First Snow

By

Christine Cunningham

Eternal Beginning Publishing LLC

Vancouver, Washington

First Snow

By Christine Cunningham

This book or the parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

Published by Eternal Beginning Publishing, LLC

ISBN: 978-0-9836984-3-2

First edition ©2011

Christine Cunningham

All rights reserved.

Smashwords edition

Chapter 1

“Oh, mom, I want the one that looks like a flower!” the small, curly—haired girl said excitedly while hopping from one foot to the other.

Reaching down with a tissue, I plucked the appropriate cupcake from the display case, commenting, “Good choice.”

“Can I have it now?” she pleaded, grasping her mother’s hand sweetly.

In return, her mother asked, “What’s the magic word?”

Frowning in concentration, the little girl paused. Then a look of knowing blossomed across her face, and she answered, “Please!”

With a nod of thanks, the child’s mother took the cupcake from my hand and placed it in the eager hands of the child. “Now, what do we say, Kristen?” she coached.

Flashing me her sparkling eyes Kristen chirped in a voice all little girls seem to possess, “Thank you.”

The longing for a child raised a familiar lump in my throat as I replied, “You’re welcome, honey.” Jealously, I watched as mother and daughter left the bakery hand in hand.

“Penelope if you’re through with your customer, I could use a hand back here,” Émile called from the kitchen, interrupting my wandering thoughts. I smiled to myself, because Émile was the only one in Willow Reed who called me Penelope, instead of Nell, the nickname everyone else used. It occurred to me that Émile’s parents had done the same until they passed the bakery on to him two years ago.

“Penelope?” Émile asked urgently, “Are you coming?”

Hustling back to the kitchen, I hummed along with the holiday music playing overhead. Émile stood resting his ample belly against the counter, busily mixing batter while his two young daughters, trying to help, buzzed and bumped around the kitchen like a couple of fireflies in a mason jar.

“Nell, will you help me?” Hannah the older of the two girls, asked grumpily as she separated cinnamon rolls and placed them on a tray for the display case.

“You’re fine, Hannah,” Émile answered for me, briskly, while motioning with his bald head toward Macy, who was doing her best to put a heavy tray of loaves into the oven. I grabbed the side of the tray just before it crashed to the ground.

“Thanks, Nell.” Macy said gratefully as we pushed the tray into the hot oven. Then, without missing a beat, I scooped up the tray of divided cinnamon rolls from Hannah and called over my shoulder, “So, there’s this class I want to take Friday evening, Émile.”

I seamlessly slid the tray of warm rolls into the display case, retrieved one and put it on a plate, and continued, “It’s actually a writing group that meets at the community center.”

“Oh?” was the only answer Émile had time to give as the jangling of the bells at the front door signaled that another customer had arrived. I smiled warmly as I held out the cinnamon roll to Hasan, my Monday morning regular.

Hasan greeted me as he accepted the offering, “Good morning, Nell.”

As I returned the greeting, Émile asked loudly, “Is that Hasan?”

Without waiting for an answer, Émile appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Bonjour, Émile,” Hasan said cheerfully.

Émile grabbed a croissant from the display case and said invitingly, “Come sit with me Hasan.” Émile motioned to a booth. He nudged me as he passed and said, teasing, “It’s so nice to be able to speak with someone who knows French.”

Hasan smiled at me again with twinkling eyes behind his round glasses and said, “Thank you, Nell. Are you free to walk tomorrow evening?”

I nodded to break the gaze that sent a tingle along my arms and replied, “Yes, I’ll meet you in the park by the lake.”

After Hasan and Émile sat down, they began a lively conversation that, despite my two years of French in high school, I was unable to follow. Tourists began to file in and I gladly lost myself in serving baked goods and listening to the travelers’ stories about my charming town, Willow Reed. I easily agreed with the comments, all the while feeling a little superior because I had lived all thirty years of my life in Willow Reed. The only thing that seemed to change in the town were the seasons, not that I minded in the least; I loved walking along the town square during my lunch break, knowing that I would run into several familiar faces.

“Penelope, Hasan is a member of that writing group you were talking about,” Émile called over the din of munching customers, in his thick French accent.

Grimacing uncomfortably, I wiped the already spotless countertop and recalled how Hasan and I had met nearly a year ago, when he began building a house on the outskirts of Rosewood Park. I often go walking in the park to clear my mind. One morning, Hasan was working on his home and he waved as I passed. He was wearing raggedy jeans, a stained t-shirt, and worn boots. Normally, I wouldn’t have taken a second glance, but I actually had to look up to meet this man’s gaze. At nearly six feet tall, I often felt like I towered over everyone in town, especially the men, and here was a brown-eyed, dark—haired man ripe for the plucking. I left the trail, walked to the work site and introduced myself. Having a gift for the gab, I found out in a matter of moments that he was a professor, linguist, and published author, in addition, of course, to his carpentry skills. Instantly, my low self-esteem shifted into gear, and I decided that he was way out of my league. Despite my misgivings I invited him to join me on my walk that day and we have been walking partners ever since.

“It was just something I was thinking about, Émile,” I said softly.

“Dad, the bread’s done!” Macy yelled.

I waved a hand in relief. “I’ll get it.”

Once in the kitchen, I felt the familiar routine of removing the loaves from the pans to let them cool wrap around me like a security blanket. Hannah leaned against the counter next to me while I worked and asked curiously, “What writing group was dad talking about?”

“You ask too many questions,” Macy, her younger sister, declared as she sauntered out of the kitchen to sit by her father. Hannah muttered under her breath, “Pest!”

Chuckling, I sympathized. “I remember when my sister was five and she drove me crazy.”

I rolled my eyes in an exaggerated fashion, and Hannah giggled, wrapping her arm around my waist. Returning the hug, I said, “That reminds me; –my sister Sydney is coming into town.” I smiled down at Hannah and then asked, “Would you like to help me bake a special cake to welcome her home?” Shrugging, Hannah looked longingly at her sister laughing with their father and Hasan. “Come on,” I encouraged, “and I’ll tell you about the writing group I want to join.” Hannah grinned up at me and nodded.

Chapter 2

Balancing the cake that Hannah and I had made on one hand and bumping the car door closed with my hip, I carefully made my way to my apartment. The temperature was dropping, and my clumsy feet were certain to find any patches of ice.

“Nelly!” a voice I’d know anywhere cried out, and I beamed at my sister, who was sitting on her luggage, fending off one of my male neighbors. Poor thing; no matter where Sydney went, men were sure to follow. Sydney carelessly tossed back her wavy, dark hair and crossed her legs in her impeccable traveling suit, as if she were posing for an ad. I mentally compared my own straight blonde hair, reserved personality, and practical clothes and felt sorely deficient.