Love on Main Street: A Snow Creek Christmas

by Juliet Blackwell

  Horrified to feel tears filling her eyes, Clara said, “Okay. I do, then.”

  Peggy’s hand was soft on her arm. “What happened?”

  “I lied to him. He caught me.”

  “Oof. I knew his mother. If he’s like she was, he doesn’t take kindly to untruths.”

  Clara shook her head, wiping her cheeks with the yarn, inhaling the acrid vinegar scent the dye imparted. If only she could frog this mistake, ripping it out like she did errant wool. But this wasn’t a stitch, or even a row. This was a whole sweater’s worth of mistake. Maybe a whole sheep’s worth. More.

  Peggy said kindly but sternly, “Put your shoulders back, girl.”

  “What?”

  “How long is he staying with his Aunt Weezie?”

  Confused, Clara said, “He said something about finding a house next month. Maybe an apartment. I don’t remember.” What she did remember was staring at the shape of his mouth as he’d told her he planned on staying.

  “Then you still know where he is. Do something to get him back.”

  “I never had him.”

  “Huh. I saw you two. That’s all I’m saying. You had him, Clara. I could see the sparks as clear as Darlene could have read your cards, if she were still with us, rest her soul. Hey, didja hear her niece moved to town?”

  “You know I never put any faith in Darlene’s babble.”

  “Sometimes you just got to take that risk, child. Do something already.”

  ***

  Sunday night—Christmas Eve—Clara stood outside Weezie Miller’s house. Her fingers trembled, and the knot in her stomach had the girth of Abe Sentry’s snowplow.

  Wearing a green dress that flared out at the waist, and the same oversized red velvet cape she’d sewed herself years ago—the one she’d hid inside every Fezziwig Ball she could remember—Clara dug in the deep pocket for what she’d brought with her. The cord tangled in her fingers worse than any laceweight yarn ever had.

  The Christmas Parade had finished thirty minutes before, and it was full dark now. The ball would start any minute. Light flakes of snow—nothing like what had fallen the night Lincoln kissed her—fell as perfectly as if the Corneliuses had ordered them online. A blue-white glint of moon shone through a break in the clouds.

  Feeling like a ridiculous schoolgirl, Clara connected the wire to her iPod.

  She raised her arms.

  Between her hands she held a small black speaker. Round and only five inches in width, it looked more like a remote control than anything else. It was nothing like the boom box Lloyd Dobler had held.

  But it was what she had. It would have to do.

  In the moonlight, Peter Gabriel’s voice soared out of the speaker. The song was surprisingly loud, the words clear. I reach out from the inside.

  Her heart beat twice as fast as the beat of the song. The blind in the front window twitched. Clara kept her arms steady. It didn’t matter if he came outside. (Oh, but it did. It did.) What mattered was staying in place, staying there, playing the song. Playing the song that had meant so much to him that he’d risked death by embarrassment as a teenager. The song that said everything she hadn’t been able to convey to him when he’d touched her, when he’d found out that she’d lied to his unsuspecting face.

  It was a much longer song than she’d remembered. A jolly crowd of well-dressed carolers passed by, and sang the second verse, passing a flask around. “See you at the ball, Clara! See you there!” they called. “Hope whoever it is comes out soon!”

  She kept the speaker over her head, ignoring them.

  The song ended.

  Her arms remained aloft—now aching—as if she could will the song to lengthen.

  The door opened, and Lincoln stood silhouetted for a moment, silent as the night. “You think jeans will do for the Fezziwig Ball?” he asked.

  Then he pulled on his black leather jacket and stepped toward her, reaching out with his hand as if he knew Clara would take it.

  And she did.

  About Rachael

  Rachael Herron is the internationally bestselling author of the Cypress Hollow series (HarperCollins/Random House Australia) and of the memoir, A Life in Stitches (Chronicle). Her newest novel, Pack Up The Moon, will be available in March 2014 from Penguin (USA) and Random House Australia (NZ/AUST). Rachael received her MFA in writing from Mills College and is a 911 fire/medical dispatcher when she's not scribbling. She lives with her wife, Lala, in Oakland, California, where they have more animals and instruments than are probably advisable. Rachael is struggling to learn the accordion and can probably play along with you on the ukulele. She's been known to knit.

