by Caroline Lee
“And there are still apples on their trees?” she asked, with a slight frown.
“Still apples on their trees.”
Although, now that he thought about it, how?
And there hadn’t been much snow on the ground in the courtyard, that he’d seen anyway. Oh, he could believe the brick walls were keeping the trees somewhat protected, which might also explain their size…but how did they still have apples?
Apparently deciding to take his word, she nodded. And then…she smiled. A genuine smile, full of excitement and mischief and delight, and Hunter had no trouble imagining her as an energetic child.
Or better yet, being the mother to an energetic child.
What kind of mother would Snow make, and why did he suddenly want so badly to find out?
She twisted in her chair, looking for the server, her smile still in place, oblivious to the way she was making his heart race. “Well, Hunter, I apologize for my rudeness, but…”
“But?” he prompted, when she trailed off.
She turned back to him and winked—actually winked! “But fresh apples? I’m going to have to insist on seeing this Christmas miracle!”
Another chance to spend time with Snow? To talk to her? To maybe touch her again? To perhaps, possibly, even get a chance to kiss her?
A Christmas miracle, indeed!
CHAPTER FIVE
Apples at Christmastime? Snow was a little embarrassed by how excited she was. Her heart was pounding, and she kept having to remember to take in big gulps of air.
Apples? Don’t lie to yourself.
It wasn’t because of some silly fruit she felt this way; she was practically walking on air because of him.
Hunter strolled beside her, and when he’d offered his arm, it had seemed so natural to tuck her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow. Maybe she wouldn’t have considered it a few hours earlier, but after the meal they’d just shared, after she really felt as if she knew him, it seemed right to do it now.
Plus, it felt amazing.
He was tall and warm and very sure of himself. She remembered the way Mr. Prince had seemed to fill up the Crowne Mercantile, and she knew Hunter possessed those same qualities.
Oh dear. Now she was thinking about Hunter with a baby in his arms. Maybe a little girl, bundled up against the cold, wearing a hat with a bobble on top, which Snow had made her. A little girl, with his warm brown eyes and their light hair, and strong fingers so she could one day learn her grand-mama’s lace art.
“Did you make that gown you’re wearing?”
His question, out of the blue like that, and still so close to what she’d been contemplating, jerked Snow’s attention from her daydream. “What?” she blurted.
“The gown. The white is striking on you, but the black lace is what makes it unique. It’s almost as beautiful as you are.”
She opened her mouth, but all that emerged was a kind of croaking sound.
He thought she was beautiful?
When he glanced at her, she could see a dark flush high on his cheeks. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have embarrassed you.”
“No, I…” She shook her head and inhaled, trying to calm her giddy heart. “The gown was one of my sister’s, from years ago. Her mother bought it for her, but Rose said it suited me better, which made my stepmother, Lucinda, livid.” For a while, Snow hadn’t worn it, but recently, she had given up caring. “I, um…I added the lace.”
“Did you make it yourself?” He seemed eager to hear the answer. “Did you make the lace on the tree as well, the one decorated in the woods?”
She had to smile. “Yes. Mama was famous in New Orleans for her lace-making, and she taught me. It’s called tatting, and it’s what makes my—”
When she snapped her teeth closed on her secret, he pulled her to a stop. They were standing in front of The Gingerbread House Saloon, but neither noticed nor cared.
“Makes your what?” he prompted gently, taking both her hands in his.
Earlier, in the restaurant, he’d held her hand. Actually, she’d held his hand, and it had been wonderful. In that moment, she hadn’t been thinking about her stepmother’s opinions, or the possibility of a future. She’d been thinking about Hunter.
And loving it.
No one else in town—not even Lucinda—knew how she made her living. She hadn’t been keeping the secret consciously; she just didn’t care to share her business with everyone.
Could she share it with Everland’s new preacher?
Well, why not?
“My gowns,” she confessed in a whisper, her gaze on his chin. “That’s how I make money, and have for years. There are people who want hand-made, lace-accented christening gowns for their babies, and they’re willing to pay dearly for a Snow White creation.”
He whistled softly, and when she risked a peek up at him, he was smiling. He squeezed her hands.
“I can imagine so. I’ll bet the gowns are all white and soft too? So they fit the name?”
She nodded. “I design each one a little different, and that’s one of my guarantees. They’ll have a unique gown, destined to become an heirloom.” That was one of the selling points of her advertisements, in fact. “I can only do a dozen a year, so they’re quite dear.”
Or dear enough, at least, that she could manage to support herself and Lucinda—and even Rose, before her books had started selling. And now Lucinda had started selling her potions, maybe they’d finally be able to stop their scrimping.
Well, wouldn’t that be a Christmas miracle?
The thought reminded her of the apples, and a grin flitted across her face as she tugged him into motion once more. “You said your mysterious boardinghouse was on Perrault Street?”
He hummed in agreement, but when she began to take the lead, he gently tugged her into a slower pace and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow once more.
When she glanced at him in question, his smile was lazy and content. “I’m not going to run there, Miss Snow, and cheat myself out of any time I might spend with such a remarkable young woman on my arm.”
A remarkable young woman?
