by Ellen Mint
Snow falls from the skies
Forgetful and pure
O’er mountains they rise
Erasing the cure
I reach out to feel
Glass cold as a grave
Mirrors never heal
Reflect but ne’er save
Reach for me, reach for me
Give me a chance
Sing me a hope
Gift me a dance
Words from your lips, pure and wise
Colors to wash the white from my eyes…
* * * *
Damn it!
Traffic crawled through the tourist traps, hordes of sticky families darting from one mega-corporation store to another while every car and cab refused to move. Beth glanced down at her phone and flinched. It was fifteen minutes to ten. They’d be wrapping up soon. Then what?
Close the stage, kick out the audience. Doubtful Tristan’s the type to hang out and sign autographs. It wasn’t as if Beth could work her way through the crowd to reach him anyway. Why did you delete his number?
She wanted to knock herself in the head for that mistake, but there wasn’t time for self-pity. There wasn’t even time to wonder what he really wanted to talk about. On one hand, the pancake mix seemed a good sign, though the card about the article was stark and cold. But that was Tristan Harty to a T, and…
“Damn it all!” Beth cursed as her Uber slammed to a halt. She could see the hint of the studio’s mass of windows two blocks down, but reaching it would easily take another twenty minutes at this pace. She’d miss him. He’d walk away never knowing she was there, and he might never speak to her again. What if this was a passing mood? What if he took her silence as anger? What if…?
Cracking open the door even in the midst of in-theory moving traffic, Beth said to the man who smelled of anise, “I’m getting out.”
“Uh, Miss…” Whatever he was going to say was lost as she rocketed from the front seat and ran around the back of the car. Horns blared at the insane woman walking into the middle of a busy New York street, but she gave them the standard salute and dashed for the sidewalk. It too was surging with people, Beth having to twist and leap to avoid every collision as she ran for the studio building.
The seconds ticked away like sand in a glass. That reminder wasn’t helping, and neither were the throngs of both visitors and locals packed outside the Times Square building trying to get a look inside. They were cordoned off by a series of winding aluminum barriers which Beth did not have time for.
Grateful she’d worn pants that day instead of her skirt, she hopped over each one like a kid jumping the turnstile. The bitter December cold seized her bare hands, trying to chill Beth to the bone, but she wasn’t stopping now.
“Sorry. Excuse me. Please move,” she babbled whether her foot came close to beaning someone or not. Reaching the front of the line, Beth adjusted her messed-up clothing when she felt a cold eye stare her up and down. Two hundred pounds of muscle was poured into a navy-blue suit, his arms crossed, but they were starting to move to toss her back to the masses.
Barely thinking, she whipped out the press badge and shouted, “I’m with Thorn! Your show is covering my article and asked me to be here!”
“Shouldn’t you use the performer’s entrance?” the man of muscle asked, raising a look over the tinted glasses turned black by the glint of sunlight off the windows.
Beth’s thundering heart threw out the most beautiful lie. “Just got the call. Seems there was an unexpected cancellation. Came over as fast as I could. Guess they forgot to mention this other entrance.”
To her gasping relief, the guard snorted. “What else is new?” he said and stepped aside while pushing open the door. “Reception’s through there.”
Nodding in relief, Beth slowed her steps but elongated her gait, trying to move as if she belonged there. Once the door closed, the muscle gazing back at the throng, she turned from the friendly desk with the logo of a rising sun plastered behind. Five minutes left to find him.
* * * *
Tristan shook off the angry glares of the producers he’d hurled a curveball at. It seemed unlikely he’d be invited back anytime soon. He didn’t glance around at the audience, who were at least politely listening in. No, all his focus was turned inward. His heart had written the lyrics, his veins piping them to his lips that breathed them into life.
Snow falls from the skies
Cleansing my face
Heart breaks from the lies
Swirling through this place
I reach out to feel
Glass cold as a grave
Mirrors never heal
Reflect but ne’er save
Reach for me, reach for me
Give me a chance
Sing me a hope
Gift me a dance
Words from your lips, pure and wise
Colors to wash the white from my eyes
All the while, he had a vision of flint eyes, a wholesome face and pink silk drifting through his mind.
* * * *
“Excuse me, ma’am…”
Fuck! Beth knew better than to say such a thing aloud, but she sped up her hunting. Why hadn’t she looked up a map of this place in the car? Because no one in their right mind would put that on the internet. Probably.
Her heels clicking on the polished floor, Beth swerved when she spotted a studio number beside the wide door. She reached for the handle, only to catch that the On Air sign was off. Damn it! That gave her pursuer ample time to draw closer. She’d picked him up when she’d stupidly crammed her head into a break room, then made up whatever excuse she could to get out of there fast.
Clock’s ticking, Cho. And having to explain yourself to a bevy of security guards while waiting for the cops will not help you find him.
A glowing sign in red caught her and she lit up. On Air. Two minutes left. It had to be that one! Abandoning her pretense of belonging, Beth broke into a run. Her pursuer joined in, but she didn’t care. She was almost at the end of this song.
