“Really?”
“Really.” She gives me another kiss. “I love you, Megs.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
She goes out and shuts the door behind her. I lie back on my pillow and close my eyes. Life has a way of sorting itself out?
Right now that doesn’t seem the least bit likely.
Jess
“Long, low, reckless, the bobsleds flew from the top of the Big Hill along a hard-packed frozen track in a thrilling sweep, almost to the slough.”
—Betsy and Tacy Go Downtown
“Thanks for stopping by!” my mother calls to a group of customers as they head for the door. “Drive safely, now.”
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Emma and I chorus.
The bells over the farm-stand door jangle as it shuts behind them. My mother leans back against the counter with a sigh, pushing her dark bangs off her forehead. She looks frazzled, which is not surprising. Yesterday was mostly a bust because of the snowstorm, but today has more than made up for it. We’ve been crazy busy from the minute we opened this morning.
She frowns at one of the shelves behind me. “Jess, honey, could you go out to the barn and bring over more blackberry jam?”
I turn around in surprise. “Are we out already?”
“Yep,” says Emma. “I just sold the next-to-the-last jar.”
“Whoa. That went fast.”
“It’s a good problem to have,” my mother replies, a smile replacing her frown. Which is true. Our family has come to count on the year-end boost from the Thanksgiving Weekend Harvest Festival sales. Half Moon Farm is a lot more profitable than it was a few years ago—our signature brand of goat cheese has taken off in a big way, and we’ve had to almost double our herd to accommodate all the orders flooding in—but still, I know my parents worry about money. Winterizing the farm stand was a big project, plus our house is ancient and always needs repairs and so do our cars, plus college is hovering on the horizon for me, and Dylan and Ryan, my twin brothers, aren’t all that far behind. On top of that there’s a new employee to pay, the guy my parents hired after I got the scholarship to Colonial Academy and couldn’t help out as much as I used to.
I still feel guilty about that, even though they tell me not to.
I’m earning my keep today, though, that’s for sure. And so is Emma. Josh Bates, our farmhand, has the weekend off so he can spend Thanksgiving up in New Hampshire visiting his family. They live near my aunt and uncle, which is how my parents found out about him. Josh graduated from the University of New Hampshire a couple of years ago with a degree in dairy management and was looking for some hands-on experience at a goat farm.
The bells over the door jangle again, and while Emma goes over to greet the new customer, I grab my jacket and duck out the back door. Crossing the field we use for a parking lot on my way to the barn, I wave to my brothers, who are helping my dad spread sand on the walkways again. They did a really good job yesterday pitching in with the plowing and shoveling. Mom says they’re growing up, and it’s true. They used to be totally useless, but I’ve noticed they’ve both gotten a lot more responsible now that they’re in fifth grade.
My dad’s the real hero of the weekend, though. He’s been up at the crack of dawn two days in a row juggling his regular chores with all the extra stuff we had to do to get ready for our harvest festival. Yesterday he ran the snowblower practically nonstop. No sooner were the driveway and parking area clear than he had to start all over again. It was what Mr. Graves, my classics teacher, would have called a Sisyphean task. We’ve been studying Greek myths this fall, and Sisyphus was this king who tried to trick the gods, and ended up getting punished for it by being forced to roll a boulder uphill for all eternity, only to have it roll down again every time right before he reached the top.
The snow finally stopped late yesterday afternoon, and the snow-blower’s back in the garage again today. Even though the sun is out it’s still cold, though, and I wrap my jacket tightly around me as I make a dash for the barn. Inside, I dawdle for a bit with Sundance and Cedar, my pet goats. I don’t get to spend as much time with them as I used to, and I feel guilty about that, too.
I hear mewing behind me and turn around to see Elvis, our black barn cat, slink into the stall. Behind him totter a trio of kittens, a tiger-striped male, a gray female with white boots and bib, and a coal-black male who looks just like his daddy.
“Hey, everybody,” I say softly. “Did you come to say hi? Where’s your wife, Elvis?”
