“I think I do,” she said.
“You do,” I confirmed.
The truck made a full loop without stalling. Lydia laughed, sharp and breathless, the sound breaking something tight in her chest.
“I did it.”
“You did,” I said.
We went around again. Then again.
By the fourth loop, she wasn’t panicking. She was listening. Anticipating. Adjusting before the engine protested. I had her switch between first and second gear, keeping the speed low, letting her get used to the adjustments.
After a moment, she glanced toward the exit. “Do you think…?”
I considered the road. It was dry since the sun had been out. There wasn’t any snow forecasted tonight. The roads tended to be somewhat quiet as long as we stayed away from the downtown area.
“Yes,” I said. “If you want to.”
Lydia swallowed and nodded. “I want to.”
She eased onto the road, careful but controlled. Maple Ridge passed slowly around us, homes glowing with Christmas lights, wreaths hanging slightly crooked. The town felt smaller at this speed, more intimate.
“You’re doing well,” I said.
“I’m terrified,” she replied cheerfully as we stopped at a stop sign.
“That’s appropriate,” I said. “Just don’t rush. There’s no one behind you.”
We cleared the intersection without stalling.
As the tension eased, she started talking about the float as though testing ideas aloud.
“I wanted greenery,” she said. “Real if possible with lots of Christmas lights. Maybe a bench in the truck bed so Mom and Dad can ride on it and wave to everyone. It’s their new start. I’m hoping to get some magnets delivered in time to stick to the truck to advertise the SnowDrop Inn.”
“That’s workable,” I said. “But everything needs to be secured. No loose branches. The bench needs to be fastened securely and your parents need to be in the cab to and from the parade. All rules of the road apply when the parade is over.”
“I figured,” she said. “Dad said the same. I had hoped to put a decorated Christmas tree in the back but he said there was no way to get it to stay properly.”
“He’s probably right,” I agreed. “The last thing I want to see is a repeat of the twenty foot snowman.”
“The twenty foot snowman?” Lydia asked curiously.
“Someone had a very large, inflatable snowman on a wagon. It wasn’t firmly secured and that year the day was very windy. The thing rolled down the main street causing a lot of chaos. People were running, it bounced off of parked cars setting off car alarms, and it took out a hotdog cart vendor before getting stuck at the bridge,” I recalled dryly.
“Oh my,” Lydia tried not to laugh, hiding a smile behind her hand.
“You think it’s funny. I had to deal with complaints for weeks,” I mentioned.
“I promise there won’t be any inflatable snowmen on my float,” she giggled.
I found myself smiling, enjoying that I had made her laugh.
She nodded. “Can I use battery lights?”
“Yes,” I said. “As long as they are protected from moisture, not gerryrigged from a car battery. And please, nothing flammable near the exhaust.”
She glanced at me, impressed. “You’ve really thought about this.”