* * * *
While bridging out of the solo, Tristan’s fingers trembled, repeating the refrain as his mind churned. This was some foolish, throw-of-the-dice gesture that could backfire horribly. What if she didn’t see it? What if she didn’t care? Would she even understand his meaning?
A warm smile bloomed inside. Yes, if anyone would understand him, it was Ms. Cho.
He’d been obsessively checking his phone ever since receiving notice of his package’s delivery. It had gotten so bad, Barry had swiped the outside link before Tristan headed on stage. But there was no call. No sign that she…she wanted to speak to him ever again.
Hope. When all is darkness, when you’re stranded on a lake of your failures, the only oar at your side is hope.
With a smile on his lips, Tristan leaned into the microphone and belted out the last lines of his song.
Sun breaks through the snow
Its rays so strong
Fool at last knows
You were there all along
I reach out to hold
A hand fit for mine
Hearts become bold
And our stars align
Words from your lips, pure and wise
Colors to wash the white from my eyes
He strummed through the final bars while the lyrics he’d scratched into his old notebook carried through the studio. He’d never even sung them aloud until that moment, stupid as that was. That’d sink damn near anyone. Who dragged a barely mixed or written song before the world to devour? But he didn’t care. He had to try and, as he raised his hand from the strings, he smiled serenely at the attempt.
Applause erupted around him, shaking Tristan. As he blinked in the spotlight, tears blurred the people who’d been forced to sit through his heart’s praying. And they were all rising to their feet, hands slapping into one another in surprising abandon.
A goofy smile twisting his lips, Tristan gave a small wave to the audience before slapping h
is hand back to the safety of his guitar. As he stared at Karen, she seemed to realize that the ball was back in her court. “Wow, that was,” she whispered into her hot mic, before flinching. “Tristan Harty, everyone. You can find his latest album Christmas Time on Amazon, iTunes and at Target.”
The cameras panned off him, the light of the snowy diorama fading to black. Once again, all he had to keep him company was the twinkling lights on the tree as Karen moved into the show’s final wrap-up.
His heart thundered, all the nervous energy of this dangerous decision zapping down his legs. Shaking on the stool, he glanced up to find Barry giving a slow thumbs-up. While it was nice to know Tristan wasn’t going to be tossed out on his ass for this move, that wasn’t the person he was hoping to hear from.
I pray you saw it, Beth.
Chapter Nineteen
Beth darted around the mass of wires covered by duct tape. Above her loomed the backside of the bleachers packed with an audience mumbling in anticipation of leaving. No. Damn it! The studio lights were focused on the blonde woman seated behind her desk, leaving the rest of the set in shadows. She darted into the aisle between bleachers, hopefully losing her tail, who was no doubt calling security.
Looking at charges of trespassing and potential jail time all to catch the eye of a man? What the hell is wrong with you?
She didn’t have time to weigh the consequences. Beth slipped closer to the circle of cameras and technicians trying to wrap up the show. Stopping just before the blinding wattage of light touched her, she glanced around the sides of the set. Guarded faces waited, the look reminding her of children when the dismissal bell was about to ring, but none were recognizable.
There was no thinning hair swept to the side, no lanky body unfolding into a wide stretch, no sapphire eyes peering into the darkness.
“That’s our show, everybody!” the host called, pumping her hand through the air to wave the at-home audience away. “Thanks once again to Zookeeper Marco for…”
She was too late. The studio lot was clearing. All the talent the woman had thanked had already been shoved off to avoid the audience’s exit. She’d missed him.
The small flame of hope that had kindled upon finding the pancake mix snuffed to smoke. As it curdled through her veins, the lights switched out. Beth fell off her stretched tip-toes, abandoning her foolish miracle. The cameras rolled back, feeds cut and the audience rose to their feet.
She’d failed.
People moved toward her en masse, their faces rendered formless as her heart crumpled. It had been one last Hail Mary risk-everything chance, and for what? What chance was there really? Three days. Seventy-two hours that should mean nothing. How could so little time mean anything? Mean everything.
She prepared to face the cold December morning alone.
“Beth?”
It was her imagination, no doubt her stupid heart trying to relight that spark of hope. Or there was another Beth in the audience. That made the most sense. Shuffling with the hapless crowd, she hoped to meld into the pack so the security would miss one small woman in the throng.
“Min-Ji!”
Her body froze, blocking up the herd, who cursed immediately at the woman getting in their way. She was so shocked, Beth’s boilerplate apologies stuck in her throat as she stared back into the friendly facade of the studio. Dashing from the darkness came a wiry body with a chest of scarlet. “Tristan?” she asked, holding a hand to her forehead to try to see through the glare.
The shadow stepped into the light and a lanky silhouette stared directly at her. He was here! Beth gulped, goosebumps rising up her body at the determination in his face. For him, the crowd moved aside, parting like the sea as Tristan walked to the woman shaking in confusion. So he’s here. Now what?
What if he’s still mad? What if he…?
“I’m sorry,” she said first, but Tristan was quick to overlap her.
“I read the article.”
