Snowflakes and Coffee Cakes (7 page)

And she watches him go, winding around crowded, candlelit tables, shaking hands and stopping to say a few words to someone he must know on the way, laughing then at whatever the man says before stepping around him and heading out. She keeps watching, swearing at herself for screwing up his plans, watching still as the door opens onto the cold October night before him, still watching as she stands and stamps her silver-oxford-clad-foot on the floor when he flips up his collar against that dark, wavy hair and walks out, before she finally looks over at Greg, looking at her the whole time.

Chapter Eight

SINCE THE NIGHT OF HER birthday, there’s been a change in the air. All week, the cold fall mornings left Vera snuggled beneath a thick comforter covering her sleeping body. By Thursday, a chill wind rattles the windowpanes, and she hears the
click, click, click
of the tired furnace finally sending heat up through the pipes. So she pulls that soft comforter even closer beneath her chin, leaving her eyes closed and stealing a few more sweet minutes of sleep. It’s that dreamy time when she just knows that outside, smoke rises from chimneys and gray clouds streak a blue sky and frost covers the pumpkins and—and that sound, that noise. She pulls the comforter up over her head to block out a banging. A banging that shouldn’t be there in her bliss. Please, oh please don’t let it be her furnace conking out. That’s one expense that is not in the budget right now.

Then it stops, leaving only the clicking radiators filling with heat, tick-ticking as warmth fills the room. She breathes a sigh of relief, steals a look at her alarm clock from beneath the covers and is glad to see there’s another thirty minutes of sleep waiting before she has to get up.

If it weren’t for that gosh-darn banging starting up again.

“Fine,” she says as she tosses back her flannel sheets and pulls on her bathrobe and fuzzy snowflake slippers. It comes again, in a rhythm of
four bangs, pause
.
Four bangs, pause
. Maybe she just has to adjust the thermostat, or give the furnace a little kick.

The noise grows louder as she goes downstairs, so loud that she realizes it’s not coming from her basement furnace after all, but from outside. Again,
four bangs, pause
, but this time they come faster, and if it’s at all possible, a little louder. And again, louder still. It must be someone working at the cove, maybe getting the small docks ready for winter. If that’s the case, they can tone it down already—they’re sounding rather mad the way that hammer is thudding. She decides to take a quick look to be sure that’s all it is; there’s a good view of the cove from near the barn. So she pulls her robe tight around her and rushes to the side door, hearing the noise even louder still, pushing open the door, looking out toward the cove and rushing down the stairs.

“Whoa, whoa there,” Derek says as she nearly knocks him over. He’s crouched on the middle step, his hands catching his balance on the step behind him.

“Derek?” She stops suddenly and looks at the lumber and tools and some take-out breakfast food off to the side.

“Good morning to you, too.” He stands up, pulls off a glove, straightens it and puts it back on.

“What are you doing here? I mean, I thought someone was working at the cove with all that racket.” And it’s right then that she realizes how she looks and so moves backward, up a step, toward the privacy of the kitchen.

He pulls his black wool hat off and resettles it on his head, and she sees it, the way his darn brown eyes drop to her fluffy slippers and then back up to her tangled hair. “You said your mother hurt herself on this step,” he explains.

“Well she did.”

“And I didn’t want anyone else getting hurt on my account.”

“Your account?”

“I told you I’d fix it, so I’m fixing it, okay?”

She glances up at the brightening sky. “This early? It’s not even seven.”

He turns up his gloved hands. “Well
I’ve
got things to do today. Sorry if I woke you.”

She looks quickly down at her robe, then presses back a strand of mussed hair. “I just thought it was someone at the …” She glances out toward the cove. “Well, it doesn’t matter.”

“If you don’t mind then, I’ll finish this up.”

“Go ahead.”

“You’re in my way.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

He picks up a hammer and pulls a couple nails from his jacket pocket. “And I’m not sure about the rest of the stuff. You know, on that list of yours. Might not get to it till after the holidays.”

“You mean, next year?”

“Vera, we’re busy at the store. Christmas trees are coming, I’ve got to clear out space for the sleigh and carriage rides. I’ll get to your repairs when I can.”

