Snowflakes and Coffee Cakes (3 page)

She takes the pencil. “I know it’s short notice, but I’m sure I can find someone else if you’re busy.”

“No.” He folds down his black denim shirt cuff, then recuffs it. “No, it’s not a problem.” He checks his watch.

“Well. Okay then.” Vera jots down the information and slides it back to him. “Thanks. You’ll call first?”

When he only nods and puts her number in a pocket of his cargo pants, she turns to leave. But she turns back, looking at him for a moment more before adding, “Say hi to Samantha for me?” He nods again, and so she heads out, giving a quick glance over her shoulder to see him lifting that creased and taped-up wall calendar carefully out of the trash.

Chapter Three

A BALLERINA STANDS IN CLASSIC pirouette form, her pale gold tutu the color of late September’s maple tree leaves. “I can’t believe you still don’t have a job,” Brooke tells her while leaning over and lifting the scarecrow’s bent arm a little higher, then tucking loose straw into her ballet slipper.

Vera pulls her cropped tweed jacket close with a glance at her ripped jeans. “If you’re referring to my pants, the rips are intentional, Brooke. They’re not because I don’t have any money. Distressed denim is actually in.”

Brooke looks her up and down. “Seriously, Vee.” They pass a podium in front of The Historical Society building and each take a ballot to rate the scarecrows. Brooke tucks hers in her denim jacket pocket as they cross the street. “Let’s stop on The Green, I brought us something to eat.”

They settle on a garden bench with their pumpkin spice lattes to-go and Brooke reaches into a large tote, her French braid falling over her shoulder. She pulls out a plastic tray of mini cinnamon-crumb coffee cakes.

“Employed or not, I can count on you to keep me fed, regardless,” Vera says as she peels the lid off her coffee.

Brooke hands her two cakes and a napkin. “I just don’t get what you’re doing, Vera. You need a job, and fast now. It’s been so long since you had a paycheck come in.”

“No kidding,” Vera says around a mouthful of the coffee cake. “And you’ll be happy to know money
is
on its way because I’ve lined up freelance assignments with the
Addison Weekly
.” She nudges her sister’s arm, pointing to the medical building nearby. A scarecrow doctor clad in a white jacket holds a stethoscope to a worried looking patient, her straw hair standing on end. “One of which is a profile of the Annual Scarecrow Competition.”

“Really? You’ve gone from Boston news to Addison scarecrows? I don’t know, Vera. The longer you’re away from journalism, the more out of touch you’ll be with the field. I’m worried about you.”

“Well I’ll get paid for this piece, so don’t worry too much.”

“Come on, how much can they pay you? You’re kind of slumming it a little. Because there’s no way freelancing for the town newspaper will cover your bills.”

“I’ve got a few leads I’m following up on. And I was thinking of renting out my barn. Lots of people need that kind of storage space, so it’ll help until something breaks.”

“The barn, the house. I’m sorry, but it’s all kind of a dump and it seems like you’re in way over your head. I still don’t understand why you want to renovate it instead of move into a nice townhouse, maybe?”

Vera sips her hot coffee, letting her sister ramble while talking with her hands, a turquoise-ringed finger hammering home a point. Vera stopped listening somewhere around townhouse. Because she’s done the whole condo thing already. And really, what did Brooke know about being single and unemployed, when you’ll take any comfort you can find, even if it’s only in the
hope
of what can be? Her vision of her big colonial dream home hasn’t wavered, even though her checkbook is beginning to.

“Tell me you’re at least thinking of flipping that house to help pay off your college loans.” Brooke stands and they cross to Main Street, stopping in front of the elementary school to rate the teacher scarecrow writing at a portable chalkboard. “Did you ever think about teaching?” Brooke asks as she rates the school display on her ballot. “Like maybe a journalism class at the community college?”

Vera considers the teacher scarecrow with a bandana around its neck and a couple old-fashioned wooden desks set out behind her. “Two-stars to your suggestion. And four to the display,” she says as she notes her voting ballot.

They walk on in the late September sunlight, approaching a New York Yankees batter facing off a Boston Red Sox pitcher, the mini-stadium set up in front of Joel’s Bar and Grille. The Yankee player’s arms are overstuffed with straw, ready to hit the ball out of the park. Vera lifts her sunglasses on top of her head. “Oh now this one is fun. There’s definitely going to be a rivalry in the votes here.” She discreetly notes her five-star Yankee rating with a
Go Yankees
addendum.

