Snowflakes and Coffee Cakes (9 page)

Brooke carefully takes the yellowed paper and they read it together:

Sometimes a place is so special, it becomes a part of who we are. That’s what the Christmas Barn did for me. My husband and I owned and operated this place for decades (You may have even stopped in during one Christmas or another), and as I pack up our home here, it’s hard to let go. I loved this little New England treasure, tucked into the banks of Addison Cove. But it’s time to move on. I’m feeling a little like a migratory goose, heading south now. And there’s no room for our Christmas Barn where we’re going.

And so … in this back room you’ll find all the remaining inventory. Whatever you decide to do with it, I will leave to your discretion. For I feel only you can determine the next chapter, whether that is a new beginning or an end.

Warmly and with many blessings and holiday cheer,

Alice

“You didn’t know this was all here when you bought the place?” Brooke asks.

Vera shakes her head, no. “I guess it was too much to take with her, or to sell off at the time.”

“Glory be.” Brooke looks at the boxes and few decorations already set out. “It is all so beautiful.”

“It is, but seriously Brooke, what am I going to do with it all?”

“You can’t keep it?” Brooke slips out of her quilted riding jacket, leaving a teal scarf around her neck, and heads to the coffee. She hands one to Vera before unwrapping a slice of the cake she’d brought along.

“Keep it?” Vera asks while peeling the lid from her coffee. She takes a sip and looks around, shaking her head. “No, even though Alice might want me to. I have to clean this place out for the Marches. So I’m thinking more like having a huge holiday tag sale with what’s in that room. I can definitely use the money, and I’ll bet lots of people would like to have some of this. You know, it’s sentimental and all, from the Christmas Barn.”

“Maybe.” Brooke bites into her cake. “Hey,” she says then. “Speaking of holidays, I meant to ask you about Thanksgiving. I’m having it at my place this year, on account of Mom’s foot. She needs to rest it. So I’m making all the dessert—”

“As if,” Vera says around a mouthful of cinnamon cake.

“And my in-laws are making the sides. So I need you to make the turkey.”

“Me?”

“Sure. You did it last year, in Boston, and it was so good.”

“I guess I could. You must have a portable platter of some sort, so I can cook it here and bring it with me?”

“Definitely.”

“Okay then,” Vera says, sipping her steaming coffee. “That’s settled. Wish the rest of this was as easy.” She sets down her cup and lifts out pinecone mantle decorations and large gold candles. “Hm, these would look good right here.” She sets them on a narrow shelf that looks like a dark mantle, the candles and pinecones nestled among sprigs of greenery.

Brooke pulls out another box and rips open the flaps, silently lifting out needlepoint stockings and hanging them on nails beneath the mantle shelf. “This stuff’s gorgeous,” she whispers, then pulls a blue snowflake tree skirt from the bottom of the box, flipping it open with a swoosh as though the flakes are fluttering in the cold November barn air.

Chapter Eleven

JUST LAST WEEK VERA HUNG a twig and berry wreath on her newly-stained wood plank front door. It’s hard to believe that the wreath and dried cornstalks and potted mums set around her lamppost will all be put away soon, making way for twinkling lights and garland. But for now, it’s Thanksgiving.

She turns on the kitchen television in time for an important steadfast tradition, her father’s holiday forecast.

“Snow, snow, snow?” He shakes his head and motions to the clear weather map of the east coast. “No, no, no.” The map widens, showing the entire country. “The sunny morning is custom-made for high school football games across the land,” he continues. “But be sure to bring your blankets, and scarves and mittens too. Because it’s awfully cold out there. What I
am
predicting is a rushed return to warm houses filled with rattling pots and pans, tinkling silverware, and the best part of the holiday … that aroma, oh that delicious scent of turkey cooking in the oven when you walk in from the cold.”

“Wait.” Vera sniffs the air in the kitchen. Then she goes outside to the chilly morning and stops on the front stoop for a minute while rubbing her hands in the cold before walking back inside to sniff again.

Nothing.

She looks at her father wearing his snowflake tie on Thanksgiving, wishing and hoping for a bit of snow, hoping to usher in the Christmas season this weekend with at least a dusting of the white stuff. “Not on the horizon, folks.”

