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He tugs it off the hook, smiling sheepishly back at me before sliding it over his shoulders. Preston exits the truck, but stops in front of the window and looks up at me as if this were some sort of trick.
I wave him along, smiling wide. “Go, have fun!”I hope I don’t regret this.
Preston saunters off, his hands in his pockets. He’s the light of my life, and he reminds me of everything good in this world. I knew things weren’t going well in my marriage, but somehow I still never thought we’d end up here.
When it comes down to it, I wasn’t given a choice and I’m grateful for that. At the time, I wasn’t willing to lose everything to find myself. Now, I wouldn’t trade it. Being a single mother ishard, but it’s all worth it for my little guy.
I finish up the batch of chocolate chip cookies with relative ease, and my stomach flutters as I open up my window. I’m ready for sellers to come and order. The moment I do, my first customer gets in line. It’s pure Christmas magic.
∞∞∞
There are a couple more orders within the first hour, and it’s thrilling. I remind myself that the bazaar isn’t even in full swing yet. More people will be hungry around lunch.
I make all sorts of cookies. Chocolate chip is of course the most popular, but I also bake a few batches of oatmeal raisin as well as some more festive-looking gingerbread. Trees, stars, and little gingerbread men decorate the trays that cool within my rack while I get started on the frosting.
“We’ve got a nice turn-out this weekend, haven’t we?” An older man asks from the window. I peer out, and grin when I see Mr. Wiley, leaning against his cane. He’s a gruff-looking fellow, but the kindest person I’ve ever met and practically Findlay royalty. “Phelma’s jewelry is selling out already.”
“That’s awesome!” I tell him, and grab a bag of cookies to hand him. “Take this to her, will you?”
“Oh, darlin’, let me pay you,” he says, pulling out his wallet.
“I won’t hear of it. Preston loved working on your farm this summer. Consider it my thank you.”
He looks hesitant but takes it with a grin. “Why, thanks. Where is the little rascal, anyway?”
“He’s out scoping the booths.” I reach over and shut off my stand mixer before it over whips the icing. “Hopefully there’s something for him to do. I need him to stay busy for now. I’ll probably go around sometime later and check everything out.”
“Oh, there’s plenty. I saw a soap carving booth and lots of samples of baked goods. I hope he stops by the woodworker’s booth. I hear he’s giving kids some lessons on drilling, carving, or something of that nature.”
“Woodworker?” I ask. “I don’t remember there being a woodworker here.”
Mr. Wiley’s eyes light up, as they always do when he knows something someone else doesn’t “Oh, you don’t know! That’s right, I think you missed the bazaar this time last year.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I was here, just not as a vendor… And I looked a little different back then.” I run my ringless hand across the curve of my cheek.
“That’s right, you look happy now.” He lets out a cackle. “I’m sure you’ve seen him around. This man is extremely reserved and only comes down once a year to sell his work before disappearing back into the foothills. Don’t know too much about him, no one does. But he’s a part of Findlay’s fabric.”
“Hmm, seems like quite the mystery,” I say, shrugging. I wonder how many other things I’ll learn about my hometown now that my eyes are open. “Other than that, are there any new booths around?”
Mr. Wiley glances around. “Dunno. Haven’t been all the way around yet. So far it’s mostly the same crowd, but you never know. There could be a budding young baker just waiting for an old man to come around to give her a hand in taste-testing the cookies.”
I chuckle. “Are you teasing me?”
He raises the hand that isn’t parched upon the handle of his cane in surrender. “I would never!”
“I do appreciate all your help, you know,” I tell him. “I couldn’t tell a bad cookie from a good one without you.”
He waves me off. “Oh, you’re being modest. Anyway, I should be off. Lots of people to harass!”
I laugh and hand him a second bag of cookies. “For you, I have a feeling that your wife won’t get hers.”
He winks. “You’re right about that. Make sure to stop by the booth at some point, she would love to say hello. Say hi to Preston for me if I don’t see him.”
“Absolutely,” I tell him, and he walks away with the help of his cane.
As I expected, business starts to pick up when it nears lunchtime. Preston checks in a couple of times, asking for money for lunch or a craft he thinks looks cool. I only say yes to the former, but he doesn’t put up much of a fuss. I’ve lucked out with that kid.
Halfway through my third batch of shortbread, Preston rushes over with a large plank of wood in his hands, smiling wider than I’ve ever seen despite his pink nose and rosy cheeks. “Look what I made for you!” He says, holding it up to show me.
