Snow Plowed

by Abby Knox

  Snow Plowed

  A Santa’s Coming Novella

  Abby Knox

  Copyright © 2020 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Snow Plowed

  A Santa’s Coming Novella

  Renowned LA-based photographer Aiden had one job: spend a few weeks in a tiny Midwestern town and capture scenes of a small-town Christmas. Pretty straight-forward, until he comes across one beloved -- not to mention kind, funny, sassy and beautiful -- citizen who keeps dodging the camera. He'll do everything in his power to get her attention, even if it means digging himself a hole in the snow he can't get out of.

  * * *

  Snow plow driver Ruby doesn't like having her picture taken. The sooner that flirty LA photographer gets that through his head, the better. With a big snowstorm on the way, she's got way more urgent things on her mind than flirting or posing for silly photos. He can keep trying to get her attention and to change her mind, but unless he's buried up to his neck in snow without a shovel, he'll be trying for a long, long time.

  * * *

  This book has all the stuff of your favorite Hallmark movie -- small-town Christmas with a side of fish-out-of-water and a dash of we're-stuck-together-in-a-snowstorm -- with one important difference: when these two come together it'll knock your snow boots off!

  * * *

  Warning: set down your hot cocoa before reading; this book is intended for readers 18 and up!

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Be sure to read all five novellas in the Santa’s Coming series!

  About the Author

  Also by Abby Knox

  Chapter 1

  Aidan

  * * *

  With my nearly frozen camera case gripped to my side, I quickly duck out of the cold and slide into a booth inside the warm diner.

  The place is buzzing with townsfolk full of holiday spirit. I rub my numb fingers together just long enough for feeling to return, allowing me to check on the state of my baby, Sally.

  Sally’s fine; her lens is just fogged up. I carefully blot away the moisture with my lens wipes while I wait for a menu. My now-vintage film camera, the one I call Sally, has been with me from the beginning of time, it seems like. Together, we’ve weathered much more dangerous conditions than what Christmas, Michigan, can dream of. But I want her to last until I’m dead, so I have to be careful with the old girl.

  “Your camera OK?”

  Without looking up from my meticulous blotting and dabbing, I reply, “I think so. This is the first time I’ve ever taken photographs outside in freezing cold weather, though, so we’ll see.” I stop fussing with Sally and put her away, then turn to the waitress who’s speaking and trying to hand me a menu. “Polly,” her name tag reads.

  Polly the waitress laughs good-naturedly and says, “Listen, big fella. This is not cold. Just you wait.” She follows this warning up with a wink, but I don’t get the sense that it’s a flirtatious wink. Everyone is so friendly and up-in-your-business in this town. I won’t be here long enough to get used to it, and I have yet to decide if that is a happy fact or a sad fact.

  Polly’s suggestion that the weather is going to get even colder than this has my body shivering, or maybe it’s my ice-cold feet inside my thin socks.

  “Note to self: buy snow boots,” I say, before ordering a burger and a large strawberry shake.

  What can I say? It’s my first time experiencing winter in the Midwest. Born and raised in LA, I’ve never set foot in snow or ice, and I’m ill-prepared for this weather.

  Just as I’m making a mental list of all the rest of the cold-weather outer gear I’m going to need on this trip, Mayor Johnson strides in. He sees me and heads over to my table; I already know what he wants.

  “Very nice Christmas parade, Mr. Mayor. Got some great shots; I think you’ll be pleased.” We chat briefly about other events around town leading up to Christmas, most of which were already included in the brief when the town council applied for the arts grant. The grant is a national program that provides funds for small downtown enhancements, in partnership with the federal arts endowment. In exchange for the grant money and month-long photographer-in-residence to document everyday life, the town has to use some of the money to establish some kind of arts-related destination in its downtown.

  The grant program is the entire reason I’m here; I don’t need the gig, I volunteered. And, like a dutiful volunteer, I’ve read up on everything there is to know about the town. But the mayor likes to talk, and I don’t mind listening.

  Thankfully, Polly delivers my food in a few short minutes, and I secretly hope to be left alone to fill my growling stomach in peace.

  No such luck. Not only does Mayor Johnson not walk away when I start to chow down on my burger, but also my whole world gets turned upside down when she walks in. My burger and milkshake are suddenly replaced by something else entirely. Food is forgotten. I’m not hungry anymore; I’m ravenous for her.

  Get control of yourself, man. You’re just alone, homesick, and getting taken in by the charms of a small-town Christmas.

  I don’t normally have such an instant reaction to an attractive person. I’m not the kind of guy whose mind instantly shifts into dirty thoughts, whose body reacts with the need to be close, to touch, to surround, to protect. My job entails photographing people all day every day, sometimes up close. Sometimes actors and actresses who are so beautiful it would take a person’s breath away. None of those people affect me.

