Snowbound

by Kim Golden

  By the time Ruth has given me the telephone numbers of the inns and bed-and-breakfasts in the area, I have convinced myself that everyone in Hunters Grove knows everyone's business. But, I push these thoughts from my mind and focus on calling around to see if there are any rooms available. Unfortunately, the snow has meant that ski enthusiasts from the tri-state area are flocking to Vermont for cross-country and downhill skiing. All the inns are fully-booked, and the only bed-and-breakfast with a room is one that Ruth said I should only call if we were desperate. We aren't desperate. If Melissa is here, Evan won't hound Mia. He'll be too scared to do anything inappropriate in front of his wife.

  I finally give up and hang up the phone. In the living room, the raised voices, the mayhem, even, that I'd expected hasn't come to pass. Mia is sitting on the couch beside Melissa with her feet tucked under her, Melissa is rubbing her belly and shaking her head. Their voices are hushed so I cannot hear what they are saying. Nothing frantic or violent seems ready to explode. So, I do what I love doing best—I start making dinner. And since it looks like we're going to have company, I make enough for five. After all, Melissa is eating for two, so no point in planning for only four servings. The only question now, is where the hell is Evan?

  11 Count Your Blessings: Mia

  Rule #7 Keep your drama to yourself. Whatever it is, I don't want to know! I want to know everything about you.

  Sitting in my grandmother's living room with Melissa on a wintry December afternoon is not something I'd ever dreamed would happen. I always imagined she would break down into hysterics once she found out about me and Evan, but she is calm, composed even. Every now and then her hands tremble, from nerves I think. Whenever she hears a car pass by, she swings around to peer out the window. I tell her, repeatedly, that Evan walked into town, but she doesn't seem to hear. She is careful when she asks me how long he's been here.

  "Almost a week now," I tell her. "He arrived the first day of the storm. He'd skidded off the road and into a ditch. That's why his car isn't around."

  Melissa nods at each new piece of information. It's like she is trying to absorb it all. "And he told you I thought he was in Boston."

  "That's what he said. He was pretty cocky about it." Then I think about how I must sound. I don't want Melissa to get the wrong idea. "I didn't come up here hoping he would follow me. He swore to me that you two were having problems and that he wanted out of the marriage…and then he announced that you were having a baby and whatever was between us just snapped at that moment. I realized I never meant anything to him."

  "Maybe I never did, either."

  "You must have, Mel. He never left you. He married you."

  Saying it feels like a release for me. It is what I usually never admit to myself. Evan never loved me. I was nothing more than an easy lay for him. I can accept it now—especially when he's proven that he is not what I want or need in my life. I am almost ashamed to admit that I wonder if Melissa will ever come to this realization.

  "He made sure you were always around though," Melissa retorts. Her blue eyes flare hot for just a moment, before she composes herself and then shakes her head. She places her left hand on her belly. The swell is more pronounced now. You cannot mistake her pregnancy for anything else.

  In a few months, she'll be a mother.

  In a few months, I will still be single.

  "How far along are you?" I ask.

  "Five months." She smiles now, for the first time. "I wasn't sure I would be able to carry this long after all the miscarriages."

  I stare at her and I realize this is something else that Evan has never told me. He never said they'd tried before. He always made it sound like Melissa wasn't ready to have children, or that he wasn't interested. But, now, I see he's been telling me what he thought I wanted to hear.

  "He never told you, did he?"

  "No, he didn't."

  "I didn't think he would. He didn't even tell Brian, and they are supposed to be such good friends."

  I reach out and place my hand on Melissa's arm. "I'm sorry," I tell her. "I'm sorry I let myself think that I was entitled to Evan, I'm sorry for all the pain I must have caused you…"

  "It's not really your fault though, is it?" Melissa says. "He encouraged you. Hell, he even came up here to convince you to keep having an affair with him…my god…what kind of jerk am I married to?

  Jake ventures from the kitchen and announces, "Dinner will be ready in around twenty minutes….and, in case you're interested, Evan's on his way up the driveway."

