Cedar Creek Seasons (40 page)

“Of
yours
,” Oompa interjected. “It’s for you, honey.”

Snow swirled in a riot of light-reflecting iced ballerinas in the glow of holiday lights. Her thoughts swirled in a similar tangle, but faster and with less direction.
For me? Oompa sold the shop? Derrick/Erik isn’t who he said he was, but it doesn’t matter? And now where do I go? And when Oompa’s gone …
Winter hinted at a grand entrance in more arenas than one.

Her grandfather cleared his throat, which drew her attention back to the indoor scene. “Beth, don’t think about your answer. Just say it. The first thing that comes to your mind. If you had the opportunity, and if you didn’t feel obligated to do what you thought I wanted, you’d use this shop to sell—”

“Children’s books.”

“And your Derrick, or rather Erik, writes—”

“Children’s b—” Her gasp echoed off the high ceiling.

Nicole left the circle, walked to the counter, and tore the packing tape from the top of the box. She dug inside and returned with a book held against her chest. “Children’s books. Like this one.” She held the hardcover, half-inch-thick book toward Beth like a Christmas gift.

The smooth cover, the weight of the words tucked inside, the pen-and-ink illustrations reminded her why she loved books. She made a return trip to the cover.
Cedarburg Yarns by Oliver Schurmer as Told to Erik Hoffman
. The room held its breath as she turned to the dedication page and caught sight of her name—Bethlehem Schurmer—and words that made her tear ducts work overtime.

“For me?”

The loose skin under Oompa’s arctic gray eyes held crescents of moisture. “I’ve long known where your heart lay, child. But until Nicole offered to buy this shop as well as her own and I discovered the identity of her famous brother, the one who baked brownies for her between book contracts …”

Nicole cringed then smiled. “I may have let that slip.”

Oompa took the opportunity to draw a breath. “My bequeathing this building to you would have been a handicap, not a blessing, Beth. For it to stay upright, it needed a face-lift I couldn’t afford.”

Beth drew a breath of her own.

“Then Erik offered to write my stories to help raise funds for repairs that would have to be done no matter who owned the building. And the sale of the shop will afford you the means to start fresh, following your own dream, not mine or your grandmother’s.”

“But I …” What should she even ask?

Oompa’s eyes twinkled. “It sounded like such a good idea to keep it a surprise. My Christmas gift to you. Maybe my last one. Then love made things … complicated.”

“You can still call it the Yarn Shop,” Nicole interjected, “assuming you want to stay in Cedarburg. Stories. Yarns. You’ve already made the connection in this community. Now, it will be children’s stories. A new season for the shop. For you. If you want to stay.”

Her pulse pounded. “Will he be here?” She nodded toward the Erik she knew as Derrick.

He crouched to look her in the eye. “I want to be part of this endeavor.”

Oh. The children’s bookstore. Of course.

“And of your life, Beth. An infinity ending to the question, ‘Maybe us?’”

Oompa reached for the book in Beth’s hands. “Let me see that thing. Now, turn your head a little to the right.”

She obeyed.

“Lift your chin.”

“Oompa, what—?”

“Okay, Erik. There’s your opportunity.”

Beth’s breath caught as “her” Erik leaned in, cupped her cheeks in his hands, and planted a brownie-flavored kiss on her waiting lips.

“Sweet,” she whispered, when the kiss concluded.

“Sorry. I’ve been taste testing,” he said.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Nicole punched her brother in the biceps. “About time.”

And Oompa, raspy but confident, led in a chorus of “Joy to the World!”

Cynthia Ruchti is a past president of American Christian Fiction Writers and now serves as ACFW’s Professional Relations Liaison. For more than thirty-two years, she wrote and produced The Heartbeat of the Home radio broadcast. She speaks and teaches at women’s events and writers’ conferences. Cynthia and her plot-tweaking husband live in the heart of Wisconsin where she writes stories of hope-that-glows-in-the-dark. You can connect with her at
www.cynthiaruchti.com
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