  But one day in Christmas, and twenty years of consummate professionalism is out the window. How do I get control of my face when an actual angel has just drifted out of the cold and into the room, wearing a puffy winter coat, a stocking cap with a pom-pom almost as big as her face, and the biggest, ugliest snow boots I’ve ever seen? Not that I know jack about snow boots. Her long hair peeks out from under her hat. She politely wipes her boots on the mat by the door while she looks around the room eagerly, waving to people she knows.

  Need. I need her.

  I completely forget my manners and stare, like that kid at the beginning of A Christmas Story, gazing at the Red Ryder BB gun through the department store window. The mayor follows my gaze and makes a joyful noise.

  “You’re in luck, son! There’s Ruby right now, the one I was telling you about. You need to make sure she’s included in the collection for our art exhibit; she’s a pillar of the community.”

  I hear what he’s saying, but it’s all garbled like we’re underwater. All I can think about, all I want, is to talk to her. Ruby.

  I’ve never seen anyone like her before.

&
nbsp; “I’ll make certain not to miss her, sir,” I say, not taking my eyes off of Ruby. “I’d remember if she ended up in one of my shots, that is for sure.”

  I watch as Ruby receives a hug from Polly the waitress, who asks if she wants the usual. Ruby nods and thanks her, then shoves her hands into her coat pockets while her eyes search the room for an open table.

  Mayor Johnson has caught me staring. I realize this when he says, “She’s single, in case you’re wondering.”

  I look up at the man and he’s giving me a wink. “Oh. I wasn’t. I mean…” I stammer, trailing off like an idiot.

  “It’s OK,” he assures me. “I’d better be off. I promised my wife I’d help her decorate our tree tonight.”

  We shake hands again and I watch him go, glad-handing a few more of the locals as he leaves. He side-hugs Ruby, who hugs back like it’s a completely normal way to be greeted by your mayor. Gosh, this is a friendly town. Even knowing this is a completely harmless and jovial greeting, an irrational feeling swells in my belly when I see the mayor put his hands on her.

  Hands off. She’s mine.

  My god, what’s happening to me?

  My eyes trained on Ruby, I use my foot to push out the chair across the table from me, making a loud scrape against the tile. Ruby looks my way, with an expression of someone who can’t quite place who I am.

  She warily walks up to my table with a curious smile.

  “Hi,” I say. “Would you like to join me? Looks like you were searching for a table.”

  Her smile threatens to wreck me. “I was, yeah. Thanks.” She sits down, still studying me quizzically. “Do we know each other?”

  Polly sidles up and sets down on the table a large ceramic mug with the name “Ruby” printed on it. The hot cocoa with marshmallows looks too good to pass up, and I ask Polly to bring me one as well. I’ve seen this kind of quaintness before: local pubs and diners keeping a stash of personalized mugs set aside for the extreme regulars. The sight of this sets off a strange ache in my chest. I’ve never been part of such a close-knit community as to have a restaurant owner emblazon a coffee mug with my name. I make another mental note: to ask Polly for permission to go behind the counter and photograph all of the named mugs together; I can already envision this as a gorgeous black and white still life photograph with the winter morning sunlight.

  I then explain to Ruby that no, we don’t know each other. “I’m here as a photographer in residence. I don’t know if you know this, but your town applied for a grant…”

  Ruby’s eyes light up brighter than the town Christmas tree just outside, so bright I don’t mind her interrupting me. “Oh! I think I read about that in the newspaper. You’re super famous, right?”

  I may be famous in fine arts photography circles, but I wouldn’t say I’m famous in general. OK, maybe I have about 500,000 followers on my Instagram, but who’s counting?

  “I don’t know about that. But anyway, Aidan McMaster,” I say, reaching out to shake her hand. “Just a photographer, that’s all.”

  She slips her warm hand into mine, but her smile becomes muted. “Ruby Dees. Nothing fancy like you. Just a snowplow driver.”

  In my line of work, I come across people every day who downplay what they do for a living. “Listen, when the real shit hits the fan, people like you will be keeping society running while I’m just walking around with my stupid camera.”

  Ruby smirks. “Points for being kind, but negative points for being a little bit over the top,” she says. “But, since you’re not running for office, as far as I know, I’ll forgive it.”

  Sweet, adorable, and a little bit snarky, this woman is captivating me more and more by the second. I like it. I like her. A lot. An over-the-top amount, as she might say.

  I laugh. “I can see why everyone loves you. You say exactly what’s on your mind. Can I take some pictures of you while you’re working sometime?”

  Ruby’s answer to this is to look down and stare at her cocoa, quickly losing its heat. She takes another sip, a long one, and then looks up at me. “Nah,” she says.