Elvis twitches his tail and blinks at me. I lean down and scratch him behind the ears, and he twines himself around my legs with a rumbling purr. “Your turn for day-care duty, is that it? Good job, Dad.”
Scooping up the little female kitten, I carry her with me to the storage room. There are only two boxes of blackberry jam left, and I make a mental note to let my mother know the supply is dwindling fast. We made a ton of it last summer, but it’s our most popular flavor after Concord grape, and we’ll probably run out this weekend.
Giving the kitten one last nuzzle, I set her down and zip my coat, then heft one of the boxes and head back to the farm stand.
“You just missed Megan and Becca,” says Emma, as I set it on the counter. “They stopped in to buy some grape jelly. Becca’s grandmother wants to take some home to Cleveland with her.”
“Shoot! Are they still coming over tonight?” Emma and I have been planning a sleepover for the four of us.
“Yup. They were on their way to the Concord Museum to see the Family Trees exhibit, then they’re heading into Boston for lunch and more shopping.”
“More shopping?” I pretend to look shocked at this news, and Emma giggles. There’s no such thing as too much shopping when it comes to Megan and Becca.
“That reminds me, I should get the boys over to that exhibit,” says my mother. “You always loved it when you were their age, Jess.”
“I still do,” says Emma. “My mother and I went last week.”
Family Trees is a big fund-raiser for the museum, and one of Concord’s most popular holiday traditions. Each tree—and there are a couple dozen of them of all shapes and sizes on display inside the museum—is decorated to represent a different children’s book, which is featured beside it. It’s really cool, and every year the lineup changes. The last time I went, they had some of my old favorites like A Little Princess and The Borrowers and The Cat in the Hat, along with new books I’d never heard of but ended up wanting to read after seeing the trees. One of my favorites was Betty Crocker’s Junior Cookbook for Boys and Girls, because the tree was decorated with miniature cooking tools like rolling pins and pie plates and things, along with small measuring cups and teaspoons and tiny fake food.
“You should get your mom to do a Betsy-Tacy tree some year,” I tell Emma. “She’s on the museum board, right? I’ll bet she could get Mrs. Chadwick to help her.”
Before she can answer, the pocket of her jeans vibrates. She reaches in and pulls out her cell phone. “It’s Darcy,” she reports, reading the text message. “He wants you to call him.”
I grab two jars of jam and stack them on the almost-empty shelf. “Why doesn’t he just call me himself?”
Emma’s fingers fly across her cell phone keypad. She pauses briefly, waiting for her brother’s reply, then looks up. “He said you didn’t answer.”
“What?” I pat my coat pockets and the pockets of my jeans. Duh. Of course I didn’t answer. My cell phone is in my bedroom, where I accidentally left it. “Okay, tell him I’ll call him in a minute when I’m finished here. Did he say what he wants?”
“No,” she replies, shaking her head and sending her long curly hair flying. Emma used to wear her hair short, but she grew it out last year while she was in England. It’s just a little past shoulder length now, and it looks good. She’s wearing her contact lenses today, too. She finally got them when we started high school. Half the time she wears her glasses anyway, though—I guess they’re just easier. She used
to have purple ones, but her new frames are dark, almost the same shade as her hair. They make her look older, more sophisticated.
Emma lounges by the woodstove while I finish my task, taking advantage of the lull in business to warm herself with a mug of hot apple cider. She looks especially cute today in her jeans and borrowed farm boots and cable-knit red sweater.
“Can I use your phone?” I ask when I’m done arranging the jam jars.
She hands it over and I text her brother: IT’S JESS. LEFT MY CELL IN THE HOUSE. WHAT’S UP?
He texts me back instantly. GOING SLEDDING AT NASHAWTUC. STEWART 2. CAN U AND EMMA COME?
I relay the message to Emma, and my mother turns and smiles at us. “Sledding?” she says. “That sounds like fun.”
Emma and I exchange a glance. Nashawtuc Hill is the best sledding spot in Concord, but we promised to help out here all day.
I shrug. “It’s too cold.”
“Yeah, it probably wouldn’t be any fun,” adds Emma. Loyalty is one of her best qualities. “We’d rather stay here with you.”
