Free Cedar Creek Seasons by Eileen Key

marched out the door.

    Her to-do list flapped in an ice-laden gust as Willow slammed her front door and stepped off the porch.
    Print Vote for Willow cards
. Check.
Print flyers
. Check.
Add blurb to brochure
. Check.
Bake and frost chair-shaped cookies
. Check.
Announcement on website
. Check.
Blog post
. Check.
E-mail announcement
. Check.
Twitter
. Not so much.
    She’d slashed that last one with red pen. She’d never chirped or cheeped or whatever a person did on that thing and she didn’t have time to start now.
Time
. It was not on her side. She hadn’t paid attention to the fine print when certain people signed her up for this nonsense. But, nonsense or not, she was going to win.
    She turned off Sheboygan Road and onto Washington Avenue. A snowflake landed on her nose and she glared up at low, snow-filled clouds. The forecast predicted up to ten inches, but it hadn’t started yet and she had places to go and people to see before it got too deep.
    The official Cedarburg website claimed there were eleven thousand, three hundred, and twelve people she needed to talk to in the next eight days. Taking off the three hundred plus on her TLC mailing list and dividing it by the U.S. average family size of 3.14 left approximately three thousand, three hundred, and thirty-five households to visit.
    After
she’d hit all the businesses in town. She shifted the strap on her canvas bag to a more comfortable position and headed east. She popped into the Old Mill Antiques and gave a cookie and her rehearsed plea for votes to the clerk. She passed the Settlement Shops, deciding to leave them for last. The Shops were half a block from home and the perfect place to schmooze indoors after the weather got bad.
    Leaning into the wind, she charged ahead. At Goldsmith Jewelry Works she just left a brochure. She spent a moment soaking up sparkle and warmth in the pink-and-gray-walled Bangles ‘n’ Bags. Downtown Dough was like her second home, but she pulled her gaze away from the solid wall of cookie cutters and handed two rocking-chair-shaped cookies to her longtime friends behind the counter. “Proof that your products work.” The girls laughed and promised to vote for her.
    She bought a cup of coffee at Cozy Cuppa and lingered just a moment over the music boxes at Sweet Sounds. She left cards at the Rivoli Theatre and Washington House Inn. The smell of wool at the Yarn Shop reminded her of the sweater hanging on Wilson’s kitchen chair. She didn’t stay long. At the Chocolate Factory she talked about her business and talked herself out of butterscotch marble ice cream. Massive caramel apples banked the windows at Amy’s Candy Kitchen. Blinking hard, she walked in and gave her little speech.
    The snow was up to her ankles when she finally trudged up to the doors of the Settlement Shops. The memory of Wilson’s cold blue eyes and the knowledge that she’d ruined their Valentine’s date was tampering with her zeal. She needed another look at the empty shop space to revive the sense of purpose she’d had while frosting cookies at three in the morning. She thought of Elsa’s spoons.
Love is here. Business is here
.
    Wilson’s gorgeous studio was
not
her business. Nor was his income.
    She had to apologize. Maybe she’d invite him over and he’d get snowed in and—
Willow!
Her conscience chastened. Her will argued back as she trudged the last few steps. The kids would be home. It’s not like she’d be alone with—
    “Wilson!”
    The sight before her was as incongruous as picking fresh cherries in a snowstorm. Wilson Woodhaus, the
rich
and famous painter, sat on one of
her
stools, painting flowers on a little girl’s cheek. He looked her way. His face held the expression of a man who’d just walked the required number of paces before turning his dueling pistol on her.
    In front of his painting of the millpond with icicles hanging from the top of the dam, stood a woman with a stroller.
    You thief! You use
my
stool to