  Her latest Cypress Hollow Yarn is available on Amazon.

  Miss Bonny's Buried Treasure

  by Ruby Laska

  Caroline Bonny has always known about her family curse: no Bonny daughter will ever marry until her great-great-great-grandfather's buried treasure is found. Caroline has made her peace with her life as a spinster-turned-cosmetologist, until easy-on-the-eyes schoolteacher Lance Carter comes to town determined to drown his recent breakup in holiday festivities.

  Miss Bonny's Buried Treasure

  “Fiver to Old Maid, come in, Old Maid. Over.”

  Caroline Bonny lifted her face off her arm and squinted at her phone, whose buzzing was making the table rattle. That alone should have been enough to wake her—even if her incredibly annoying brother wasn’t harassing her on the stupid pager they used whenever cell reception went out.

  “I’m not here,” she growled, lying back down on her arm, even though it had fallen asleep when she had. Sleeping on the kitchen table was getting to be a bad habit, but it seemed to be inevitable every time she tried to read the promotional materials for new serum she was considering carrying in the shop. The fine print was boring, but Caroline always reviewed it carefully before ordering from a new supplier; Miss Bonny’s only carried cruelty-free, allergy-tested, responsibly-sourced products.

  Caroline glanced at the cat-shaped clock on the kitchen wall, its tail swishing comfortingly back and forth as it had as far back as she could remember: nearly eleven o'clock.

  Kind of early for Fiver.

  “That’s a 10-4, Old Maid, I’m bringing take-out.”

  “No, not tonight,” Caroline moaned. “Seriously. Please. Fiver. Last time you said you’d do my laundry for a month. And you only did it once and you melted my pink bra.” Too late, she remembered she was on the pager, and sat bolt upright in alarm. “Oh no, Fiver, you’re not with someone now, are you?”

  But the sound of raucous laughter in the background told her all she needed to know. Fiver hadn’t bothered to take the conversation outside—and now everyone at McNally’s Bar knew the fate of her underwear. Count on Fiver to broadcast the intimate details of her pathetic life to the entire population of Snow Creek.

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” Fiver said, slurring his words slightly. He was kind of a lightweight for a guy who made his living as a firefighter, but he had been on eight days straight, covering for a coworker whose wife had just delivered twins. Luckily, McNally’s was only a block away, close enough for even a drunk and disoriented firefighter to stumble home.

  Problem was, “bringing takeout” was code to let her know he wouldn’t be stumbling home alone.

  “Please, please, please, I am begging you, Fiver, not tonight!”

  “But this is different, it’s just—”

  “They’re always different!” Caroline said, sliding out of her chair and lurching to the window. Great—her foot had fallen asleep, too, and she nearly twisted her ankle as the tingling sensations took over her leg. “Every single time, you say it’s different, you say she’s special, you say this time you mean it, and then I end up making her pancakes and driving her back to the Wagon Wheel.”

  “No, really, this time it really is different, I swear!”

  “Fiver.” Caroline used the bossy voice, the voice of Lila Marie Bonny, their mother, who had departed
the earth two years earlier. It was the privilege of the older sister—one of the few compensations of being a Bonny female. “Is this—person—” She couldn’t bring herself to say “woman,” not when the female in question was likely to be barely of legal age—“staying at the Wagon Wheel, or not?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “And did you, or did you not, promise the Magic Attic and Fool's Gold?”

  This time, the silence stretched long, and Caroline knew all she needed to know. It was her brother’s standard sweet talk, and it worked every darn time, which was probably a result of his impossibly soulful dark eyes and broad shoulders and dimpled, crooked grin as much as it was the lure of their childhood home and the drink named for their great-great-great-grandparents, who had been famous for their moonshine. But since it worked every time, Fiver was too lazy to come up with anything original.

  Why bother? His sweethearts only stuck around long enough to become hopelessly besotted, before Fiver let them down so gently they couldn’t bring themselves to hold it against him.

  “I might have,” he finally admitted grudgingly.