“Really?” My mother looks surprised to hear this. “You’d both rather spend your entire Saturday here instead of having fun with your friends?”
“I love helping out at Half Moon Farm!” Emma exclaims, her brown eyes brimming with sincerity.
My mother laughs. “Emma Hawthorne, you are a terrible liar!” She stretches out her hands with the palms turned up. “Hmm. Farm store or sledding?” she says, looking from one to the other, as if she’s pretending to weigh the choices. She grins at us. “Sorry to disappoint you, girls, but I vote sledding.”
“Really?” I ask hopefully.
“Really,” my mother says. “I don’t know what I would have done without you two this morning, but I think I can handle it from here. One condition, though—would you mind taking the boys? They’ve worked hard this weekend too, and I think they deserve a break.”
I make a face. My little brothers might be growing up, but they’re still pests. It’s a small price to pay for an afternoon of freedom, though. “Okay.”
“Good girl. Now go grab some lunch and get changed, and I’ll ask your dad to give you a ride.”
As we trot across the yard to the house, I turn to Emma. “Savannah says that in Gstaad, they have toboggan runs that go for miles—I mean kilometers. And there are buses at the bottom to take you up to the top again. It sounds really cool. And she and her parents always have fondue afterward.”
“That’s nice,” Emma replies coolly. She hates it that I’m going to Switzerland for Christmas, even though she’s trying really hard not to let it show.
What was I supposed to do when Savannah asked me? Say no? I’m quiet as we climb the stairs to my room, where we change out of our jeans into ski pants. Emma has to borrow an old pair of my dad’s because she’s a lot taller and sturdier than my mom and me. We’re both petite.
Emma has no business being jealous. She got to live in England for a whole year. I’m just going for seven measly days. I know what it’s like to feel left out, though, so I’ve been trying not to rub it in. Still, I’m really excited about this trip. Switzerland! It’s a place I’ve dreamed about ever since I read Heidi back in elementary school. I have a vivid picture of it in my mind, but I keep wondering what it will really be like. Will the alps look like the White Mountains, near where my aunt and uncle live? Do people actually yodel? Will there be cows and goats running around everywhere?
I glance across my room at Emma, who’s scowling. There’s only one way to deal with her when she’s like this. It’s time to talk books.
“Don’t sulk,” I tell her. “Please. When Betsy got invited to Milwaukee for Christmas in Betsy in Spite of Herself, Tacy was happy for her. She didn’t sulk.”
Emma sighs gustily. “I’m not sulking! Not really. I’m just disappointed that we’re going to miss spending Christmas Eve together two years in a row.”
“Whose fault was that last year?”
She gives me a sheepish grin. “I know, I know. But still.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Ever since we were little, our families have gotten together on Christmas Eve for dessert. Sometimes Emma and her family come to Half Moon Farm and my mom makes gingerbread with homemade whipped cream and caramel sauce, and sometimes we go over to the Hawthornes’ and Mr. Hawthorne makes something fancy, like a bûche de Noël or a trifle. And then we all go to church to see the Christmas pageant.
“So, do you want to go with me to see Mr. Mueller tomorrow?” I ask, changing the subject. “Someone brought in an owl the other day.”
Walter Mueller is a wildlife rehabilitator here in Concord. I’m his apprentice. Helping him counts as community service for school, but that’s not why I’m doing it. I’m doing it because I totally love it. Last year I helped him with a fox that had been hit by a bicycle. I love animals anyway, and helping ones that are hurt like that, or lost, or orphaned—well, there’s no feeling in the world quite like it.
“Sure,” says Emma, who I can tell is relieved not to have to hear any more about how totally awesome Switzerland is going to be.
“I promised to help exercise the horses at Colonial this weekend too,” I tell her. “Maybe we can stop by afterward and take Blackjack and Cairo for a ride.” Emma’s not much of a rider, but Cairo is a sweetheart, and we’ll most likely be in the indoor arena in this weather.
“Will we have time before the filming at Cassidy’s?”