“Okay then. Fine.” She turns and goes inside, briskly closing the paned door behind her and hearing Derek hammer more nails into the new step. With her back leaning on the door and her eyes momentarily closed, another four bangs break the morning’s quiet, louder than ever if she’s not mistaken. Slowly she turns and opens the door again to find him kneeling on the step holding a small level; a half-eaten bagel with cream cheese sits in its wrapping beside it. “Well I’m making coffee. Would you like one, to go with that bagel?”

He stands and checks his watch. “No, I’m finishing up here. I’ll check the traps in the barn and be on my way.”

“You’re sure? Because it’s no trouble.”

“Yup.” He bends for his hammer then, tapping in the few last nails.

Inside, she ditches the robe and puts on a pair of faded jeans and a green cable knit sweater. She adds a scarf around her neck while she’s at it because even though the furnace wasn’t the source of the noise and is working fine, the cold wind outside leaves a chill in her drafty house. As she pours coffee, there’s a knock at her door and she opens it to see Derek there again.

“I caught your raccoon.” He sets down a trap on the stoop.

“Oh my God,” she says while jumping back with her hand to her heart. “Wait a minute, that’s not a raccoon.” She eyes the longhair gray tabby caught in the cage. A feline with tail fur that is black-ringed, like a raccoon’s. “It’s a cat!”

“That’s right.”

“What am I supposed to do with a cat?”

“Don’t know.” He turns and starts walking down the steps. “Keep it in the barn, I guess. It’s a good mouser.”

“Wait.”

But he doesn’t, raising his hand in a quick wave as he walks toward his pickup truck, gets in and backs down her long driveway.

“A mouser?” She steps outside and bends a little closer, watching the cat hunkered there with its paws folded beneath it, calm as could be, looking straight at her. “Swell,” she says as she stands and goes inside for her coffee. Cupping the hot mug in her hands, she peers out the paned windows of her door down at the trapped cat still sitting on the stoop. “Just swell.”

*  *  *

So Derek thought
he
was busy? Her days fly by with stripping floral dining room wallpaper and painting a living room accent wall, the floors covered with drop cloths and curled wallpaper scraps, her blonde hair pulled back beneath a bandana while Vera wields scrapers and paintbrushes until suddenly she can’t believe it. It’s the first week of November and the Holly Trolley deadline is looming. So until she gets her exclusive written, all home repairs are put on hold.

“You’ll find so much information in our Archive Room,” Bonnie says over her shoulder as she leads Vera down a long hallway in the
Addison Weekly
offices. “All the old issues and articles are only referenced on the computer, with the full papers actually stored along the walls. But recent years’ issues are fully online and shelved, too. So a few clicks will get you all you need.” She opens a door onto a bright and spacious room lined with too many shelves to count and long tables set up for research. “And be sure to replace any old papers in the right chronological spot.”

Vera settles in behind one of the desktop computers and starts her search for previous Holly Trolley articles. In the last two years, several photographs were published, but no in-depth profiles. The images show that the vehicle is actually a small bus designed as a festive green and gold trolley. Swags of holly and berries, bells and white lights line the interior ceiling. And the interior slatted wooden benches look like exact replicas from another era. She’ll have to research their origins, along with that of the twisted brass poles at the end of the rows of seats.

As she types various search words into the archive system, one particular headline catches her eye. She can’t help but click on the link to read more and can’t help the way her eyes skim the words quickly, looking for details, finding herself desperate to know.

A young girl died Friday afternoon after falling through the ice on Addison Cove, according to authorities … Seven-year-old Abigail Cooper pronounced dead at the scene … cause of death drowning … Members of the fire department’s water rescue team worked valiantly to save Cooper and a second child after receiving a call for help from a passerby coming upon the incident. The children were testing the ice … thick enough for skating when it gave way beneath them … Cooper located after nearly twenty-five minutes beneath the frigid waters and no pulse could be detected … Though record cold temperatures, ice is still thin this early in the season … Authorities warn residents to exercise caution near any frozen body of water. The child’s father, Derek Cooper, arrived on-scene … not available for comment.

