1. Evangeline

ONE

EVANGELINE

T he early afternoon sun rays bounce off the wet pavement, making it glisten. To an untrained eye, this is beautiful, even magical. But someone with experience knows it’s a potential hazard. The last thing I want is to hit a patch of black ice and go careening off the road into the miles-long culvert alongside it.

My red truck, with its wooden side rails, rumbles as I drive toward my first stop. Every few feet, I steer to the right or left to avoid the potholes the town has yet to fill. The back of my truck is filled with wreaths and ornament balls made by my mom, Clara, from the leftover boughs my dad, Robert who is known around town as Benny, cut from our stock of Christmas trees. Each crate has the name of someone in town written on it, whether a friend or another business, who has supported my parents’ tree farm for as long as I can remember, sometimes longer than I’ve been alive. The only places where I’m not stopping are the chain stores, which never support or buy local. This really irks me because we have amazing bakers, restaurants, bookstores, jewelers, and people who sew in Deer Ridge. There are many more places my family works hard to keep in business. Without the mom-and-pop establishments, none of us would survive.

Green garland wraps around each black iron streetlight with a red bow perfectly situated nearby the lanterns along Main Street. We had our annual trimming party on Monday, and most of us joined in the festivities, decorating storefronts, streetlights, and drinking hot chocolate while planning a shopping trip or two to Colonie, New York, where the nearest mall is.

A light snow begins to fall as I turn onto the road. I slow down, looking right and left for people crossing the street, and hope the spot I see across from Whitaker’s is still there in a minute.

People wave as they cross in front of me. I roll my window down to say hi and take in the carolers on the corner. I sigh happily and drive forward, easily parallel parking. I crack open my door a smidge and wait for the traffic to pass before stepping my boot-covered foot in a puddle of slush. It’s a good thing my boots are waterproof. They’re a must-have here during the winter.

At the back of my truck, I pull the handle and drop the tailgate. It squeaks, a combination of old age, rust, and the cold. The first crate full of loose boughs and ornament balls is for Alma’s Bakery. Behind me, a horn sounds. I wave, even though I might not know who they are. Later today, they will undoubtedly stop by the farm and say, “I saw you earlier at such and such,” or mention it to my parents.

“Morning, Alma,” I say, stepping inside and inhaling deeply, letting the aroma of cinnamon, vanilla, and the unmistakable scent of Christmas pine wash over me, and a smile forms as I am reminded of how much I love this time of year. It encompasses everything from the trees and snowmen to the carolers who go door-to-door, handing out candy canes and singing songs. It’s a time when the whole town comes together, spreading Christmas cheer to everyone, regardless of where they’re from. It includes community productions of It’s a Wonderful Life —even though we’ve all seen it countless times—and the lighting of the Christmas tree in the town square. But mostly, it’s the sound of Burl Ives, whose voice fills the air with cheer.

The day after Thanksgiving at the bakery is oddly quiet. Normally, there’s a line out the door for Alma’s cinnamon rolls and apple pie. I can’t remember the last time I went shopping with the masses on this day, not since I started working at the farm in November and December.

My parents never wanted me to work on the farm, especially after I graduated from law school. They were more focused on my career than me chopping down and hauling fir trees. But everything changed when my brother passed away while he was in high school. My dad needed help, and although the farm brings in enough money to support my parents, it doesn’t allow them to hire full-time employees. On weekends, we get some high school kids to come up, but they usually just work to collect volunteer credits, and we rarely see them again once they’ve fulfilled their requirements.

“Morning, Evangeline.”

“Alma, please call me Eve.”

“Especially around this time,” Alma says, with a cheerful smile. I suppose with a name like Evangeline or Eve, you should always be in the Christmas spirit. Thankfully, I am. I love the holidays and everything they stand for.

“I have the wreaths from my mom. Where do you want them?”

“Right here, sweetie.” She points to the empty table nearest the counter. “And that box is for your mom.”

As I approach the display case, I inhale deeply and scrunch my face in hunger when my stomach growls. Alma must see my expression because she chuckles lightly.

“Did you eat this morning?”

I lift my shoulder halfway and grimace. “There may have been a donut hole and a quick cup of coffee before I loaded the truck for these deliveries.”

Alma rolls her eyes and goes behind the counter. My mouth waters, and my stomach growls even louder when I see her plucking one of her famous cinnamon rolls from the metal pan. She sets it on a tray, cuts it into bite-sized squares, and piles them into a to-go box before drizzling warm frosting over the top. She brings the box over to me, along with a fork and a pile of napkins. “I know you have other stops, but this should hold you over until you’re able to get some lunch.”

