Twenty-Seven
Winter
No one has ever accused me of being a morning person, and I don’t ever see that changing. Getting up earlier than planned this morning wasn’t a choice I would have made, but I did enjoy my surprise. I loved that Saint’s idea of a special breakfast with all our friends before our big event.
The morning flies by in a blur of setting up canopy tents, talking to vendors, and all the last-minute preparations.
I convinced Douglas to help with parking. He’ll be at the entrance to show vendors where to go and visitors where to park.
Cypress, Saint, and Royal will be helping with the Christmas trees. At my family’s farm, customers cut their own trees, but we provide axes they can use, so they’ll hand those out and net the trees for transport by feeding them through the baler.
Ella Mae and Reign are set up to help with the snack stand. We have hot chocolate, warm cider, caramel apples, and other treats that can be purchased at the stand.
Nora is going to help at the children’s arts and crafts tables—I’m a little jealous about that because it’s one of my favorite parts of the event. The little kids are always so full of joy and have so much fun.
With all that taken care of, I’m free to run the cash register for the tree sales and tackle any problems that arise throughout the event.
In the past, the event was mostly known about through word of mouth and a small advertisement in the local paper.
This year, Cypress convinced my dad to let him do some social media marketing for the event based on stuff he was learning at school—all of this done before my dad suffered his injury.
Dad wanted to support my brother’s endeavors and education.
To say his marketing techniques worked would be an understatement.
More people than ever showed up to attend today’s event. We’re swamped. One family inquired about a bathroom upon arrival, explaining they had driven three hours to visit our farm because they couldn’t find anything similar near their hometown.
Deciding my parents need to see this, I pull out my phone and video call them.
After three rings, my mom’s face fills my screen, well, her forehead does because she’s way too close to the phone.
“You’ve got to back up a little, Mom,” I tell her helpfully.
She pulls the phone farther away before asking, “Better?”
“Much,” I agree.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Nothing’s wrong, Ma. Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“Well, you’re at the busiest event of the year, and you’re calling. I just assumed something was wrong.” Her face is scrunched in concern.
“Nothing is wrong, Mom, really. It’s the busiest it’s ever been. I just thought you and Dad might want to see it.”
“Oo goodie,” she cheers. “Let me go sit by your father so he can see too,” she tells me. For a minute, the phone is no longer positioned to show her, and there are shuffling noises.
I overhear her muffled voice saying, “Gene, Winter’s on the phone. She wants to show us something.”
It takes a minute, but she gets herself situated so that I can see them both. Dad looks in good spirits and puts on his reading glasses so he doesn’t have to squint so much at the phone screen.
I put up a ‘be right back’ sign at the checkout stand and walk through the event. My parents ooh and aah over the crowds.
“Oh my goodness,” my mom exclaims with a watery voice. She’s tearing up over the success.
“It seems Cypress knows his marketing. Or got lucky, I guess,” I joke.
“It sure looks like it,” my dad says with pride in his tone.
Several hours pass with everything going smoother than I anticipated. By the time the cookie contest comes around, I’m giddy with excitement—it’s one of the crowd favorites.
Every year, the cookie contest features a handful of participants who are nominated to compete. While contestants decorate cookies on the stage while being timed, the crowd can decorate their own cookie to eat then or take home.
Saint is unaware, but this year, thanks to our friends, he and I will be the contestants. He’s an artist for a living, so it feels like he has an unfair advantage. The girls and I schemed a way for him to lose, and I can’t wait to see his downfall—all in good fun, of course.
When it’s contest time, Cypress climbs the stage with a megaphone in tow.
“Please welcome to the stage this year’s cookie contestants—Saint Holland and Winter Evergreen.”
Hoots and cheers from the crowd follow his announcement as Saint and I take the stage. Knowing that the table on the left has the supplies that have been altered, I sprint ahead and take the table on the right.
“This is going to be easy as pie.” Saint smirks as he stands behind the table.
“Not a chance, Holly,” I taunt.
“Cypress won’t cheat for you and say you’re the winner just because you’re related,” Saint points out.
“I’m well aware,” I toss back and get my game face on.
My brother yells the countdown into the megaphone, “Three…Two…One.” Then he whistles, signaling it’s go time.
I quickly put my snowman cookie on the plate at the center of my table and grab a bag of icing. With extreme care, I layer on the white icing.
“What the—” I hear from the table next to me, alerting me to my scheme going as planned. Out of the corner of my eye, I peek at Saint’s cookie plate to see a glob of white liquid flowing everywhere.
I smirk a tiny bit as I see him scramble, attempting to salvage his cookie.
The thing is, even if he fixes the white, each one of his icing bags has been sabotaged. The girls added a little extra water to each before mixing them. This way, all his icing is runnier than it’s supposed to be, while mine is perfectly unharmed.
When our time is almost up, my brother leads the crowd in a countdown from ten. As they chant, getting to one, I’ve just perfectly completed my last detail and set my icing bag down.
Cypress has each of us show off our creations to the crowd and allow them to judge the winner. As expected, I am the winner.
Looking at the crowd, I raise my cookie up in the air in triumph. While I was busy gloating, Saint snuck up on me and, while my cookie was raised, he bit into it, taking its head right off.
“That’s for cheating,” he mumbles around the bite.
I gasp in faux shock. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing?”
“It’s exactly the type of thing old Winnie would have done,” he says.
He makes a whole display for the crowd, telling them I’m a dirty rotten cheater, and I take off into the field of trees with my partially eaten cookie, laughing.
The last part of the event involves a local band playing on the small stage. Most families have packed up and made the trek home by now, leaving mostly older groups. When the music starts, couples pair off and lead the group in dancing.
I watch from the edge of the trees as couples sway in time to the music, enjoying a special moment.
A branch breaking behind me has me turning toward the darkened trees, looking for the source of the noise. It doesn’t take long for me to spot Saint approaching me.
“What’re you doing out here?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer at first but drags me farther into the trees, far enough that the stage is no longer visible but still within earshot of the music.
“Can I tempt you into a dance?” he asks me.
I pretend to think about it, but ultimately agree after warning, “You’ll probably regret asking when I step on your feet for the tenth time in a row.”
“You could break my toes for all I care. I would never regret dancing with you.”
We sway in the dark, and as the song comes to an end, I look up at him.
Something passes between us in the moment, and we both move in tandem. Our lips crash into each other with reckless abandon. And as we kiss, glittery flakes of snow begin to fall.