The familiar pre-dawn sounds of a farmyard — a clucking chicken, a lowing cow — surrounded Kelly as she darted from behind the parked tractor to behind the old milk house. She clutched her flashlight, training the beam on the ground, as she hurried toward the Cheese Shed, determined to finish her mission before sunrise without tripping over a garden rake or stepping in a cow patty.  

“Okay, team, this is a tough one tonight. I’ve rated it a double black diamond,” Meg, the wedding coordinator said as she briefed the core server team.

Meghan lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the early morning sun lighting the small dorm room, shortening the shadows as the sun climbed higher. She placed her hands on her belly. It wasn’t swollen yet, but she rubbed it as she would a Buddha statue for good luck.

This short story is based on two real-life characters: Rita Bradley from southern Ireland and Hugh Kelly, her companion in life from Northern Ireland. Rita and Hugh shared a lifelong friendship.

The familiar sight of the red, barn-style hotel greeted Maddy, its silver silo gleaming as she pulled into the Lincoln base at Sugarbush. The lot was alive with tailgaters. Every fashion of folding chair sat out on the asphalt. Grills sizzled and barbeque assortments were laid out in truck bed buffets. Panting dogs shaded themselves in car shadows.

Cassie copied all the names and phone numbers of the folks she met at Stark’s Pub onto a piece of paper. Her heart skipped a beat—ten names—the most potential dates she’d had in years. Her potion worked, just like she thought it would, but she was still impressed with the result, proud of her power. Now she knew how other people felt when her magic helped them.

Cassie had never used her powers for her own gain — until today. She was going to help herself. Old-school. A love potion.

A compromise — cross-country skiing — something neither of them had tried.

“It’s not dinner, but at least there are no chairlifts to contend with,” Josh said as they pulled into the parking lot at Blueberry Lake, a favorite destination for locals looking for Nordic skiing on perfectly groomed wooded trails.  

Josh had been dreaming about pie for three weeks: apple crumb, blueberry, pumpkin, even rhubarb, which he didn’t particularly like. He knew why — Ashley.

She was determined to make a delicious Christmas Eve dinner for herself, with all her favorites: turkey, mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, pie, and of course stuffing and cranberry sauce. And to top off her evening, a cheesy holiday movie — one that Dan never would have watched.

Two years had passed since their wedding day. Meghan still smiled when she thought of the Round Barn milking parlor, the dress she loved, and the earnest poetry of Tony’s handwritten vows. But marriage was harder than a wedding….

Tony’s proposal a year ago surprised her, but he’d clearly been planning it for weeks.

Erin loved her sister, she did. Her sister looked gorgeous and glowing, just like a bride should. 

Grace pulled her white robe off its hangar and swore to herself. She’d forgotten to iron it, and now there was no time. Just another bump in this bumpy day. 

But Sara was on a mission to try new things. Hiking, getting dirty, being out in nature—these were all a far cry from the cosseted life she ran away from. And, today, that meant tackling this mountain on her own.

Sugaring, what was that? Ben opened his mouth to ask, but decided he wasn’t going to appear like an ignorant city kid. As they rode the escalator down to the bags, he pulled out his phone and googled maple sugaring in Vermont. He pulled up a YouTube as they walked to baggage claim. In five minutes, he knew everything he needed to know. Nothing to it.

I noticed him because of his outfit: green knickers with striped socks and black short boots, a matching green jacket over a white shirt. Sure, he had a beard like half of the men at my favorite bar in the Mad River Valley, but his whiskers connected via long sideburns, forming a U-shaped display of facial hair. It was a statement look, for sure. But, despite his colorful attire, I could tell something was wrong as he slumped over a pint of dark beer, elbows on the bar.

His car bounced on its springs, rattling the skis in the back as he pulled into the dirt parking lot at Mad River Glen. 

“You will love this place,” he said. “Runs to die for.”

“Jim, this place looks kind of hardcore,” I said, newly worried about my first-timer skiing status as we walked through the narrow walkway between the rental shop and the general store.