before it, and depression became the epidemic de jour. To combat this yearly malady, Mayor Bascomb had scheduled Lake Eden’s very first Winter Carnival in the third week of February.
Not to be confused with the Winter Carnival in St. Paul, with its gigantic Ice Palace and hundreds of thousands of visitors, Lake Eden’s event was set on a much smaller scale. Hannah regarded it as a cross between a county fair and a mini Winter Olympics. There would be Nordic skiing, snowmobile competitions, speed-skating exhibitions, dogsled races, and ice fishing on Eden Lake. There would also be contests in Lake Eden Park for the kids, including the best family-made snowman, the best “snow angel,” and a host of others that even the little ones could enjoy.
The Jordan High auditorium had been designated as the hospitality hub, and all the Lake Eden clubs and societies were busily setting up displays and booths. Winter Carnival visitors would park their cars in the school lot, and shuttle sleighs were scheduled to leave Jordan High every thirty minutes to transport people to the event sites.
Hannah gave her hair a final rinse and stepped out of the shower to towel it dry. The air outside her steamy bathroom was frigid, and she shivered as she quickly dressed in jeans and her official Lake Eden Winter Carnival sweatshirt. It was bright blue with a flurry of white snowflakes that formed block letters on the front. The legend read “LAKE EDEN,” because “LAKE EDEN WINTER CARNIVAL” had exceeded the manufacturer’s ten-letter maximum.
Moishe had joined her in the bedroom, and he watched as she pulled on warm socks and slipped her feet into a pair of high-top moose-hide moccasin boots with rubber soles. Then he followed her down the hall to the kitchen, attempting to snag the laces on her boots.
Hannah refilled Moishe’s food before he had time to yowl for more, poured herself another cup of coffee, and sat down to organize her day at the old Formica table she’d rescued from the Helping Hands Thrift Shop. But before she could flip to a blank page in the steno pad she kept propped up next to her salt and pepper shakers, the phone rang.
“Mother,” Hannah said with a sigh, and Moishe halted in mid-crunch to give the phone a baleful look. He wasn’t fond of Delores Swensen, and Hannah’s mother had six pairs of shredded pantyhose to prove it. Hannah stood up to grab the wall phone and sat back down again. Her mother wasn’t known for brevity. “Good morning, Mother.”
“You really shouldn’t answer that way, Hannah. What if I’d been someone else?”
Hannah gave a fleeting thought to the logic class she’d taken in college. It was impossible for someone to be someone else. She decided not to argue the point—it would only prolong their conversation—and she settled for her standard reply. “I knew it was you, Mother. It’s never anyone else at five-thirty in the morning. How are the shuttle sleighs coming along?”
“They’re all ready to go, and that includes the one that Al Percy’s uncle donated.” Delores gave a rueful laugh. “You should have seen it, Hannah. It was such a wreck that all they could keep were the runners and the hardware. The shop class had to build a whole new body and it looks fabulous.”
“Great,” Hannah commented, and took another sip of her coffee. Delores had been instrumental in helping Mayor Bascomb round up sleighs for the Jordan High shop class to rejuvenate. She had a real knack for ferreting out antiques, and old sleighs in decent condition weren’t easy to locate.
“I found a picture on a Christmas card and they modeled it after that. The boys are lining it with white fur throws today, and we’re going to use it for the Prince and Princess of Winter.”
Hannah pictured it in her mind. It sounded perfect for the Winter Carnival royalty. “How many sleighs do you have?”
“Twelve.” There was a note of pride in Delores’s voice. “And before I got involved last month, they only had two.”
“You did a great job. I’ll bet you could get a fleet rate on the insurance with a dozen.”
There was a silence, and Hannah heard her mother draw in her breath sharply. “Insurance? I hope the Winter Carnival Committee thought of that! Why, someone could fall off and sue the town, and—”
“Relax, Mother,” Hannah interrupted her. “Howie Levine’s on the committee and he’s a lawyer. I’m sure he thought of it.”
“I hope so! I’ll call the mayor this morning, just to make sure. I promised to call anyway, to tell him when the Ezekiel Jordan House was finished.”
“It’s all finished?”
“It will be this morning. All I have to do is hang the drapes and put up some pictures in the parlor.”
“Good work, Mother,” Hannah complimented her. She knew that Delores hadn’t been given much time to whip the project into shape. At their January meeting, the Lake Eden Historical Society had decided to create a full-scale replica of the first mayor’s house for the Winter Carnival crowd to tour, and they’d rented the two-story building next to Hannah’s cookie shop for the purpose. Since Delores was Lake Eden’s foremost antique expert and a founding member of the historical society, she had taken on the project. Carrie Rhodes had volunteered to help her, and when the two mothers weren’t actively working on the re-creation, they were busy making plans to marry Hannah off to Carrie’s son, Norman.
Replicating the Ezekiel Jordan House was a difficult task. Since there were no existing pictures, Delores and Carrie had contacted the first mayor’s descendants to request any information they might have about the five-room dwelling. One of Mrs. Jordan’s great-great-grandnieces had responded by sending a box of her ancestor’s effects and a stack of letters that the first mayor’s wife had written to her family back east. In several of the letters, Abigail Jordan had described her home and furniture in detail, and Delores had used her knowledge of antiques to fill in the blanks.
“Will you have time to stop by this morning, Hannah?” Delores sounded a bit tentative, and that was unusual for her. “I’d like your input before anyone else sees it.”
“Sure. Just bang on my back door when you’re ready and I’ll dash over. But you’re the antique expert. Why do you need my input?”
“For the kitchen,” Delores explained. “It’s the only room Abigail Jordan didn’t describe. She talks about baking in every one of her letters, and I’m not sure I have all the utensils in the proper places.”
“I’ll check it out,” Hannah promised, knowing full well that her mother had never used a flour sifter or rolling pin in her life. Delores didn’t bake and she made no bones about it. The desserts of Hannah’s childhood had always come straight from the Red Owl grocery store shelves.
“Thank you, dear. I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to get off the line. Carrie’s picking me up and she said she’d call when she left her house.”
“Okay. Bye, Mother.” Hannah hung up the phone and made a mental note to tell her sister, Andrea, never to mention the option of call-waiting to their mother. This morning’s call had been the shortest in history. After a glance at her apple-shaped kitchen clock, Hannah rinsed out her coffee cup, refilled Moishe’s food bowl for the final time, and scratched him near the base of his tail, an action that always made him arch his back and purr. “I’ve got to run, Moishe. See you tonight.”
Hannah had a routine to perform before she left her condo in the winter. She shrugged into her parka, zipped it up, and pulled her navy blue stocking cap down over her unmanageable red curls. Then she went into the living room to turn the