  I wait for Melissa's reaction. She isn't a volatile person. She never has been. But, she springs up with a ferocious energy I've never seen before and rushes for the door. I stand too and watch from the window as he trudges through the snow, his head bent against the strong wind and the snow flurries flying through the air. He stops when he notices Melissa's car in the driveway. Then he lifts his head and sees Melissa walking towards him. I don't know what I was expecting her to do. Maybe I thought she would yell at him or kiss him, despite everything.

  What I didn't expect was that she would kick him in the balls.

  Jake is the one who runs outside to pull Melissa off Evan. I am too mesmerized by the spectacle. Apparently, so are some of my neighbors. Well, I guess I will be the talk of the town tomorrow morning—pregnant white woman beating up black man in the Wilkinson driveway. What is the neighborhood coming to? That sort of thing. But, more likely, Ruth Carter will give the story a funny (or even funnier) twist and everyone will laugh at Evan, the silly city slicker. They already do for his driving up here without snow tires and ending up in a ditch. I suppose laughing at him because his wife beat the crap out of him, will just add another layer to an already amusing tale. Jake hustles both Melissa and Jake in the house, before too many people can turn on their lights and pretend they are not watching. Evan is doubled-over and swearing through gritted teeth and I am trying to restrain the bubble of giggles threatening to well out of me.

  We manage to get everyone inside and then deposit Melissa in one of the guest rooms upstairs, so she can calm down. Evan straggles into the living room and is still swearing when he collapses on the coach.

  "Shut up!" I tell him. "You know you deserved it." I almost wish Melissa would hit me too. I feel like I have wronged her just as much as Evan. I was a willing accomplice.

  I leave Evan in the living room and wander into the kitchen. Jake is standing at the stove, stirring contents in a Dutch oven. "What is it?" I ask him. "It smells delicious."

  "Potjiekos…it's a type of strew we eat in South Africa," he says. "I made it with the lamb you bought yesterday. I hope that's okay."

  I nod. I wonder if it's his mother's recipe or their cook's. He has told me a little about his life there. How his mother always had someone who helped around the house, even though she was a housewife.

  "Did you manage to find a room for them?" I ask. The thought of letting them duke it out in a bed and breakfast or an inn sounds divine. But I don't think it's going to happen.

  "No vacancy anywhere." He says and sets the lid on the pot again. I watch him rummage through the cabinets until he finds a bag of grits. He seems to know how to cook them, so I don't do what I have had to do with Evan and other boyfriends; namely tell them how to properly cook grits, so they won't be too dry and will have lots of flavor.

  "I guess we're stuck with both of them."

  "They can both stay in the guest house," Jake says. "We can shack up for the night again. It won't be the first time."

  "No…" I say carefully. "Are you going to shack up in the room with me, or on the living room floor again?"

  He grins. "I guess that depends on you, really."

  We leave that tease hanging in the air. I retreat to the dining room and turn on the ceiling light. We haven't sat in here since just before my grandmother died. The room is still exactly as she left it, with her heavy dark colonial-style furniture and duck's egg blue walls. The faded prints on the wall are etchings of
Hunters Grove, done by a local artist. It's a nice room, it should be used, I think. I set the table here, finding a Christmassy tablecloth and napkins. I use my grandmother's good plates, even though Jake has assured me the stew is really simple fare. I like the idea that he is making something South African for me. I try to remember if any of my past boyfriends have ever cooked for me. I don't think they have. I think it has always been me cooking for them, spoiling them with cakes and cookies and pastries. I shouldn't jump the gun here. Maybe he cooked, simply because we suddenly had "company". Maybe he was just hungry after shoveling so much snow. Maybe it doesn't matter. He is in my kitchen. He wants to spend the night with me. And Evan's wife has come to take him away.

  I just hope Mother Nature will be kind to us and not dump more snow on us.