The last line has her stop reading any further. Instead her eyes seek out the accompanying photographs of the emergency scene at the cove. The images are devastating, even now: ambulances, paramedics, fire trucks, men emerging from icy water wearing bright yellow insulated dive suits. And yes, there—Vera scrolls the image onto the screen and enlarges it—there, off to the side. It looks like the fire chief Bob Hough talking to Derek. She recognizes Derek right away from his stance, his brown hair, his eyes. He stands beside the ambulance, hands shoved in his jean pockets, shoulders in a flannel shirt hunched against the biting cold without a coat on, looking away from the fire chief, not meeting his eye.

And she can see what the camera didn’t capture because the moments that led to this sad image are clearly visible in his posture. What her mind sees is this: Derek running, desperately tearing out of his coat knowing they were only minutes too late, minutes, and he had to do something, anything at all for his little girl, something to help her. In his panic, his arm got tied up in a sleeve until he yanked it off for all he was worth. Because he had to, he had to do something just for her, to try to warm her small, wet body, to lay his warm coat over her and gently press it to her sides, his hand then running along her sodden hair and stroking her cold face, trying, trying to press life back into it until he finally just hugged her close, holding his face to hers. Yes, his coat must be laid over his child on the stretcher already lifted onto the ambulance.

It’s all there in his stance in the one photograph, every sad bit of the last few urgent minutes that exhaustively defeated him.

Chapter Nine

WITH THE DAYS GETTING SHORTER, Derek thinks he can at least get the boat washed before the sun sets, especially with his sister minding the store. This way it will be ready for waxing in the next few days, its first of several shines before the Deck the Boats Festival. Already the emails from his friends are arriving, reserving a spot in the procession for their vessels. He lifts a soapy sponge out of the bucket of water and walks around the trailered boat parked behind the hardware store. A swirl of dried, brown leaves blows past and he glances up at the graying sky. “One section at a time,” he says quietly as he works the sponge in a circular motion on a small part of the fiberglass boat’s side. A stream of water dribbles down his sleeve and so he squeezes out the sponge, then continues. “We’ll get it all cleaned up for you.”

The Customer Service bell inside the store is wired to ring in the work area outside, too. He looks back over his shoulder when it chimes, drops the sponge into the soapy water and waits, taking his cap off and resettling it backward on his head again. After a few moments, he lifts the dripping sponge from the water bucket and continues. “What do you think, Abby, colored lights this year or white twinkly?” He’ll have to pull the artificial tree off the storage shelf in the garage. “Maybe we’ll put colored lights on it. First time,” he adds, picturing the tree mounted on the boat’s bow with the colored lights reflected on the dark water. “I think you’ll like that.”

The Customer Service bell rings again, a little longer this time, as someone waits for assistance inside. “Samantha!” he calls over his shoulder. His sister is supposed to be covering the store while he gets the boat cleaned. He moves toward the back of the boat, wiping the summer’s grime off its surface. “It’s an important step,” he says under his breath, “so we don’t rub the dirt right into the fiberglass when we wax it.”

The bell gives two short chimes again. “Jesus, Sam, where the hell are you?” he calls out as he throws the sponge into the bucket and stands straight, his rubber-gloved hands on his hips. “You getting that?”

When no response comes back to him, no wisecrack call from his sister, he hurries down the driveway to the store, peeling off the wet gloves as he goes, walking inside to see Vera standing in faded jeans and a black fringed poncho at the checkout area. He sets his wet gloves down on the counter and turns up his hands. “What broke now?”

“What?” she asks, looking from him to the wet gloves and back to his face.

“Never mind.” He shakes his head and when Samantha rushes into the store with a coffee to-go and box of doughnuts, he glares at her.

“What’s the matter with you?” Samantha asks.

“What are you doing leaving the store empty?” Derek snaps back.

“I didn’t. Tyler’s here, somewhere.”

“He’s busy helping someone over at the paint,” Vera interrupts. “He said I should ring the bell for assistance.”