CHAPTER1
Dec
I’m late. I’m late.Like the white rabbit from Wonderland, I know the Queen won’t appreciate my tardiness. Quickening my steps, I use every inch of my five foot nine inches to lengthen my stride. The speed carries me closer to the Sinclair Union terminal. The historical building that’s one of the crown jewels of our city.
Even the afternoon sun rays dancing through the orange, yellow and crimson leaves of the large oaks lining Main Street urge me on. Beth Oliver isn’t a woman one keeps waiting.
I curse the afternoon traffic and my habit of getting lost in the design. This wasn’t how I wanted to start our meeting. The muscles in my neck tighten as the woman I long to please comes into view.
Impeccably dressed in a pair of designer denim, a long-sleeved red t-shirt, and a coordinating red black and white plaid vest, my mother is holiday chic. The rich color contrasts beautifully with her golden-brown skin. Which she knows. Mom’s drilled the importance of playing up our strengths into the minds of all her daughters.
She pulled her long black hair into a crown around her head, showing off her elegant neck and slender, oval-shaped face. At nearly fifty, her face still holds the plumpness of youth with more smoothness than wrinkles, thanks to the creams, sunblock, and a healthy lifestyle she swears by.
I share her slender frame,high cheekbones, and upturned nose. I inherited her thick coiled curls, though no one would never catch her without them perfectly pressed and polished. The brown, copper, and red hue is from my father’s side of the family.
Mom’s make-up is light and flawless, giving her a glow while hiding imperfections. I reach her and push the stray curls escaping my hastily formed bun out of my face.
“December.” She sighs. “You are in a state.” A sad smile lines her thin pink lips. “My youngest babe, born in the last month of the year, still has yet to bloom.” I’m painfully reminded of my bare face and rumpled appearance.
“Sorry mom, I got caught up with decorations.”
Her deep-set dark brown eyes mirror the disappointment dripping from her tongue. My stomach plunges. I brace myself for her censure and tilt my chin, refusing to yield to her criticism.
“I’ve been preparing for the event since five this morning.”
“I know how consuming an undertaking like the Gingerbread House Contest can be. I admire your work ethic, but you must schedule time to take proper care of yourself.” She frowns. “Besides, you never know who you’ll run into.” Her cat-shaped eyes inspect me.
I refuse to shrink as she takes in my worn blue jean overalls and my burnt yellow long-sleeved t-shirt with the pattern of fall leaves traveling down the sleeves.
I shrug. “I dressed for comfort and function, knowing I’d be working with power tools and paint. It was practical.”
“What am I going to do with you, hmmm?”
Love me as I am.I’m my father’s daughter. I understand working with my hands and doing things with passion and integrity. My mother’s throwback to the southern belle attitude and ways have always felt alien to me.
“I thought we could swing by the ice cream parlor. You know their son, Aubrey, the lawyer, is in town for the holidays.”
“How nice for them.” I ignore her hints. “Let me show you the space and what I plan to do with it,” I suggest.
“Of course.” Mom smiles politely, but the tension around her mouth gives her away.
She gestures for me to proceed her inside.
I open the door and step inside the old train station, marveling at the high ceilings with rounded arches. The art déco metal work and swirling designs make me feel like I’ve stepped back in time.
“We’ll have the main area for the gingerbread houses, but we’ll set vendor tables up on the outside perimeters and an area dedicated to photos a local photographer will take. I wanted to keep things local.”
“Yes, that was the main point of your pitch. Clever. It had people lining up to contribute to the grand prize. We all know tourism is our bread and butter.”
“I want to give people more reasons to come to Sinclair during the holidays. If this goes well, it could open the door for similar events throughout the year.”
“Nice job, thinking ahead.” I preen under her praise. I inherited her love for organization. We share the ability to see things on a larger scale. It’s always kept us two steps ahead and Oliver’s knick-knacks and Christmas Tree Farm thriving.
“I try.” I shrug, shoving my hands into my pockets to keep from fidgeting. Twenty-seven years old, and I still feel like a small child waiting to be scolded.
“No. You’re doing it.” My heart swells. “But only in one area of your life.”
Mom undoes her kind words in the next breath. Mom didn’t come to listen to my vision. This was her chance to give another lecture.