a few inches here and there and a few morning dustings was further proof that it was coming. Living in Vermont meant there would always be snow.
And it was good for business. After all, it made picking out a fresh-cut Christmas tree all the more festive and romantic. For me, it meant more work. Plowing, salting, clearing paths, and making sure everything was accessible and safe was just another heaping on my already overfull plate.
Pine and woodsmoke lingered in the wind as it spiraled through the trees, swaying the branches. I stopped beside a tall, full spruce and tied a tag at the end of a branch, marking it ready to cut.
I kept going, doing the same with the others, until all the tags were gone.
The tip of my nose was numb, my breath puffing out in a cloud of white when I gazed around, looking for someone I hadn’t seen in a while. “Marlowe!” I called, then whistled for my Australian shepherd. “Come on, boy!”
The pungent scent of damp earth swirled around as my boots crunched over pine straw and grass as I made my way out of the evergreen field and into the clearing.
I whistled again, but Marlowe was still AWOL, and I shook my head because he was probably into something. “Probably chasing those poor chickens,” I murmured, heading toward the farm’s gift shop.
I’d barely stepped foot in the door but was already inhaling the mouthwatering scent of apples, cinnamon, and sugar as heated air stung my cheeks and nose. Walking past the handmade wreaths, maple candy and syrup, bow station, and rack of our famous secret spice, Hodge Podge, I went into the small bakery in the back.
“I swear, Mama, it smells better every year,” I told her, going over to the fresh pot of coffee and pouring a cup. Once that was finished, I crowded the island where she was making crumble topping for the ten pies lined up and ready to bake.
The sliced apples coated with cinnamon and sugar were too hard to resist, and I reached out to steal one, only to have my hand slapped like I was a criminal.
“Ow! Ma!” I complained, pulling my hand away.
“Don’t you ‘Ow, Ma’ me, Archer Hodge. You know better than to put your grimy hands into the pies I’m baking for our guests.”
At Hodge Farm, we called our customers guests. Mom’s rules.
“They won’t know,” I grumbled. “I’m starving.”
“Go wash your hands,” she scolded, not even looking up from her task.
I washed my hands at the sink, and when I was done, she thrust a small bowl of the sugared apple slices into my hands.