“Thank you, Alma,” I say with a kind smile as I set my midmorning snack in the box of apple, pumpkin, and pecan pies that Alma has made for our shack. Despite its humble name, our shack is anything but ordinary. My father transformed a shed into a store and vegetable stand by adding electricity, a wood stove, a refrigerator, and even a television. In the scorching summer, we keep all the windows open to let in some breeze. But during the winter, it’s perfect. Dad starts a fire in the stove first thing in the morning, ensuring that it’s nice and toasty for both us and our customers. During the holiday season, we serve hot chocolate and hot apple cider daily, hand out free candy canes, and sell Alma’s delicious pies along with other goods from the local merchants.

“See you later, Alma,” I say as I bid farewell.

“Tell your dad I’ll be by later to get my tree.”

“Will do.” If I had to guess, Alma and her husband visited my parents sometime in the spring or early summer to choose the tree they wanted from the acres of land my parents own. It’s a privilege that my father extends mostly to friends and family?the ability to pick their Christmas trees from our own property.

I manage to balance the heavy box of pies on top of my arm, prop my knee on the sidestep, and rest my chin on one of the pie boxes while opening the passenger side of the truck cab. It’s a bit of a struggle, but I successfully place the box on the floor of the truck. After shutting the door, I realize I forgot to close the tailgate before entering Alma’s.

“Crap,” I mutter under my breath, quickly counting the boxes. It’s not that the people of Deer Ridge are untrustworthy; it’s the out-of-towners who don’t quite understand the meaning of a small town that make me wary. I let out a sigh of relief when I confirm all the boxes are accounted for. Although a closed tailgate wouldn’t necessarily deter someone, it might give them second thoughts.

Next on my list is Whitaker’s General Store. They purchase wreaths and trees from us at a wholesale price, as my dad and Mr. Whitaker have been close friends since high school. Whitaker’s is one of the few places where my dad sells his trees at a discount.

Later today, I’ll return with my dad, driving a truck bed full of trees, to help Mr. Whitaker set up his own display. He’s been doing this for a few years now, ever since his son, Zane, went off to New York City for his fancy internship and never returned. He didn’t even bother showing up for law school graduation. Not that I’m bitter or anything. This time, I take Mr. Whitaker’s box out of the back of my truck and maneuver my body and the box enough to close the tailgate. Instead of using the crosswalk, I opt to wait for the traffic to clear and then quickly cross the street, slipping between two parked cars and hopping the curb. Mr. Whitaker closely observes my every move and bursts into laughter. I join in, realizing that running across the road isn’t the smartest choice, especially with so many people out and about, but it saves me some time by disobeying the law.

“Hello, Eve,” he greets me as he pauses from breaking up a patch of ice on the sidewalk. “Those wreaths look lovely.” He gestures toward the tops of the wreaths peeking out from the box.

“I'll let my mom know,” I reply, setting the box down and letting out a small sigh. “If you need help with the ice, just say the word. Dad has extra guys with him today to assist with setting up. I can send one of them over.”

“Thank you. I might take you up on that offer if I can’t manage it alone.”

“If you run out of salt, I can stop by Auggie’s Hardware and pick some up for you.”

“No, I have some. I’m just trying to conserve it for a major storm.”

I have always liked Mr. Whitaker. Our relationship grew stronger when I dated his son, and we have remained close even after the breakup. I place my hand on his shoulder and give it a reassuring squeeze, hoping he understands he can rely on me. “Just give me a call if you need anything. Dad and I will be back shortly with some trees, and I’ll help with setting everything up.”

Mr. Whitaker is well beyond retirement age. The plan was for his son, Zane, to take over the store or at least move back to Deer Ridge and manage it on the side. However, Zane had different plans, as many kids do in today’s world. They no longer desire to live in small, rural towns; they seek the bright lights and fast pace of big cities. However, I couldn’t care less about that. Returning home after law school was the right decision for me. This is where I want to raise my future family, if I have one.

Mr. Whitaker let out a sigh. “I will, Eve. Have a good day and drive carefully. Those city folk have a tendency to run stop lights.”

Except we don’t have any stop lights in Deer Ridge.

“You too. We’ll be back soon. Remember to call if you need anything.”

I cross the street and climb into the cab of my truck, pretending to review the list of errands I have to run for my mom, even though I have it memorized. It’s the same list every year. There are a few more stops to make on this street before I head toward the next block. Peering out my window, I observe Mr. Whitaker working on the patch of ice. It would devastate him if someone were to slip and fall. Technically, the town would be held responsible, but in today’s sue-happy society, the last thing Mr. Whitaker needs is a lawsuit. I pull out my phone and text my dad, asking him to send one of the kids to the store to give Mr. Whitaker a hand. It’s the least I can do.