Page 7 of Christmas at Wolf Creek

Though that’s not entirely true, the trust Tomas set up would keep us comfortable for life, but I’ve always insisted on maintaining my job at Sweet Treats Bakery in Pinecrest, the nearest town. Partly for appearances—Eleanor Shaw, widow and single mother, needs an income—and partly for my own sanity. Four walls and a roof can become a prison when you’re hiding, and the bakery gives me purpose, routine, human contact beyond my daughter and now, my siblings.

I let Scout out to do his business while I get his food ready, then wait by the back door. In no time, he’s racing up the back porch, and I let him in. He goes straight to his food dish while I head to Nora’s room. Every morning that I’m scheduled to work, the same guilt twists in my stomach—dragging her from warm blankets into the biting cold before sunrise. Thankfully, I have an understanding boss who lets me bring her to work. She curls up on the sofa in the bakery’s back room until she needs to get ready for school.

The drive into town takes thirty minutes on good days, but winter is settling in, so I allow extra time for icy patches on the winding roads.

Pinecrest is still asleep when we arrive, streetlights glowing in the darkness as I park behind Sweet Treats.The back door is already unlocked, as Helen always comes first to fire up the ovens.

“Morning,” I call out, hanging my coat on the hook by the door. “I’ll be right there. I need to get Nora settled.” I usher her into the back room and get her comfy before heading back to the kitchen.

Helen looks up from where she’s measuring flour, her round face breaking into a smile. “There she is! We were starting to think you’d run off to join the circus.”

I laugh as I wash my hands at the industrial sink. “Just family stuff. Sorry for being gone so long.”

“Family, hmm?” Helen raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never mentioned family before.”

I silently curse my slip. In the four years I’ve worked at Sweet Treats, I’ve carefully cultivated the image of a widow with no living relatives except my daughter. “Newly discovered,” I lie, she doesn’t need to know the history of my crazy family. “They’re here for the holidays.”

“That is so nice. Especially for Nora. Speaking of holidays,” Helen says, mercifully changing the subject, “we need to talk about Christmas.”

I tie my apron and settle back into the familiar routine. “What about it?”

“We’re behind schedule already.” Helen gestures to a stack of order forms on the counter. “Frank wants us to start the holiday menu next week. Peppermint everything, gingerbread, those little snowflakecookies that took forever last year.”

I groan inwardly. The holiday rush at Sweet Treats is legendary—from Thanksgiving and Halloween in October through Christmas and New Year’s, we barely have time to breathe. But this year feels different. For the first time, I have family to consider.

“And,” Helen continues, her voice dropping conspiratorially, “Frank wants to enter the Winter Wonderland competition this year.”

I pause in the middle of measuring coffee grounds. “The what?”

“Town competition. Each business creates a holiday display. Winner gets featured in the tourism brochure and bragging rights for a year.” She shrugs. “Frank’s convinced we can beat Maggie’s Diner this time.”

“That sounds... intense,” I say cautiously.

“Oh, it is. People go all out. But it brings in tourists, and tourists buy pastries.” Helen winks. “Frank says we’re doing a gingerbread village in the front window. Life-sized.”

“Life-sized?” I repeat, alarmed. “As in, human-sized gingerbread?”

“That’s the plan. He’s got sketches and everything.” Helen hands me a folder. “You’re our artistic one. He wants you in charge of design.”

I flip through Frank’s drawings—elaborate gingerbread structures complete with working lights,a miniature train, and what appears to be a gingerbread family of four. The scale is ambitious, to put it mildly.

“Helen, this would take weeks,” I protest. “And the structural engineering alone—”

“He’s already ordered the supplies,” she interrupts, looking apologetic. “And he’s hired that carpenter—you know, the handsome one who fixed our back steps last spring—to build the frames. We need to cover them with gingerbread and make it all pretty.”

I close the folder with a sigh. “When does he want to start?”

“Yesterday,” Helen chirps, sliding a tray of muffins into the oven. “But he’ll settle for this weekend. We’re closing early on Saturday so we can work on it without customers underfoot.”

My weekend plans of helping Nora with her science project vanish in a puff of gingerbread-scented smoke. “I’ll have to check if my... if someone can watch Nora.”

“Bring her along,” Helen suggests. “Kids love this stuff. My grandkids are coming to help with the decorating.”

The idea of bringing Nora into town, of including her in something so public, sends a familiar spike of anxiety through me. But then I remember Halloween—how her face lit up with joy at experiencing something so normal, so childhood-essential.

“Maybe,” I say noncommittally, turning to start themorning’s bread dough.

The bell over the front door jingles, followed by Frank’s booming voice. “There’s my star baker! Eleanor, we need to talk about Christmas!”