  I wait for a follow-up explanation, but I don’t get one. In the meantime, Polly delivers my cocoa.

  Ruby watches me drink my milkshake while I wait for the cocoa to cool. “Hot cocoa and a strawberry milkshake. Hope your insides enjoy a double shot of dairy late at night.”

  I ignore the comment and press her on my question. “What do you mean, ‘Nah’? Just no? No photographs at all?”

  She lifts both shoulders to her ears in an exaggerated shrug to get her point across. “I don’t like having my photograph taken.”

  I lean back in my chair to marvel at this woman. I come across people every day who hate cameras. But people are beautiful. Even people who are not conventionally beautiful. They all have something inside them, a humanity, that deserves to be documented.

  Ruby, however, is unequivocally, objectively, drop-dead gorgeous in my eyes.

  I work very hard not to blurt out what I’m thinking: that I would follow her around like a puppy dog whether or not I had a camera. I’ve done personal portraits for presidents, actors, comedians, candids at major world events. I’ve won every award there is to win for photography, both for fine art and for journalism. I could make her famous if she’d let me do my magic. She would be in magazines. Art exhibits. Museums. She has to let me do my work.

  I appeal to her civic duty. “Listen. Mayor Johnson has given me strict instructions to include you in this collection. Apparently, you’re everyone’s favorite citizen. What did you do? Rescue George Bailey’s brother from drowning when he fell through the ice?”

  She chortles and shakes her head, again looking down shyly into the depths of her cocoa. She really doesn’t like talking about herself; does she not realize how much more intriguing that is to me?

  I press, “You aren’t going to get me into trouble with the mayor, are you?”

  The tips of her earlobes that peek out from under her hat turn pink when I say this.

  “Mayor Johnson exaggerates,” she says, sipping her cocoa some more.

  “Doesn’t look like it. A dozen people waved at you when you walked in here, after probably just seeing you fifteen minutes ago at the parade. The waitress and the mayor hugged you. So don’t even give me that baloney.”

  My attempts at disarming her do not work. In fact, she digs in her heels.

  She gulps down the rest of her cocoa and sets down the mug just a tiny bit forcefully. “Look, I just don’t want to be photographed, OK? You’re going to have to respect that.”

  Of course, I respect her wishes. I never photograph anyone who doesn’t sign a release. This push back from her is doing ridiculous things to my mind and my body. Things even more ridiculous than the instant attraction I felt when she walked in the door.

  I will not take her photograph if she does not want me to. Professionally, it would be wrong. However, I also like to encourage people to change their minds. I like people to gain a little bit of confidence when I show them what I can do. I’m not talking about photoshopping or touch-ups. I wouldn’t remove a single freckle from that face.

  “Fair enough, Ruby Dees,” I say, enjoying the way her name feels in my mouth and on my lips. “But I’m sure Sally and I will see you around.”

  I could be wrong but it looks to me like her hand is still gripping her empty mug, and her knuckles are turning white as she breezily asks, “Sally?”

  I pat my camera case. “Nickname for my camera. We’re a team. I expect we’ll change your mind at some point.”

  Ruby gives me a grudging smirk. “You can try. But if you’re going to keep up with me, you’d better go and get yourself some decent winter gear.”

  I point to the pom-pom on top of her head. “You mean like that?”

  She squints at me as she stands to go, seemingly not sure of the intent of my comment. “I knitted this hat myself. You want one? Fifteen bucks each.”

  I grin up at her, noticing her matching
mittens as she pulls them on. “I’ll take a set just like that,” I say, nodding toward her hands…hands that I’d very much love to make contact with again, as soon as possible.

  Ruby pushes out her lips in an expression of extreme skepticism of my motives. She leaves, saying nothing more.

  I watch her walk out the door and make her way down Tinsel Drive, leaving me feeling like I’ve just been buried under ten feet of snow and I’m not sure how I’m going to dig myself out.

  Smooth, McMaster. Real smooth.

  Chapter 2

  Ruby

  * * *

  Scraps is extra needy this morning; she gets like that in the wintertime.

  The calico jumps into my arms while I wait for the electric kettle to boil so I can make my pour-over coffee—my latest caffeine addiction ever since my snowmobiling vacation up north with my best friend, Anna. The coffee was so good at the little lakeside resort she and I stayed at, I immediately went and bought myself the equipment I needed to replicate it. This is just one of the few luxuries I indulge in once in a while for myself. I’m saving up to buy the little house I currently rent, but I’ll never give up my vacations with Anna.

  “After the next snowstorm hits, and after I scrape off the streets enough to make them drivable again, it’s going to be time for another vacation, Scraps. This time down South where it’s warm. What do you think?”