  We all sit down to a stilted, but delicious meal. Evan barely speaks during dinner. He tries to catch my eye, but I steadfastly ignore him. I don't want Melissa to think that I am encouraging him in any way. Melissa and Jake try to keep a dialogue going. She has been to South Africa on safari with her parents. A teeny spark of jealousy flares inside me. I wish I could be a nicer person. I wish I weren't so petty, so that Melissa's having been to South Africa would be like a speck of dust for me. I sip my glass of wine and watch their conversation progress. Jake looks my way and reaches for my hand. As soon as our fingers lace, a satisfying calmness spreads through me again. Soon, it will just be us, and I am longing for it.

  When the phone rings, I excuse myself from the table and go in the kitchen to answer it.

  "You haven't forgotten have you?" It's Ruth Carter and she sounds amused. "Of course, I hear you have company again."

  "Is practice tonight?"

  "No, my dear, just wanted to make sure you and Jake are still going to join us for it tomorrow."

  "We'll be there. I think our guests will be on their way by then."

  "If not, bring them along. Maybe they could use a little Christmas cheer."

  "Maybe…"

  "And don't forget to bring some sticky buns. Old Clas Svenningsson will go ballistic if he doesn't get something sweet."

  Back in the dining room, I hear Jake suggesting that Melissa and Evan go to the guest house to talk in private. Thank God, I think.

  He comes into the kitchen and says he is going to make sure a guest room in the guest house is set up. "I don't think Melissa is going to want to sleep in the same bed as Evan tonight…"

  "You never know…"

  All I can think is that maybe tonight Jake and I can talk without being interrupted, or make love if we want. I know I want to. I hope he does too.

  By the time he returns, I've started the dishwasher and put the leftovers in Tupperware containers. I've lit a fire and turned on the Christmas lights. I've found my Christmas tree stand and set it up in the corner by the picture window. I pull the tree in from the pantry and then release it from the sheath Owen wrapped it in. The fresh scent of pine needles immediately fills my nose and carries me back to all the Christmases I spent here in Hunters Grove. Sometimes we took the Vermonter from 30th Street Station to Windsor, where my grandfather would meet us and, on the way to Hunters Grove, we'd stop at a roadside café that had the world's best waffles and fried chicken. My mother would buy cans of local maple syrup to take back to Philadelphia or Baltimore. Then we'd drive along the snow-covered roads and my grandfather would give us a nonstop commentary on the latest gossip. My mother would sit beside him laughing and playfully chiding him for being such a busybody, but I know she loved catching up on everything we missed when we were in the big city. My granddad's work shirts always smelled like the sap from the pine and fir trees, with an undercurrent of sawdust. Jake has that same smell…like hard work and clean mountain air, like the outdoors and fir trees dotting hillsides.

  He hangs up his jacket and steps out of his boots, leaving them in the vestibule to dry. When he comes in the living room he informs me that Melissa is thinking about divorcing Evan. I nod. I'd thought, when I finally heard this sort of news, that I would be ecstatic, but now I don't care. Maybe it's the wake-up call he needs, so he realizes that no one wants to be played for the fool. He's been too good at it, getting what he wants and not caring who he hurts.

  "If it happens," I say, "then he gets what he always said he wanted."

  "Melissa thinks they'll be able to drive home tomorrow if the storm stays north of us."

  "Has Evan heard from the garage about his car?"

  "It's ready and your friend Billy is charging him a king's ransom for all the work." Jake hoists the tree up and eases it into the Christmas tree stand. I kneel beside him and screw the tree into place. We make a few minor adjustments and the tree looks perfect.

  Jake grins at me. "You really did know the right tree…"

  "What?"

  "When we were at the tree farm, Owen Cudahy swore you'd know the right tree."

  "Somehow, I always do."

  "Is it true your grandfather kept his family from losing that place?"

  "They were on the brink, and my granddad believed that people who worked hard shouldn't suffer."