She knows what
her
wish is. Vera rushes to her stove to see if it’ll come true and pulls open the oven door. The oven into which she slid a turkey on a roasting pan hours ago. A pan that is only lukewarm to the touch. “No way.” She looks quickly at the temperature gauge, which is properly set to the right degree, then back at her partially raw, uncooked and more than likely spoiled turkey, before letting the oven door slam shut. Because food-poisoning her family is not an option today, nor any day.

She rushes upstairs and first puts her hand to the bedroom window, then decides to throw on her long, layered silky maxi skirt, ankle boots and bulky fisherman’s sweater before running out to the grocery store, which she’s sure will be open for only a half day and
isn’t
sure she’ll get to in time.

*  *  *

Derek stands in front of the small chickens, picking up one, then another, checking the weight. Christmas carols play on the sound system and the store is surprisingly busy.

“You’re in luck, we’ve got two left,” he hears the butcher tell a shopper as he carries a large precooked turkey to her cart at the end of the meat case. “Have a nice holiday now.”

Derek considered precooked, but they’re too big so he’s settling for a chicken instead.

“Derek?”

He looks up to see Vera approaching with the one-of-two precooked turkeys in her carriage. “Vera. You’re the precooked?”

“I’m the what?”

“Precooked. I mean, it’s just that I heard the butcher,” he says, looking past her shoulder. “Never mind. Hey. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“You too!” She glances at his plastic-wrapped chicken set beside a bag of carrots and a few potatoes. “You’re not eating alone, are you?”

“Me? No, no.” He looks at his paltry food items. “I’m headed over to my sister’s later. This is for the weekend. You know, I don’t really go for the dried leftovers and her packaged stuffing.”

“You’re sure? Because there’s always room for more at Brooke’s, which is where I’m
supposed
to be bringing the turkey, but wouldn’t you know it? My oven conked out two hours into roasting the bird. I’m picking up one of these turkeys to-go before I food-poison anyone.”

“Wouldn’t want that.”

“No.” She smiles quickly. “Well, Derek. Say hi to Sam for me?”

“I will.” He checks his watch. “Hey listen, I’ve got a few more things to pick up.” He motions to his carriage.

“Oh! Okay,” Vera says with another smile, tipping her head a little as she does. Then she steps around her carriage and gives him a hug. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

He nods, that’s it, just nods when she backs away and wheels her carriage toward the checkout, hiking her large tote up on her shoulder, her long, layered skirt nearly skimming the floor behind her.

*  *  *

There’s only so long that one can push a piece of pumpkin pie around on a plate, smiling politely and sipping yet another coffee. And after answering one too many questions, repeating one too many
No, I’m not seeing anyone
and
Yes, the house is coming along
and
No, I haven’t found full-time work yet
to aunts and cousins and friends at the Thanksgiving table, Vera takes a deep breath and bows out early.

“Hey, Vee,” Brooke says when she walks into the kitchen. “That turkey wasn’t half-bad, dressed up with the trimmings.”

“Thanks, sis. I’m glad the store had one left.” Vera pushes a wayward chair to the table. “Listen, you don’t mind if I cut out, do you?” she asks her sister. “I’ll help load the dishwasher before I go.”

“I wish I could go with you,” Brooke whispers while handing her a plate. “Sneak out and enjoy a little Thanksgiving peace and quiet, maybe take a walk around The Green.”

“Vera?” Brooke’s mother-in-law calls out. “Oh, Vera!”

“See what I mean?” Brooke asks.

They turn when Brooke’s mother-in-law rushes into the kitchen holding a piece of paper. She takes Vera’s hand and presses it into it. “Before I forget, my cousin works in Rhode Island, at the
Providence Post
. That’s his email,” she says, nodding to the paper folded in Vera’s fingers. “Drop him a line, tell him I sent you. He may have a position available, one better suited to your experience than that part-time work. It’s worth a shot, don’t you think?”

“Sure, I’ll keep it in mind. Thank you so much.”

“Glad to help!”

And as Vera settles in her car and buckles her seatbelt and lets the heater warm up before putting the car in gear, she’s not sure what exactly helps. Would it help to find a job out of state and have to relocate again? Because maybe she’s really liking life right here, right now. She looks up at the snowless sky, at the tiny stars in the black velvet night, stars too far away and tiny to wish on, then drives along Main Street headed toward home. When she passes Cooper Hardware, she’s surprised to see the lot illuminated. And when she spots Derek wearing a down vest over a blue flannel shirt and gloves, setting up the Christmas trees, she pulls in.

