“Mr. Heinz?” Patrick asked.
“Yeah.” Austin stabbed the drawing with his index finger. “See? That’s me.”
For the first time, Kerry realized that the old man had quietly drifted away, into the darkening streets.
“Hey,” the boy said, looking around. “Where did Mr. Heinz go?”
“Maybe he went home,” Kerry suggested.
“He probably realized it was time for dinner,” Patrick said, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder.
“Pancakes again?” Austin scrunched his face in disgust.
“You love my pancakes,” his father said.
“Do they have blueberries in them?”
“Well, no. The ones in the fridge grew some Grinchy-looking green fur, so I had to throw them out. But we have bacon.”
“And maple syrup?”
“Not exactly. I found a jar of strawberry jam, though, which is even better.”
“Eeeeewwww,” Austin howled. “Nobody puts jelly on pancakes. Gross!”
Patrick threw Kerry a pleading look.
“Are you kidding?” Kerry said. “Strawberry jam on pancakes is awesome sauce. It’s way better than boring old maple syrup. Murphy and I love to make pancake and strawberry jam sandwiches for dinner. And then you put bacon in the middle, and it’s salty and crunchy and sweet all at the same time.”
“Bacon in the middle, huh?” Patrick said. “Never thought of that.”
“Oh yeah. It’s an old Tolliver Tree Farm tradition in my family. Goes back generations.”
“Well, now we have to try it out, right, buddy?”
“I guess,” Austin said. “Hey, Kerry, maybe you could come over and show my dad how to make it.”
“Good idea,” Patrick agreed.
“I couldn’t,” Kerry said.
The boy’s face fell and his shoulders drooped.
“I mean, I’d love to,” she added. “But Murphy is out delivering trees, and I can’t just close down the stand. People will be getting off work, and heading home, and that’s when lots of people decide to buy a Christmas tree. On impulse.”
“Another time then,” Patrick said. He tapped his son’s arm. “Come on, then. We’ve got a whole new culinary tradition to explore.”
chapter 12
Early Saturday morning, Kerry surveyed her wardrobe options for the holiday party with mounting despair. Per Birdie’s suggestion, she’d packed light for the trip to the big city: three pairs of well-worn jeans, a couple of sweatshirts, a flannel shirt she’d swiped from her college boyfriend. There was a tattered blue sweater that the same boyfriend had given her for her twenty-first birthday. It was undeniably cozy and warm, but the cuffs had begun to unravel. Was that a metaphor for her life, she wondered?
The nicest items she’d brought were a black cashmere turtleneck and her worn black leather riding boots. Hardly the makings for a holiday-festive ensemble.
Murphy flung the trailer door open. “Kere? Got a customer wants one of your wreaths.” He looked down at the clothes scattered across Kerry’s made-up bunk. “What’s all this?”
“My fashion options for tonight’s party,” Kerry said, sighing.
“What party?”
