First Snow

By Christine Cunningham

What's the point Christmas without a family of your own? This question haunts Nell as she struggles to get into the holiday spirit. Her walking partner, Hasan seems to be the answer to her prayers until he mentions he doesn't want children. Will Christmas be a disappointment this year too?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christine Cunningham
• Release date: Dec 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9780983698432

Christine Cunningham

I write fictional stories to uplift and inspire. I am a life-long student of happiness and how to attract it. I compile what I learn and weave it into an understandable and enjoyable story.

Book preview

First Snow

By

Christine Cunningham

Eternal Beginning Publishing LLC

Vancouver, Washington

First Snow

By Christine Cunningham

This book or the parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

Published by Eternal Beginning Publishing, LLC

ISBN: 978-0-9836984-3-2

First edition ©2011

Christine Cunningham

All rights reserved.

Smashwords edition

Chapter 1

Oh, mom, I want the one that looks like a flower! the small, curly—haired girl said excitedly while hopping from one foot to the other.

Reaching down with a tissue, I plucked the appropriate cupcake from the display case, commenting, Good choice.

Can I have it now? she pleaded, grasping her mother’s hand sweetly.

In return, her mother asked, What’s the magic word?

Frowning in concentration, the little girl paused. Then a look of knowing blossomed across her face, and she answered, Please!

With a nod of thanks, the child’s mother took the cupcake from my hand and placed it in the eager hands of the child. Now, what do we say, Kristen? she coached.

Flashing me her sparkling eyes Kristen chirped in a voice all little girls seem to possess, Thank you.

The longing for a child raised a familiar lump in my throat as I replied, You’re welcome, honey. Jealously, I watched as mother and daughter left the bakery hand in hand.

Penelope if you’re through with your customer, I could use a hand back here, Émile called from the kitchen, interrupting my wandering thoughts. I smiled to myself, because Émile was the only one in Willow Reed who called me Penelope, instead of Nell, the nickname everyone else used. It occurred to me that Émile’s parents had done the same until they passed the bakery on to him two years ago.

Penelope? Émile asked urgently, Are you coming?

Hustling back to the kitchen, I hummed along with the holiday music playing overhead. Émile stood resting his ample belly against the counter, busily mixing batter while his two young daughters, trying to help, buzzed and bumped around the kitchen like a couple of fireflies in a mason jar.

Nell, will you help me? Hannah the older of the two girls, asked grumpily as she separated cinnamon rolls and placed them on a tray for the display case.

You’re fine, Hannah, Émile answered for me, briskly, while motioning with his bald head toward Macy, who was doing her best to put a heavy tray of loaves into the oven. I grabbed the side of the tray just before it crashed to the ground.

Thanks, Nell. Macy said gratefully as we pushed the tray into the hot oven. Then, without missing a beat, I scooped up the tray of divided cinnamon rolls from Hannah and called over my shoulder, So, there’s this class I want to take Friday evening, Émile.

I seamlessly slid the tray of warm rolls into the display case, retrieved one and put it on a plate, and continued, It’s actually a writing group that meets at the community center.

Oh? was the only answer Émile had time to give as the jangling of the bells at the front door signaled that another customer had arrived. I smiled warmly as I held out the cinnamon roll to Hasan, my Monday morning regular.

Hasan greeted me as he accepted the offering, Good morning, Nell.

As I returned the greeting, Émile asked loudly, Is that Hasan?

Without waiting for an answer, Émile appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a towel.

"Bonjour, Émile," Hasan said cheerfully.

Émile grabbed a croissant from the display case and said invitingly, Come sit with me Hasan. Émile motioned to a booth. He nudged me as he passed and said, teasing, "It’s so nice to be able to speak with someone who knows French."

Hasan smiled at me again with twinkling eyes behind his round glasses and said, Thank you, Nell. Are you free to walk tomorrow evening?

I nodded to break the gaze that sent a tingle along my arms and replied, Yes, I’ll meet you in the park by the lake.

After Hasan and Émile sat down, they began a lively conversation that, despite my two years of French in high school, I was unable to follow. Tourists began to file in and I gladly lost myself in serving baked goods and listening to the travelers’ stories about my charming town, Willow Reed. I easily agreed with the comments, all the while feeling a little superior because I had lived all thirty years of my life in Willow Reed. The