“Hey look, it’s me and Brett.” Brooke nudges her arm as they near Wedding Wishes. Bride and groom scarecrows stand side-by-side in the afternoon sunlight, the bride wearing a cream pleated gown and a birdcage veil similar to the one Brooke wore. Satin gloves are tucked on the end of the bride’s straw arms. They see Amy through the shop window and give her display a thumbs-up, and when her young daughter steps close to the door to watch them, they send along a happy wave to her, too.

But rating scarecrow astronauts, and a fireman climbing a ladder to a stuffed cat on a branch, and a police officer writing a ticket merely fuels Brooke’s job ideas. “Maybe you should look into another line of work.”

“What. Like a police officer?”

“No.” She sips her coffee, thinking. “I don’t know, something with writing … like a job in advertising?”

“Bossy Brooke,” Vera answers with a wink. “Always looking at my life through one of these.” She reaches into her tweed jacket pocket and pulls out a mini-magnifying glass.

“Dad’s been at it again, I see.” Brooke pulls her own magnifier from her denim jacket pocket. “You always know when snow season is around the corner.”

“Yup. New magnifying glasses for all.” Vera slips hers back in her pocket. “Dad’s been up to other stuff, too. He’s checking at the station to see if they can use me as a reporter there.”

“Really, Vera? Dad’s going to line up a job for you now? And you’re freelancing with fluff articles? Plus fixing up an old home to boot and maybe renting a barn? Do you hear how chaotic your life’s become? There’s no pattern to your days, no routine. No plan.”

Vera sighs, then moves on to the scarecrow horses in front of the small stable a block away. Beyond the stable, Addison’s covered bridge is framed with tall maples brilliant in red and gold foliage. The bridge is a pretty time machine; when you pass through it, it brings you into historic Olde Addison and its vintage antique homes, wide tree-lined streets and the silver expanse of the cove, the destination of so many long-ago ship captains returning from trade at sea.

But here in the present, Brooke’s right, in a way. Vera’s hand slips into her pocket for her voting ballot and feels the magnifier there. Her father never wants her to miss a chance to see a snowflake up close, including a perfect icy specimen that might fall gently from the sky onto her sleeve.

The thing is, if she’s learned anything about snowflakes from her father, it’s this: Their pretty patterned shapes of star-like crystals and hexagonal plates might seem random, but they’re not. Specific scientific conditions that seem arbitrary—from physics to math to chemistry—combine to determine each one’s precise formation. There’s nothing random about the shape of a snowflake that tumbles from the clouds. And that’s the beauty of looking at them up close. Each delicate flake tells a unique and complex story about its form and pattern.

That’s all she wants, really. Some of that distinct, snowflake structure in her own life. A structure that brings what looks like random choices and arbitrary wishes together in a very certain pattern.

*  *  *

Derek sweeps the sanding powder into a dustpan and dumps it in Vera’s kitchen trashcan, brushing the sheetrock dust off his denim shirt, too. He hears her car door slam and figures he’s got a minute or two to throw his tools together and be on his way. As he’s carrying the toolbox to the kitchen, Vera breezes in through the side door in a rush of cold air and packages and hurries to drop them on the round pedestal kitchen table.

“Hey, Derek. Finished?”

“I am, you’re all set to paint the wall now.” He sets down the toolbox and resettles his cap backward on his head.

“Terrific! Let me pay you before you leave then.” She pulls a checkbook from her shoulder bag and quickly writes out a check, which he folds in half and tucks in his shirt pocket. “I really appreciate it,” she says while slipping out of a tweed jacket and hanging it on one of the white-painted mismatched chair backs: a Windsor, a couple ladder-backs, a cottage and a café style.

“No problem, Vera. Any time.”

“Seriously?” she asks, her hazel eyes squinting at him.

“What?”

“Are you serious about
any
time? Because I actually have a few more things I need fixed, I just never personally knew someone who could do the work.”

He shrugs. “What kind of work are we talking about?”

