Abby wants me to join her book club, and it’s tempting. I should do something for myself. But there’s nowhere to squeeze it in without cutting into my income or Phoebe's activities.
Maybe after the holiday season is over.
I flinch, because it reminds me of someone else who always used to measure time in “next seasons” and “laters”.
My fingers itch to pick up the phone and call Abby with a fashion emergency. But then I’ll have to explain why I’m worried about what to wear on my daughter’s field trip.
I’m probably worrying about nothing. There’s a slim chance I won’t even see Aiden. Then that information would be out there, driving me crazy forever.
Not worth it.
But really, what do you wear to face the man who broke your heart? Armor would be ideal.
Unfortunately, all I’ve got is jeans, a decent sweater, and the hope that Storywood Ridge doesn’t decide to play matchmaker with my life the way it does with everyone else’s.
two
AIDEN
“Peter, listen.”I grip my phone until my knuckles whiten, the fact that I’m surrounded by my evergreens not helping diffuse the situation. “The propane delivery needed to get here yesterday. We’ve got field trips all week, and I need these heaters to function if the front rolls through earlier than expected.”
I know it’s Wednesday, but it feels like a Monday all over again. Every day this week would qualify.
Somebody lays on a horn, and there’s a loud grunt in my ear before he answers. “Mrs. Johnson’s cow got out of her fence again.”
A door slams, and I can picture him getting out to corral this giant animal back to the hole in the fence that Mrs. Johnson won’t pay to fix.
And she could. Her husband owns half the downtown buildings, so they earn enough in rental income. He’s just a penny-pinching miser who they might as well call Scrooge.
With a growl, I lower my head and kick at the dirt. The last thing on my mind is a cow running through the streetsof Storywood Ridge when I’ve got plenty of my own problems. Starting with the fact that buses full of kids are scheduled to arrive here at the tree farm in just a few hours.
The propane truck from Ridge Supply—scheduled for this morning—is running late, well past the expected 8 a.m. delivery window. Around here, people like to say the mountain scrambles schedules when you’re dragging your feet about something, but I don’t have the patience for Storywood Ridge superstition this morning.
Come to think of it, the delivery from the local craft shop to drop off boxes of whatever my sister, Evelyn, needs for her wreaths, and ornaments for the kids to paint while they’re here, is also late. I don’t know why they need to do that when they’re here to learn about trees, but Evelyn insists.
“Peter.” My teeth clench as I hold back a shout. “Forget the cow and tell me when you can get here with that delivery.”
“I’ve got several stops to make, and then I’ll be out there.”
“Give me a time, Peter.”
“Before one,” he barks out. “Rose, get back in your fence. Nobody wants to play dodge the cow today.”
“Good luck with your cow.” I jam my thumb on the ‘end’ button and shove the phone in my pocket.
It’s not Peter’s fault I’ve got the urge to take an ax to trees in the far east field. The whole town acts like this place is some kind of Christmas magic factory, and I’m supposed to deliver it with cheer and a smile, when I’m really holding it all together with heartache and nails.
All because we’re reopening the farm this year. And everyone who knows me best is either gone or also trying to patch their own life rafts to survive the season.
There’s no one left to help me hold it together.
“Get it together.” I drag the words through my teeth. “This is the last chance to save this place.”
My attention swivels to a nearby Fraser tree, and I take in a few deep breaths, purposefully forcing myself to slow down as I do it. My parents made running this farm look easy, and I didn’t listen when my dad said it would eventually be just us.
I thought I had more time.
Two years ago, all the responsibilities fell to my siblings and me overnight.