“Hey stranger, don’t you take holidays off?” she asks while getting out of her car and holding her coat closed against the cold.

“Hey there, Vera.” He continues lifting balsams and fir trees from a pile and tamping their trunks on the ground before leaning them on the wooden frames set around the parking lot. “Tomorrow’s a big day here. Lots of townies decorate this weekend.”

“Let me help,” Vera says, walking closer.

He looks at her long flowing skirt and shakes his head. “You’ll ruin your dress. That’s okay, really.”

“Well, I’ll keep you company then.” When she sees a large carton cut open and stacked with balsam wreaths, she lifts one out and hangs it on the wreath rack. It’s cold and they’re quiet, but she’s not sure if it’s because of the cold or something else between them, namely one certain
just-friends
kiss. “These are pretty, Derek, but do you have any bows for them? It’d be nice to dress them up a little.”

He looks back at the few wreaths she’d hung and motions for her to wait as he unlocks the hardware store door and goes inside. Minutes later he returns with a couple boxes of ornaments and a few bows. “This work for you?”

“Definitely.” She lifts another wreath, nestles a couple frosted gold ornaments within its greens and steps back to take a look.

“How was your dinner?” Derek asks over his shoulder as he straightens an unwieldy tree.

“Oh, the usual. Typical family fare.”

“I hear you.”

Vera lifts out another wreath and clips on a red velvet bow with a long tail sweeping across it. “You know how it is when you’re thirty-four and single at the table, well, the conversation gets prying.” She looks over at Derek as he lifts another balsam from the pile and stands it straight, pulling down some of the compressed branches. “That’s a pretty one.”

Derek leans it against the rail and checks his watch. “Listen, Vera. I’ve got something cooking on the stove.” He hesitates, glancing up at the apartment windows over the hardware store. “Would you like to come in, warm up a little bit?”

Lifting a wreath to the wooden frame, she twists around and looks up at the illuminated second-floor window. “Here? You live here?”

“Upstairs.” He puts his hands in his vest pockets and hunches his shoulders against the cold wind that starts gusting. “Come on, you’ve got to be freezing. Let’s go in.” He walks over to a door on the side of the building, opens it and looks back, watching her standing at the wreaths, waiting still until she sets the wreath down and hurries through the door and up the stairs ahead of him.

*  *  *

He smells the chicken roasting before he even unlocks the door and figures that she does, too. So it can’t be more obvious that he’d skipped Sam’s turkey dinner and sitting around with the family. It’s not like he doesn’t see them all every day as it is. Inside, he puts on another living room light and takes Vera’s coat. “Have a seat,” he tells her as he heads into the kitchen and pulls the food out of the oven. He gets a large piece of tin foil and covers the pans on the stovetop, turning to see Vera standing in the doorway.

“Do you need a hand with anything?”

“Vera, no, I’m all set.” He looks back at the chicken sitting on the stove. “It’s just a little something, well,” he says, looking past her then back at her silently with a long breath.

“Hey,” she says after a quiet moment, turning toward the living room, her layered maxi skirt sweeping out behind her. “You should have a tree. A small one. I saw a tiny one outside. I’ll go get it?”

“No, no.” He follows her back to the living room where it looks like she’s already scoping out a spot for that tree. “You wait here where it’s warm.”

And as he goes outside again, feeling the biting cold and picking up a tree he never planned on having, he glances up at his living room window. Well a tree won’t be enough. So he quick unlocks the store to get everything else, then hauls it all back up the stairs: tree and stand and a couple boxes of glass ornaments and a string of white twinkling lights.

The thing is, it’s not like he’d thought it would be, all this sudden busyness. There’s no sadness this time like in other years. No remorse at having a tree, or at the possibility of enjoying the holiday, a remorse he’d felt even this morning. There’s just his apartment, he sees it as he walks in with the tiny fir. His apartment with its one brick accent wall; the worn braided rug over hardwood floors; the older sectional sofa and end tables; the large paned windows with no curtains; a framed photograph of Abby in her favorite purple sweater, her brown hair hanging straight, the bangs a little too long, on the console table that Vera stands near, looking up at him when he returns. There’s all that and something more. There’s a life, somehow, an intensity or purpose in the room that he hasn’t felt since Abby’s death. And it makes the tree feel suddenly important.