“Come on,” she says, turning back and walking through the doublewide doorway into the dining room and then through to the living room. A striped sofa sits beneath two paned windows on the side wall, facing a large brick fireplace. “They’re little things, really. But a lot of little things. Like this.” She stops at the bottom of the staircase and shakes the large acorn finial on the bannister leading upstairs along a soft cream wall.

“That’s it?”

“To begin with. I have a list. Bad windows that stick. A warped door that closes only sometimes. The bannister.” She nods at the acorn. “Loose floorboards. A widow’s walk that needs painting.”

“Well I can do the work, if you don’t mind sporadic. We’re getting busy at the store with winter and the holidays coming up.”

She follows him back into the kitchen and sits at the round table, shifting over a bag she’d carried in. “This is good actually. I’m kind of low on funds at the moment, so a little at a time works.”

He picks up his toolbox and turns back to look at her for a second.

“What?” she asks, smiling a little uncomfortably.

“Home cooked dinners work for payment, too.”

“Ha.” She stands quickly, scraping her chair as she does, then reaches for a glass in the cupboard and pours herself a drink of water. “You might not say that if you tasted my cooking.” She tucks her long layered hair behind an ear, looks around and rushes for the bag on the kitchen table. “And anyway, my sister’s the chef, not me. Here. Why don’t you take these?”

He reaches for the bag she holds out.

“They’re coffee cakes. A ton of them. She just gave them to me at that scarecrow thing going on, and I’ll never eat them all. Really. You have them. Those should hold you over until your next repair job.”

“Your sister.” He sets the bag inside his toolbox. “That’d be Brooke?”

She nods. “You know her?”

“Her husband does our books at the store. I was at the wedding.”

“Wait.”

And she does it again, squints those pretty hazel eyes at him when his cell phone rings. He glances at it, then up at her. “I can’t miss this call,” he says, picking up the toolbox and coffee cake bag. “I’ll see you around, Vera,” he calls over his shoulder while walking out the side door.

*  *  *

Never bury the lead
. The tenets of Journalism 101 always seem the most important, even after all this time. Vera sits in the downstairs office she set up, a brass lamp casting a yellow glow on papers scattered around her computer, her feet tucked into fuzzy snowflake slippers beneath the desk. Okay, so she didn’t
really
have an assignment from the
Addison Weekly
. But maybe if she writes a snappy piece on the scarecrows, they’ll use it. And pay her. So she’s kind of making her own assignment. Sometimes you have to take the initiative.

With fingers hovering over the keyboard, she considers the lead she can’t bury and finds herself instead typing ones that
could
happen if things don’t change soon, ones she can’t get out of her head: Local Resident Loses Life Savings to Fixer-Upper. Or Addison Native Penniless, Homeless and Jobless.

“No way. I can’t go there. Not yet,” she says as she opens a new document, sits up straighter and considers her real lead for the intensely competitive tradition pitting business against business, neighbor against neighbor in a friendly contest for the town scarecrow trophy. The winner gets to display the gold trophy prominently, and with bragging rights, until the following autumn when it’s passed along to the next scarecrow-of-the-year.

“Focus,” she whispers, opening her eyes wide and looking at the blank screen. She thinks long about the title, takes a quick breath and types as if her life depends on it. Which, she figures, it actually does. And so she better get serious.

Scarecrows Compete for Top Cawing – By Vera Sterling

Chapter Four

IT BEGINS WITH THE PUMPKINS. Little by little, they start showing up: on the doorsteps, at the lampposts, with the mums, around the cornstalks. Then come the apples and hay bales and gourds spilling from the farm stands. In Addison, Vera thinks the harvest scene is a sublimely perfect piece of art, a living watercolor painting of rich color applied with brush strokes of sunshine, dabbles of rainfall, and patience of summer heat.

And the town Apple Festival puts it all on display. She walks through the cove park, passing the tall Ferris wheel reflected in the cove’s calm October waters. Spinning wheels of chance, whirling carnival rides, craft tents, and people everywhere celebrate the annual harvest. She stops at Brooke’s baked goods booth to help her sister keep up with the sales.

“I’m trying to line these up in order,” Brooke says, sliding her wrapped pastries around on shelves.

“Wait,” Vera says. “Do you have a marker and paper? If you label them it’ll help your customers know what they all are.”