Beth shook her head, trying to knock away the tears of frustration at her stupid actions. “It never should have happened, that picture. I forgot about the damn cloud on my phone. I wanted to…hope to…”
Dashing through the crowd, Tristan scooped one hand around the small of her back. Without a second’s pause, he plucked her onto the tips of her toes. Their lips met, Beth’s endless apology fading to a kiss. In an instant, the ice shield enveloping her soul shattered, warmth flooding her heart as she fell into his embrace. He cupped her cheek, those beautiful lips puckering for two more gentle kisses against hers before he leaned back.
“I wrote you a song,” he said, sounding surprised he’d done such a thing. “Sang it for you on live television.”
Beth frowned. “Damn it. I missed the whole thing. I was too busy trying to reach you. To explain…”
A heartwarming laugh rumbled through his chest. Tristan pushed back the hair that escaped her ponytail. Tipping his forehead against hers, he said, “I can sing it again.”
She snickered at the joy in his voice, wrapping both her arms under his and up around his shoulders to pull herself tighter to him. Tristan held her, his body fitting perfectly around hers. Parting his gentle lips, he breathed in a shudder. “I’ve missed you.”
“Probably not when you thought I was going to torch your life and dance on the ashes.” She cursed at herself, then winced at the reminder of how badly it had all exploded in her face.
But Tristan, that private man who diverted anyone from plumbing his heart, whispered, “Even then. Can you forgive me for being so foolish? For not trusting you?”
“Well,” she said, a grin rising on her lips, “I dare say you owe me for such a slight upon my character.”
“Oh?”
“I can only be recompensed with pancakes…” Beth dropped her voice, whispering in his ear. “In bed.”
At that moment, the flock of gawkers launched into hoots and hollers. Both glanced at the studio to find that the producers, not about to miss a story like this, had turned the cameras around to capture them. A blush burning up her cheeks, Beth tried to hide her face in Tristan’s chest.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to make such a spectacle…”
He didn’t glare at the audience, didn’t cast more than a cursory glance at the camera. No, he lifted her embarrassed face to his, and said, “If this is what it takes to have you in my life, then I happily accept it.”
Beth leaped up, kissing him with all the joy and serenity in her heart. Three days, that was all it had taken to never want to live without this man she had hated with all her heart. As Tristan held her close, Beth raised both middle fingers to the camera, ensuring they couldn’t use this shot of him—of them—for their story.
Chapter Twenty
One year later…
Mud splattered off the tires as the car came to a halt on the dying grassy patch. As he glanced away from his phone, a pang of nostalgia flitted in Tristan’s gut. Nothing had changed. Well, there was no snow on the ground, this December proving to be bereft of winter’s magic touch. But the porch was there, the sturdy chessboard, the rocking chair, the wood-cutting stump.
The memories of that alone had sustained him on the road. Though he’d certainly enjoyed other perks along the way as well.
“Is this right?” the driver asked, glancing behind his shoulder at Tristan.
“Yes, thank you,” Tristan responded, already rising to his legs to exit. As he walked to the trunk to remove his things, the driver rolled down the window.
“What are you going to do in a cabin all by your lonesome?” he asked, showing the first real interest in his fare since the ride had begun.
Tristan pulled out the guitar case, the last of the anxiety washing from him once that reassuring weight was in his hand. “Hopefully, write another hit song. If all goes well. Thank you for the ride.” He tipped his head and squelched through the mud to the stepping stones he’d had no idea were even there. Shaped like cross sections of a tree, they led in a quaint, haphazard pattern t
o the front door. Snow had a way of hiding the most surprising of secrets.
He expected the car to reverse course and drive down the mountain, but the driver seemed to be studying him intently. Perhaps he was trying to place him or attempting to work up the courage to ask for an autograph. Either way, Tristan watched the man, waiting for his words.
“Just…you got a plan to get out of here in case you get stranded by the weather?”
Tristan gleamed. “More than you can know.”
“Well, all right.” With those assurances, the driver finally rolled up his windows and left the old honeymoon cabin. Tristan waited until the car was back on the gravel road proper before walking up the stairs.
With each step, the grime of the road, the long nights, the empty days and the unending push to repeat his unexpected success faded away. He felt a new man reaching the top, about to push on the doorknob, when it kindly opened for him.
“My God,” he gasped, staring in rapture at the woman dressed in a pale pink blouse and tight black trousers.
“Mr. Harty,” she said, tipping her head to him. The tone was all business, but her look was not.
Rolling his tongue in his mouth, he responded, “Ms. Cho.”
“I dare say we have the mountain to ourselves.” Beth smiled brighter, her body curling against the doorway as if she intended to block him. Or she wanted him to scoop her up in his arms and carry her straight to the bed.
Dropping his luggage on the threshold, Tristan wrapped his hands around her waist. She laughed, the lightness filling him as he said, “A small part of it, at least.”
“I think we can make do,” Beth whispered, batting those soulful brown eyes up at him. He braced himself for her to surge forward and take command, but she seemed to wait patiently. He had been the first to kiss her, after all.
“You know what?” Tristan breathed against her ear, watching as the words left a trail of goosebumps rising along the delicate skin of her neck.
