The Christmas Piano Tree: What's Christmas without a tree? (A Kissing Creek novel Book 1) Read Online Free
Yes, she knew it wasn’t on purpose and yes, she would eventually get her benefits, but for the time in-between, she was as helpless as a mother duck caught in a storm drain with her duckling.
God must have heard her prayer because she was back in Kissing Creek in her aunt’s old country cottage. Kristen swore she smelled cookies baking in the kitchen when she turned the key, half expecting to see her aunt’s spirit welcoming her home. In a funny way, she had. Everything was as she’d left it, the dishes sparkling clean on the counter, the scent of lavender wafting up from the clean pillow cases, even her vintage pans and molds hanging on the wall.
And that old upright piano. Begging for someone to sit down and bring its rickety, old yellowed keys back to life.
Kristen didn’t have time to think about anything but moving in and getting Rachel settled in school. Her little girl loved the cottage and poked her nose into every nook and cranny. She’d never forget the day the child found an old sock in a sewing basket stuffed with a five dollar bill. It wasn’t the last. Seemed her aunt had fallen into the habit of hiding socks with one dollar or five dollar bills in the oddest places. Behind the clock on the mantel, in a cake pan, under the sofa cushion.
She pictured her aunt hiding the socks, giggling about her secret, knowing Kristen would find them someday. Unfortunately, her aunt’s good deeds weren’t enough to keep them going.
She had to work.
So she turned her passion for baking into a job at the school. Ever since Kristen could stand on a footstool and crack eggs into a mixing bowl, she couldn’t get enough of baking. She must have been about five then, her Aunt Gertrude leaning over her shoulder and showing her how to whip the butter, sugar, and flour. Not too slow, not fast, but just right. Then they’d pour the cake batter into the pan and slide it into the oven.
Kristen would clap her hands and peer through the glass window on the oven, waiting for the cake to be done. Aunt Gertrude would nod, telling her she must tiptoe around the cottage, whispering instead of talking loud so the cake didn’t fall.
Years later, she was convinced her aunt taught her to bake to keep her occupied so she wouldn’t run wild. She’d been a scared little girl when the kindly woman took her in after her parents died. Hiding in closets in the foster homes. Refusing to speak. But not with Aunt Gertrude. The smells of cinnamon and vanilla and anise set the child on a new path. As she grew into her teens, Kristen found she had a knack for creating confectionary treats. No one could whip up fluffier croissants and flakier biscuits that melted in your mouth. Or creamier peanut butter bars and oatmeal cookies with plump juicy raisins.
So it was no surprise the Oakes sisters, Miriam and Betty Ann, took her on to improve the menu at the snooty girls’ school. Where the students thought gourmet meant popping frozen tarts into the toaster and calling it breakfast.
Kristen curled her fingers, still stiff from whipping up a heapin’ pile of butter cake batter , as her aunt would say. She rearranged her cupcakes on the platter, their icing peaks tempting her to take a taste, when she saw Betty Ann fly into the kitchen all in a dither.
Something was up.
Her chestnut sausage curls bounced up and down on her head, her bifocals hanging on a chain swinging around her neck.
“Santa passed out in his sleigh,” she gushed, and then helped herself to a cupcake. She wet her lips, her eyes wide with anticipation as she ogled the yummy icing.
“Wake him up,” Miriam ordered. “Throw cold water on him. Do something. ” She nudged her younger sister in the ribs. Pouting, Betty Ann put the cupcake back.
“ Nothing will get him up, Miriam,” Betty Ann emphasized. She kept eyeing the cupcake she’d put back.
“You know the girls expect to receive their presents from Santa after the program. What do you want me to do?”
God must have heard her prayer because she was back in Kissing Creek in her aunt’s old country cottage. Kristen swore she smelled cookies baking in the kitchen when she turned the key, half expecting to see her aunt’s spirit welcoming her home. In a funny way, she had. Everything was as she’d left it, the dishes sparkling clean on the counter, the scent of lavender wafting up from the clean pillow cases, even her vintage pans and molds hanging on the wall.
And that old upright piano. Begging for someone to sit down and bring its rickety, old yellowed keys back to life.
Kristen didn’t have time to think about anything but moving in and getting Rachel settled in school. Her little girl loved the cottage and poked her nose into every nook and cranny. She’d never forget the day the child found an old sock in a sewing basket stuffed with a five dollar bill. It wasn’t the last. Seemed her aunt had fallen into the habit of hiding socks with one dollar or five dollar bills in the oddest places. Behind the clock on the mantel, in a cake pan, under the sofa cushion.
She pictured her aunt hiding the socks, giggling about her secret, knowing Kristen would find them someday. Unfortunately, her aunt’s good deeds weren’t enough to keep them going.
She had to work.
So she turned her passion for baking into a job at the school. Ever since Kristen could stand on a footstool and crack eggs into a mixing bowl, she couldn’t get enough of baking. She must have been about five then, her Aunt Gertrude leaning over her shoulder and showing her how to whip the butter, sugar, and flour. Not too slow, not fast, but just right. Then they’d pour the cake batter into the pan and slide it into the oven.
Kristen would clap her hands and peer through the glass window on the oven, waiting for the cake to be done. Aunt Gertrude would nod, telling her she must tiptoe around the cottage, whispering instead of talking loud so the cake didn’t fall.
Years later, she was convinced her aunt taught her to bake to keep her occupied so she wouldn’t run wild. She’d been a scared little girl when the kindly woman took her in after her parents died. Hiding in closets in the foster homes. Refusing to speak. But not with Aunt Gertrude. The smells of cinnamon and vanilla and anise set the child on a new path. As she grew into her teens, Kristen found she had a knack for creating confectionary treats. No one could whip up fluffier croissants and flakier biscuits that melted in your mouth. Or creamier peanut butter bars and oatmeal cookies with plump juicy raisins.
So it was no surprise the Oakes sisters, Miriam and Betty Ann, took her on to improve the menu at the snooty girls’ school. Where the students thought gourmet meant popping frozen tarts into the toaster and calling it breakfast.
Kristen curled her fingers, still stiff from whipping up a heapin’ pile of butter cake batter , as her aunt would say. She rearranged her cupcakes on the platter, their icing peaks tempting her to take a taste, when she saw Betty Ann fly into the kitchen all in a dither.
Something was up.
Her chestnut sausage curls bounced up and down on her head, her bifocals hanging on a chain swinging around her neck.
“Santa passed out in his sleigh,” she gushed, and then helped herself to a cupcake. She wet her lips, her eyes wide with anticipation as she ogled the yummy icing.
“Wake him up,” Miriam ordered. “Throw cold water on him. Do something. ” She nudged her younger sister in the ribs. Pouting, Betty Ann put the cupcake back.
“ Nothing will get him up, Miriam,” Betty Ann emphasized. She kept eyeing the cupcake she’d put back.
“You know the girls expect to receive their presents from Santa after the program. What do you want me to do?”
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