I shrug. “Yeah, we should.” Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid has invited the book club and our friends to help out with the Cooking with Clementine holiday special tomorrow.
After we’re changed, Emma and I make sandwiches for ourselves and my brothers, and half an hour later we pile into my dad’s truck. My mother raps on my window as we start to pull out of the driveway. I roll it down.
“I’m counting on you to watch out for your brothers,” she tells me. “Tobogganing can be dangerous.”
“Mo-om!” protests Dylan. “We’re not babies!”
“I know you’re not, honey,” she assures him.
“Kids have been sledding on Nashawtuc Hill since the dawn of time,” my father reminds her. “Including this kid.”
My dad grew up here in Concord. Right here at Half Moon Farm, in fact.
“Yeah,” I add. “What he says.”
My mother gives me a look. “Don’t sass me.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry! I promise I’ll keep an eye on them.”
“Thank you.” She leans in and kisses my cheek. “Have fun!” She waves as we head off down the driveway.
The parking area at the base of Nashawtuc is crowded. I spot Darcy standing by the Hawthornes’ old station wagon as we pull in, and my heart starts beating a little faster.
I still can’t believe that Darcy Hawthorne actually likes me. I’ve known him all my life, and for most of that time he was just Emma’s big brother. Then a few years ago everything changed, and I started to notice how cute he was, and how warm his brown eyes were, and how funny and kind he could be. And his smile! Darcy has the best smile.
But I never, ever thought he’d think of me as anything but his little sister’s best friend. And for a long time he didn’t. And then all of a sudden last summer, he did.
“Hey, Jess,” he says, crossing the parking lot to open my door.
“Hey.”
He reaches for my hand, and I take it as I hop down onto the snowy ground.
“Glad you could make it.” He smiles down at me, and I smile up at him, and the two of us stand there for a moment beaming at each other.
“Darcy and Jess, sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,” chant my brothers from the back seat.
“Shut up!” I tell them, but I’m not really mad.
“Call me if you need a ride home,” says my dad, grinning as they clamber out.
“I can drive everybody back, Mr. Delaney,” says Darcy.
“That would be great, Darcy. Thanks.”
As he h
eads off, Emma looks around the parking lot. “Where’s Stewart? I thought you said he was going to be here.”
“He was a second ago,” Darcy replies. He shades his eyes against the sun, which seems to be out to stay now, and squints at the hill. “There he is—over with Third and Ethan.” He points them out. “Looks like they’re all heading for the top.”
“Tell them to wait up!” Darcy calls after Emma as she jogs off. Dylan and Ryan are right behind her, making a beeline for Third’s little brother Andrew.
A tiny shiver of happiness goes through me, the way it always does when I’m alone with Darcy. He slips his arm around my waist, and I lean my head against his shoulder. He’s tall and I’m short, so I barely reach it. He doesn’t kiss me or anything. Darcy never kisses me in public, like when we’re out on dates at the movies and stuff, which is fine by me. We’re both kind of private about that part of our relationship. Plus, I hate it when couples get all gooshy, as Cassidy puts it. Or what is it that Betsy Ray and her friends call it? Oh yeah, spoony. Emma and I love that word. It’s perfect, even if it’s from 1910.
Darcy and I cross the parking lot and pull the toboggan out of the back of his station wagon, then start up the hill after our friends. It’s a long slog to the top. The storm the news has been calling the Thanksgiving Weekend Surprise dumped nearly a foot of snow on Concord yesterday. We stick to the path that’s been worn by the other sledders off to the side of the main hill, but the sun has warmed the packed snow just enough to make it a little slick, and I keep sliding backward.
“Come on, Jess, you can do it!” Darcy teases, giving me a push from the rear.
When we finally reach the top, Third pounces on Emma and me. “Where are Becca and Megan?”
“Are you kidding me?” I reply. “Where do you think?”
Third’s face falls when we tell him they’ve gone shopping in Boston. “Who’d choose shopping over this?” he asks, sounding disgusted, and Emma and I look at each other and burst out laughing.
“Race you to the bottom!” says Ethan.