  I don't tell Jake that I have inherited the small portion of the business that my grandfather bought to help the Cudahys stay afloat. It feels private, like Owen should tell him himself. But I own it and I still help them out as much as I can, because I want Owen and his wife to keep the tree farm going. Usually, they don't need my help, but spring can be hard for them, especially with so many large-scale garden centers and DIY megastores popping up. Every year they tried to give me part of the profits, but I never accepted it. I always told them to invest it back into the farm. I would rather know that the money was going to keep them in business one more year. But, the people in the local communities helped too. They tried to stop real estate developers from buying fallow farmland and turning it into McMansions or strip malls. They fought to keep the local character—bucolic, picture-perfect and cozy—as in tact as possible. It was one of the reasons why Hunters Grove, Green Valley, Windsor, and Little Peak were so popular with day-trippers. It was also why so many of us came back, even when the exciting lure of Manhattan and Boston pulled at us.

  We unstring the lights for the tree, checking all the bulbs, before we dress the tree. This time last year, I spent Christmas here with Grandma Ruth. She'd sent me off to pick out the tree with my mother and Ruth Carter, complaining we were underfoot when she was doing her holiday baking. When we returned with the tree, we found her slumped in her chair, the applesauce cake bubbling in the oven. We thought at first she'd fallen asleep, but then I noticed how her hand was twitching and we realized that she wasn't well. We rushed her to County General Hospital and then found out she'd had a mild stroke. She recovered enough that we could bring her home in time to spend Christmas Eve at home, but it was a solemn holiday. We were all reminded of her mortality and we hated it. I'd always imagined my grandmother would live forever—ridiculous, I know, but she was so strong and independent, how could I think anything else?

  "Are you alright?" Jake touches my shoulder. "You're crying."

  "I was just thinking about my grandmother." I use my sweater sleeve to wipe away the stray tears. "I wish she were still here. She would be in the kitchen now, baking up a storm—or instructing us what we should bake…and the house would be full of Christmas music."

  "Then let's make a joyful noise."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "We need to practice, don't we? For the caroling?"

  "Ruth Carter already called to remind me. With everything going on, I'd completely forgotten about it."

  Jake goes over to the bookshelves and turns on the little bookshelf stereo I bought for my grandmother, just a few months before she passed away. Stacked beside it, are her favorite CDs. She usually only listened to National Public Radio and the local radio station run by the grandchildren of some of her friends. The only compact discs she spent money on were Christmas carols. Jake sorts through them and grins. "Your gran
dmother had her niche."

  "She loved Christmas."

  He selects a CD and slides it into the machine. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir's rendition of "Carol of the Bells" begins to play and fills me with so many memories of my grandparents and this house and the love they had. I sit down on the floor by the tree, basking in the glow of the twinkling lights and imagine my grandfather singing along in his raspy voice. He used to say that he sang with passion, but he didn't sing well. He couldn't carry a tune, but we loved it when he'd sing as he decorated the tree with us.

  "Is this one on our list of songs?"

  "No, but it's a good one…don't change it."

  Jake comes back over to me and sits down beside me. He turns his face to mine and kisses my cheek. His touch sends off little fireworks inside me as I respond and match the tenderness of his touch, of his kisses. I don't know how long we sit there, folding into one another, kissing and smiling and laughing, but it feels right. And, for once, I don't mind going slow. For once, it feels perfect.

  12 Under the Mistletoe: Jake

  Rule #8 Don't make Make up excuses to come over. And you can only use the washer and dryer on the days we've already agreed upon whenever you want.

  Decorating the living room and listening to Christmas carols may not sound like the world's hottest date, but the combination of such mundane activities and Mia's enthusiasm for everything Christmassy is getting to me. The winter darkness, which sometimes felt like it was eating away at me, feels less bleak. We've draped fir garlands over the mantle and wound it in the banisters leading upstairs, twining it with white fairy lights. Mia keeps asking me why I call them fairy lights. But I think, now, she just likes watching me squirm. All I know is that's what we call them in South Africa. It's so dark, now, that it feels like midnight, but it can't be later than seven, maybe seven-thirty. The phone rings nonstop—both the landline and her cell phone. Her friends from Philadelphia, too curious to wait for her to call, want to know what's going on with Evan and Melissa. On her landline, calls come in from Billy Jaworski at the garage, Ruth Carter reminding us that the caroling starts tomorrow afternoon with a round at the nursing home and the county hospital, before we land at the village green to sing on Christmas Eve.