Snow sighed with delight.
Lucinda might be a cold-hearted, hateful witch, but maybe she’s right when it comes to blond men.
No, a man’s hair color was a stupid reason to accept or deny him. And if Lucinda determined Hunter’s worth based on that, then she was stupid too. Everyone in town knew Lucinda White was a little bit quirky, but since visiting that gypsy woman, she’d been talking more and more about curses and power and whatnot. And she did genuinely believe one of Reginald White’s daughters had to marry a man who shared his pale hair.
But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to agree with Lucinda when it came to Hunter.
Because Snow was beginning to suspect Reverend Hunter Woods was the worthiest man she’d ever met, and she’d only known the man a few days!
“So tell me, Miss Snow,” Hunter drawled as they turned down Perrault, “is tatting difficult?”
She gave him a simple answer, but when he was still curious, Snow found herself explaining the techniques to him. He didn’t even seem to mind when she pulled her arm from his and began to sketch out the movements in the air in front of her. In fact, he peered intently at the empty space, as if he could see the invisible threads she was manipulating, and even pointed out a few to ask questions about them.
Soon they were both laughing over the absurdity of invisible tatting, and Snow realized she’d never shared this with anyone else. Not just because no one had ever asked her, but because she’d never felt comfortable around other people who weren’t Rose or Zosia.
But she was very comfortable around Hunter.
Hmm.
“You said your mother taught you this art?” Hunter was still chuckling as they neared the empty lot.
“Yes. She was…she was a slave who had gained a reputation for her work. My father purchased her and moved her to Alabama, where I was conceived.”
Hun
ter’s laughter immediately quieted. “I’m sorry. It must have been difficult to grow up in that environment.”
Difficult?
An understatement.
Snow shrugged. “My father freed me when we were young, as a gift to my sister. He gave me the same advantages she had, although it was clear I was never important to him.” She swallowed, thinking of other children born the same way she’d been. “It could’ve been much, much worse.”
Unconsciously, she touched her tignon, a reminder of one of the things she had to give up. Compared to what others had lost, being required to cover her hair seemed minor…and at this point, Snow wasn’t sure how she felt about it.
Maybe Hunter understood, or maybe he was just looking for a way to change the conversation, because he nodded to her red headscarf. “And your…head dress? Did you make that, as well?”
A slight smile flitted across her lips. “It’s called a tignon. Negro women in New Orleans wear them, and I remember my mama always wearing one. This was hers, actually.”
“A tignon?” He tried the pronunciation.
She nodded. “When I was born, my stepmother took one look at me and commanded my mother to always keep my hair covered. She said she wouldn’t allow the world to know Reginald White had given his hair to the daughter of a slave. I don’t think anyone in town has ever seen it, actually.” She chuckled wryly. “I’ll bet they all think my hair is dark.”
Instead of asking about its color, Hunter proved her appearance didn’t matter to him by asking a different question. A harder question.
“Your stepmother, she’s the one you live with? She sounds…” He blew out a breath. “Well, it isn’t my place to judge someone I’ve never met, but you said she forces you to do heavy jobs, and she doesn’t sound very loving to a tiny baby and—”
Snow interrupted him with a dry laugh. “She’s nasty! There, is that the word you’re looking for?”
When he began to chuckle, she joined in.
“I’m sorry, Hunter, I shouldn’t tell tales, but she is difficult. And she’s getting worse. She believes she has some kind of—of— Oh, I don’t know, some kind of magical powers lately. I’ve noticed her getting odder over the last months, but I think she might be genuinely going mad.”
He hummed in commiseration as he tugged her to a stop. “I’m sorry. What makes you think that?”
Biting her lip, she considered what to tell him. What would make him understand, without having to tell him everything?
“She makes…well, potions, I suppose. Lotions. Which she believes really work.”
“What kind of potions?”
As a man of God, she could understand why he’d be concerned about witchcraft. “She has one called Skin As White As Snow, which is intended to lighten skin.”
“I wonder if that’s the one my colleague’s wife uses?” He was frowning slightly, but she saw nothing but interest and concern in his warm chocolate eyes.
“If she does, I’d be surprised to find it works. Lucinda has no training in herblore or cosmetics. She created this lotion in order to lighten my skin. She thinks I can’t be...well, whole I guess, until I have skin as white as snow.”
His mouth dropped open. “That’s—” He shook his head and tried again. “That’s horrible, Snow. Why would she use your name like that?”
Her lips twitched ironically. “You misunderstand. She named me Snow at birth, because of my hair. I think she’s just trying to make me live up to my name.”
Shaking his head again, he tugged her into motion once more. “Your stepmother named you? Of course, she’s not really your stepmother, is she? She’s your father’s wife.”
“But all things considered, I’d rather not acknowledge him as a parent either.”
When he sent a wry glance her way, a snort escaped his lips. “I can see why. Your real mother isn’t alive?”
“She died before Father decided he couldn’t live in the south anymore and dragged us out here.”
Tugging her to a stop again, he captured one of her hands in his, but rather than tucking it away, clasped it tightly. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“This is a terribly maudlin conversation, Reverend Woods.”
