Santa would be simply an evening’s work. Daisy had been obsessed with photography from a young age, as long as she could remember. She commuted to the college three days a week for classes, and spent the rest of the time doing freelance work and looking after Charlie.
She zipped him up snugly and pushed open the door, stepping out into the brisk day.
Every year, a section of Blanchard Park was transformed into Santaland, and opening day had arrived, which was a big deal around town. The weather was cold and bright; it was the sort of weather the Chamber of Commerce prayed for every year but rarely got. Santaland was the signature holiday centerpiece of a town trying to make the best of the long, dark winter, and volunteers went all out with the decorations. According to the Avalon Troubadour, the Chamber of Commerce anticipated record numbers of tourists this year.
Children who were normally grumpy and reluctant to stir from their beds on cold, dark school days had probably bounded downstairs today, tearing through breakfast, eager to get in line for Santa. People who usually looked out their windows and groaned at the sight of fresh snow perked up at the view today. The season had kicked off with a pancake breakfast at the fire hall. Kiosks lined the streets, offering everything from funnel cakes to balls of suet for the winter birds. Galahad’s Gallery, a co-op of local artists, had a booth that featured glass sculpture, wind chimes and a selection of prints by local artists—Daisy Bellamy included. Her seasonal nature photographs were gaining in popularity. She stopped at the booth tolearn that within minutes of opening, they’d sold two of her pieces—a panoramic shot of the Nordic ski trails winding through the winter woods, and a long-shutter-speed shot of the Schuyler River coursing beneath the town’s covered wooden bridge.
It was heady stuff, knowing people were actually paying money for her photographs. The idea that someone liked her art enough to buy it improved her mood immeasurably.
“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” she said as she prepared to drive away from Santaland.
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” he answered cheerfully from his car seat in the back. He knew how to charm her, that was a fact.
He was a lot like his father.
She pulled into the town library to check out some fresh books for Charlie. He adored being read to, and she liked having new material on hand at all times. Daisy and Maureen Davenport, the librarian, had become friends, thanks to all the hours of story time Charlie had attended.
“Books,” he stated with satisfaction when he saw where they were headed.
“You got it. Anything you want—Dr. Seuss, Clifford the Big Red Dog, Olivia—you name it.”
“Six books,” he said. He had no idea how many that was, but he knew the number six.
“That’s right. We’re allowed to check out six books at a time on a single topic.” When she got out of the car, she saw a guy hiking across the library grounds, a backpack slung over his shoulder. It was his army-surplus jacket that caught her eye, and his easy, loose-limbed gait. He didn’t walk the way people usually did in the snow, hunched over with hands jammed in their pockets.He was walking lightly and easily, with a spring in his step and his posture as straight as the trees all around, as though the cold didn’t bother him at all. The jacket, the trees and the snow made a striking palette, so she pulled out her camera. She was taking a class on editorial images, and this might be a good shot.
Charlie made an impatient sound in the back of the car. “Hang on,” she said, taking two more shots. Then she put her camera away and freed him from his car seat. Holding his arms out like airplane wings, he headed for the door to the library.
There was a large placard at the entryway of the building with an urgent appeal for donations. Help Us Save Our Library, it read. We Can’t Do It Without You. Daisy dug in her pocket and forked
She zipped him up snugly and pushed open the door, stepping out into the brisk day.
Every year, a section of Blanchard Park was transformed into Santaland, and opening day had arrived, which was a big deal around town. The weather was cold and bright; it was the sort of weather the Chamber of Commerce prayed for every year but rarely got. Santaland was the signature holiday centerpiece of a town trying to make the best of the long, dark winter, and volunteers went all out with the decorations. According to the Avalon Troubadour, the Chamber of Commerce anticipated record numbers of tourists this year.
Children who were normally grumpy and reluctant to stir from their beds on cold, dark school days had probably bounded downstairs today, tearing through breakfast, eager to get in line for Santa. People who usually looked out their windows and groaned at the sight of fresh snow perked up at the view today. The season had kicked off with a pancake breakfast at the fire hall. Kiosks lined the streets, offering everything from funnel cakes to balls of suet for the winter birds. Galahad’s Gallery, a co-op of local artists, had a booth that featured glass sculpture, wind chimes and a selection of prints by local artists—Daisy Bellamy included. Her seasonal nature photographs were gaining in popularity. She stopped at the booth tolearn that within minutes of opening, they’d sold two of her pieces—a panoramic shot of the Nordic ski trails winding through the winter woods, and a long-shutter-speed shot of the Schuyler River coursing beneath the town’s covered wooden bridge.
It was heady stuff, knowing people were actually paying money for her photographs. The idea that someone liked her art enough to buy it improved her mood immeasurably.
“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” she said as she prepared to drive away from Santaland.
“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” he answered cheerfully from his car seat in the back. He knew how to charm her, that was a fact.
He was a lot like his father.
She pulled into the town library to check out some fresh books for Charlie. He adored being read to, and she liked having new material on hand at all times. Daisy and Maureen Davenport, the librarian, had become friends, thanks to all the hours of story time Charlie had attended.
“Books,” he stated with satisfaction when he saw where they were headed.
“You got it. Anything you want—Dr. Seuss, Clifford the Big Red Dog, Olivia—you name it.”
“Six books,” he said. He had no idea how many that was, but he knew the number six.
“That’s right. We’re allowed to check out six books at a time on a single topic.” When she got out of the car, she saw a guy hiking across the library grounds, a backpack slung over his shoulder. It was his army-surplus jacket that caught her eye, and his easy, loose-limbed gait. He didn’t walk the way people usually did in the snow, hunched over with hands jammed in their pockets.He was walking lightly and easily, with a spring in his step and his posture as straight as the trees all around, as though the cold didn’t bother him at all. The jacket, the trees and the snow made a striking palette, so she pulled out her camera. She was taking a class on editorial images, and this might be a good shot.
Charlie made an impatient sound in the back of the car. “Hang on,” she said, taking two more shots. Then she put her camera away and freed him from his car seat. Holding his arms out like airplane wings, he headed for the door to the library.
There was a large placard at the entryway of the building with an urgent appeal for donations. Help Us Save Our Library, it read. We Can’t Do It Without You. Daisy dug in her pocket and forked
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