  “Fiver, it’s ten days before Christmas,” Caroline tried, one last attempt that she already knew would fail. “Don’t you have any decency at all? Doesn’t she have to play an angel in the school holiday show or something?”

  But before her brother could respond, she hit mute and then, for good measure, turned her pager off. Let Fiver play CB trucker all by himself.

  ***

  Lance Carter wove his way unsteadily back from the men’s room, his vision swimming a little, trying to find his unexpected good Samaritan.

  There he was. His new friend, Fiver, stood a good couple of inches above most of the guys in the place, including Matt and Johnny, who’d been more than happy to let Lance stay with a perfect stranger since it meant they got the room to themselves at the Wagon Wheel. Which, it occurred to Lance, was kind of unfair since he was the one who’d paid for the room through Christmas, the dumpy Wagon Wheel Motel being the only lodging he could swing on his schoolteacher’s salary.

  Johnny and Matt were only crashing with him because the Mitten Inn was full. Which was ironic, since Johnny’s parents owned the inn. But once Mr. and Mrs. Cornelius got word that their gay, only child was bringing home the man he intended to marry, they decided to throw the pair a gala engagement party, and invited all their relatives to stay at the inn. Johnny’s childhood bedroom had been given to great-aunt Hilda. Since it was just for one night, Lance had offered to share his motel room and sleep on a rollaway cot.

  The engagement party, which had been lovely, had ended several hours ago, but many of the guests had wandered down the street to continue the party at McNally’s. All evening long, Johnny had been introducing Lance to his childhood friends, explaining that Lance and Matt taught at the same elementary school in Sacramento. The beer flowed along with the conversation. There was some good-natured ribbing about the sleeping arrangements at the Wagon Wheel. When Fiver offered to let Lance sleep on the couch in his apartment down the street, it sounded like a great idea. “Don’t worry, I’m straight,” Fiver said, leaning drunkenly on his pool cue.

  “It’s true,” Johnny confirmed. “He’s been chasing girls since we were in kindergarten.”

  “Such a shame,” Matt had slurred, having enjoyed several celebratory shots. “Delicious, but not on the menu.”

  Lance would have reached the same conclusion on his own. Most of the gay men he knew had better haircuts than Fiver, and wouldn’t be caught dead in the threadbare concert T-shirt he was wearing. Plus there was the way Fiver had let his hand linger on the admittedly delectable backside of one of the young women who’d flung her arms around him in greeting earlier in the evening.

  “Well, if you’re sure,” Lance had said.

  “Sure I’m sure. And the Old Maid won’t mind.”

  “Old Maid?”

  “His sister,” Johnny said. “They live together.”

  Now, as Lance threaded his way through the crowd, his buzz beginning to wear off, he started to worry that the Old Maid might mind. Although any woman who let her kid brother live with her, despite his less-than-flattering nickname for her, sounded like she must be pretty tolerant.

  “Lance!” Fiver yelled, waving and disentangling himself from a knot of female revelers. “Ready to go?”

  “Sure. You don’t need to say goodbye to your friends?”

  “They won’t even notice I’m gone. Or at least, I should probably be gone when they notice. I, uh, dated a couple of them.”

  Outside, the blast of cold air was welcome after the noise and the press of bodies inside the bar. Only a dusting of snow had fallen, lightly covering the streets and sparkling in the moonlight. The quaint town looked even more like a picture postcard than it did in daylight, with shop windows decorated for Christmas, and golden pools of light cast by the old-fashioned streetlamps.

  “I live right across the street, above the drug store,” Fiver said, pulling up the zipper of his down jacket. “My sister runs the shop. It’s been in the family for generations.” He pointed to a two-story brick building with a sign reading Miss Bonny’s in flowing script.

  “It’s really nice of you to let me crash at your place,” Lance said. “Especially after I mangled your name.”

  He’d been saying “Feivel” most of the evening, mis-hearing his name over the din of the party.

  “Easy mistake,” Fiver shrugged affably. “I watched those movies all the time. I loved that damn mouse. Feivel Goes West, remember that one? He wore a ten-gallon hat? Man, that was great cinema.”

  Lance laughed. “No wonder you’re such a hit with women. A firefighter with culture.”

