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He’s not done because he draws my bottom lip between his and sucks on it. “Now, Nora. What were you saying about driving an old car?”
* * *
Noah’s Ford Broncois spacious, and as my hands wrap around the steering wheel, I feel so envious. I’ve never driven anything but second-hand cars, and it’s become somewhat of a skill to ignore the sputters and rumbles that sound expensive.
I spend five minutes just admiring and running my fingers along the dashboard, leather seats, and shiny switches. Gosh. This is so Noah.
I slide the key in and turn it, hearing the engine roar to life. Shifting to drive, I step on the gas pedal and it smoothly rolls out of his driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires.
It takes a while to get used to, but once I get the hang of it, driving his truck is pretty easy. So much easier than mine, to be honest.
When I arrive at the town square, it makes me smile. No one has removed the Christmas decorations yet—the twinkling lights on the storefronts, wreaths on lampposts and doors, and a towering Christmas tree by the grocery store.
Few people mill about, and it doesn’t take me longer than twenty minutes to finish ticking off everything on my list.
After loading all the groceries and toiletries in the back, I pull my cardigan tighter around me—a little surprised at the crisp air—and sprint to the bakery nestled in the corner.
The words, “Delia’s Delicious Goods - Baked Fresh Everyday” are painted at the top of the glass display window.
Even all the way from here, I can smell the aroma of bread and pastries.
As I open the door, the overhead bell jingles and an older woman looks up from the counter. Her silver hair is pulled neatly into a bun, and she smiles at me, her soft, hazel eyes warm and welcoming.
She’s wearing a pink apron with a “Best Baker” print. Her hands are dusted with a fine layer of flour, and when she adjusts her red horn-rimmed glasses, some of the flour ends up on her cheekbone.
“Good morning. How may I help you today?”
“Oh. I was just gonna look around.” Smiling, I point to her cheek. “You have a bit of flour.”
She giggles and grabs a small towel tucked in her apron pocket to wipe her face. “Sometimes, I get so carried away with baking that I always end up with bits of the ingredients sticking to me.”
“Are you Mrs. Dawson?”
“Yes. And you are? I’m sorry, dear. It’s either you’re passing by for the holidays, new in town, or my memory’s failing.”
“Ah. None of the above, I guess. I used to live here a couple of years ago. I’m Nora Kirkpartrick.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Keith’s sister?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. Then, take your pick. It’s on the house.”
I wave my hands and shake my head. “Absolutely not, Mrs. Dawson.”
“It’s a welcome gift. Or welcome back gift. Whatever you prefer.”
“I’m walking out of here right now if you give them for free.”
She laughs softly, the melodic sound ringing throughout the small bakery. “Fine. You’re just like your brother. Now I’ll leave you to grab whatever you want.”
I smile gratefully at her and grab a tray and plastic tongs.
Everything looks so good, and I don’t doubt this day will end with me in a sugar coma. I take some old-fashioned sugar cookies with green, white, and red sprinkles, biscotti dipped in white chocolate, chocolate fudge, bread pudding, and cinnamon rolls. I add gingerbread cookies and some flaky croissants for good measure.
Who’s gonna stop me, anyway? It’s one of the reasons I love being an adult. No one can tell me no if I want to eat nothing but sweets and pastries the whole day.
Mrs. Dawson starts ringing them, and after showing me the total, she peers at me over her glasses. “Do you like pies, dear?”