As if he could sense she was trying to change the topic, he offered a gentle smile. “It’s my duty to minister to my flock, Miss Snow,” he said in mock seriousness.
“Is that what you’re doing? Ministering?”
When she squeezed his hand teasingly, his eyes widened with what looked like happiness.
“Well, perhaps a bit more than that.”
She knew her own eyes were twinkling when she grinned impishly. “Well, how about this Christmas miracle you promised? Where’s this boardinghouse of yours?”
“Where’s—?” He blinked, then shifted his gaze behind her. “Right there.”
Still holding his hand, she whirled, only to see—as she’d seen dozens of times before—an empty lot. She glanced sidelong at him, a frown tugging at her lips. She wasn’t sure if she should admit she couldn’t see anything, or accuse him of teasing her. He’d seemed so certain, so either he was fabricating a complex trick, or she…
Was it possible she was going mad too? Like Lucinda?
No. No, it was more likely she’d completely misjudged Hunter, and he was the mad one.
Right?
“Come on, we’ll go through the foyer to the courtyard,” he said, tugging her forward.
Foyer? Courtyard? Boardinghouse?
What in the world was he talking about?
This was an empty lot—
And then, it wasn’t.
Between one step and the next, a house shimmered into existence, right there on Perrault Street, so suddenly Snow let out a little squeak of surprise and pulled away from him. He jerked to a stop, looking at her in confusion, while she stepped backward.
No house.
She stepped forward.
A house.
A quaint house, done in the same fairy tale design of the rest of the town, with curly wood bits around the eaves, and a large front porch. It was painted a garish purple, but there were cheerful Christmas wreaths on each window and on the front door.
She stepped backward once more, and the empty lot shimmered into existence.
Forward, and there was the house.
Hmm.
Hunter lifted a brow at her, and she wondered why he wasn’t as confused as she was.
Had he only seen the house, and not the empty lot?
And how in the world was there a house here?
He took her hand again and pulled her up the front steps. Snow felt her feet dragging, as if reluctant to enter the mysterious house.
Maybe there’s something to the rumors of magic in town after all.
No, no, that would be silly.
Oh dear, this day was becoming odder and odder.
Hunter pushed open the front door, then stopped to stomp the snow off his boots. She did the same, but neither bothered to remove their hats and gloves.
“Miss Helga? Miss Somnolena?” The names echoed throughout the seemingly empty house. “I’ve brought Miss Snow to see the apples in the yard. I hope that’s fine?”
Suddenly, a flurry of whispers came from around the corner.
“Snow? Did he say Miss Snow?”
“Did you fall asleep again? Yes, he said Snow.”
“Oh dear, is it snowing again?”
“Somnolena!”
Before Snow and Hunter could do more than exchange a bemused glance, a cheerful face popped around another corner. “Snow! Snow’s here, everyone!”
Hunter nodded politely. “Hello, Miss Helga—”
“No need for formality, dear boy!”
He cleared his throat. “Um, yes, ma’am. I’d like to show Miss Snow the apple trees—”
Before he could finish his sentence, the plump woman turned back the way she came and cupped her hands around her mouth.
“Did you hear that, Bashful? The apple trees wo
rked! You owe me five dollars!” she called, as she jogged off the way she came, not bothering to wave goodbye.
“Don’t pay any attention to her. She’s being— Ah-choo!”
Snow whirled to see a young woman holding a handkerchief under her red nose, irritation apparent on her face.
Hunter offered a smile. “Miss Sn—Suzy, do you think your aunt would mind if I—”
A new voice cut in. “I would not.”
Both Hunter and Snow turned to find a small, gray-haired woman peering fiercely up at them through thick spectacles. Or maybe just glaring at Snow; it was hard to tell.
A magical appearing house? Filled with strange women she’d never before seen?
Just what was going on here?
When the woman spoke, her voice was surprisingly gentle. “I’m Doc, and it’s nice to finally meet you, Snow.”
Finally meet?
Had this woman heard of her?
In a bit of a daze, Snow offered her hand politely.
The older woman took it and patted it with her other hand. “I’m sure this is a bit of a surprise for you, and even we weren’t expecting to meet like this. We would’ve spruced the place up a bit if we’d have known.”
She waved her hand about, and Snow glanced to her left.
Had there always been a beautifully decorated Christmas tree there? She couldn’t recall.
Then the older woman—Doc?—smiled a bit awkwardly. “You see, we predicted we’d have you as a guest on Christmas, which is tomorrow! But Helga had a bit of a wager going, based on your love of apples, and— Well, it hardly matters now, does it?”
To be polite, Snow shook her head, although she didn’t understand a single thing the woman had said.
Doc tugged her closer and lowered her voice. “Listen, I know this is a bit of a shock. It’s probably easiest if you think of it all as simply being done with mirrors.”
As soon as she said it, Snow’s confusion seemed to slip away.
Mirrors! Of course! That made much more sense. These nice ladies probably had some sort of set up arranged with mirrors to keep their house hidden from casual passersby.
A part of her brain was jumping up and down and yelling, Why in the world would they do that? But the rest of her was focused on, Apples!