  “And this classic profile,” Fiver agreed, tilting his head and patting his chin. “I’m the whole package.”

  “So where did you get your name?”

  Fiver grimaced. “Believe it or not, I’m the fifth generation in the family to be named Ernesto Vincenzo Bonny. A hell of a mouthful, right? Gramps went by Ernie, Dad was called Ernesto, so to make it easier they all just started calling me ‘Fiver’ since I’m the fifth.”

  Lance whistled. “Five generations, huh?”

  “Yep, my great-great-great-grandfather was a rag merchant in Italy. His real name was Buonsanto, but it got shortened at Ellis Island to ‘Bonny’ after he sold everything for a ticket to California during the gold rush. Planned on making his fortune. There were rumors that he did, though he ended up running a general store instead.”

  “Hang on there,” Lance said, making the connection. “Buonsanto, as in the buried treasure?”

  “You know about that?” Fiver sounded surprised.

  “Yeah, it’s all my kids ever talk about since I told them I was spending Christmas vacation in Snow Creek. We read about it on the Internet.”

  “You have kids?” Fiver looked around comically, as if he expected them to appear at any second.

  “Oh, sorry—I meant my students. My third graders.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot you’re a teacher. My sister’ll love that, she’s always campaigning for the school bond measures.”

  Lance adjusted his internal picture of his hostess, suppressing a groan. Not just older and humorless, then, but also a do-gooder. Her idea of a good time was probably a sing-along at the old folks’ home.

  Oh, well. Lance was only going to be stuck with her for one night—not even that; Fiver said she went to bed early—and in the morning he’d say thank you and make a quick escape.

  “Damn, that’s a hell of a coincidence, though,” Lance said to cover his reaction. “We were looking up Gold Country lore and legends, and when the kids saw buried treasure, they didn’t want to talk about anything else.”

  “It’s all crap,” Fiver said cheerfully. “Gramps and Dad used to fleece the tourists with their maps and treasure tours. But the only fortune my family ever made was running the general store. Not exactly a huge money-maker, as you can see.
”

  It was a scene right out of Currier and Ives. The shop windows were festooned with lights and greenery, and wreaths hung from the doors. Old-fashioned hitching posts out front were decorated with ribbons and sleigh bells. Up close, Lance could read the smaller lettering above the door: “Sundries, Supplies, and Everything for the Weary Traveler.”

  Maybe he was in the right place after all.

  ***

  Caroline Bonny hurried through her evening beauty routine, which was the real—or at least the main—reason she hated it when Fiver brought girls home. The Magic Attic, a.k.a. Fiver’s bedroom on the top floor of the apartment above Miss Bonny’s, had been extremely well insulated years ago when Ernesto Bonny the Fourth first converted the attic to a bedroom. And while he might have disapproved if he knew that his son was using the space to entertain a series of lady friends, at least the room was soundproof: Caroline never heard so much as a squeaky floorboard or a high-pitched giggle from upstairs.

  But the bathroom was another matter. There was only one, though the apartment had housed five generations of Bonnys. When Caroline had complained about having to share a bathroom with her parents and obnoxious younger brother, her father had calmly reminded her that her great-great-grandparents had two sets of twins, and everyone had been just fine taking turns back then.

  But Caroline was sure her female ancestors hadn’t had a beauty routine as complicated as hers. Nor, she had to assume, did their brothers bring new ladies home every month or two. Ladies who could be counted on to use the facilities next to Caroline’s bedroom just as she was drifting off to sleep…to leave their long hair in the shower or “borrow” her toiletries or spray themselves with her scent.

  Which Fiver maintained shouldn’t bother Caroline in the least, since she got most of her products for free from the manufacturers, which had led to more than one argument in which Caroline asked Fiver how he’d like it if her friends came over and borrowed the hose and axes and ladders without asking and put them back wherever they felt like it, which usually prompted Fiver to ask Caroline when was the last time she saved a life with hair curlers or rouge, which made her even more furious because nobody said “rouge” any more and it just figured that her brother would know absolutely nothing about her passion in life, and not even bother to pretend to have any interest in it.