Snowbound Snuggles

by T. F. Walsh

  “How’s Riley? I should have gone with you two to visit.”

  “He’s fine and no you shouldn’t have. We gave you some well-deserved down time. You should now feel unbelievably relaxed. You’re welcome.”

  Wynter chuckled, amusement creasing the corners of her eyes. Charlotte suckled greedily, the sound bringing a fresh round of laughter. Sam watched mother and daughter, the bond mesmerizing. Wynter stroked the petal soft skin of Charlotte’s cheek, working her finger into the infant’s grasp. Sam sat on his end of the couch, feeling as though he were intruding. They didn’t need him here, but heaven help him, he couldn’t make himself get up and leave.

  “I’m writing your grandmother another letter.” Dread twisted its way through Sam’s veins, heavy and ice cold.

  “You and Charlotte are welcome to stay as long as you like. I think we’ve got a good thing here. We make a good parenting team.” God, was he wheedling? The thought disgusted him.

  “I agree, Sam. It’s just . . . ” She paused, seeming unsure how to proceed.

  “You don’t like Braeden. I get that. It’s too quiet, not enough like Scallop Shores.” He was starting to panic. She was going to make him babble.

  “You knew my plans all along. This is nothing new.” Wynter fixed him with a determined stare, held his unwilling gaze. “Come with us, Sam.”

  “We’ve talked about this. I can’t go back there.”

  “No, actually we haven’t really talked about this. We’ve never talked about that night. We’ve never talked about how you took off, how you cut ties with your grandmother, with Holt and me. It’s time we talk about it, Sam.”

  “Now?” The word came out a squawk.

  “Is there ever going to be an ideal time?” She quirked an eyebrow.

  No. Because they didn’t need to discuss this. Not now, not ever. Sam’s focus flew to the doorway, mentally mapping an escape route. Wynter was in the middle of breastfeeding. She couldn’t get up easily and chase after him. He could cite work obligations.

  “I don’t blame you for being scared.”

  “I’m not scared. What makes you think I’m scared?” Besides the fact that his voice had gone up several octaves. Geez.

  “Sam, we used to be able to tell each other anything. That night we were talking about the future. We talked about how scared we were, how it was only tolerable because we were going to be facing it together.”

  And then he’d left her. She was kind enough not to say it out loud, but the fact was still hanging out there, shouting in his ear. ”You left your best friends. You left the girl you loved.” Okay, so she didn’t know that last part, but it weighed on him, nonetheless.

  “I’m sorry, Wynter. I’ve never apologized for what I did after that night. I am so sorry I didn’t say goodbye.”

  “Not sorry you left. Sorry you didn’t wrap it up neatly, file us away as a done deal.” He could hear the disappointment in her voice, the bitterness that he had caused.

  “I couldn’t face you. Not after what I’d done.”

  “Samuel Dennis, you did not have anything to do with your parents’ death that night.”

  “I know that, Wyn. I’m not saying I caused it. Or that anything I did could have prevented it.”

  Sam braced his elbows on his knees. Leaning down, he scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. He couldn’t do this. Why was she making him? Talking about it didn’t change things. His parents were still dead. Nothing would bring them back. He peered between two fingers.

  She switched the baby to the other side. Waited for him to continue. Calm as could be. Like she couldn’t see the turmoil he was facing. The exposed feelings, the raw nerves peeled back and bleeding. Real friends wouldn’t do this to each other. Real friends would be supportive. And what? Encourage him to bury his head in the sand? Tell him it was okay to keep hiding from what happened, from what he was feeling?

  He stood up from the couch, pacing to the window, to the bookcase along the side wall, and past the doorway he wished he’d escaped through before they started this conversation. He wiped sweaty palms on the back of his jeans. He worked the kinks out of his neck, wincing at the unusual loudness of the cracks and pops. He shoved a hand through hair that was way overdue for a cut.

  This was why he had cut ties with his friends. Not because they were a painful reminder of his life that was, but because he knew, eventually, he’d be having this conversation. Wynter wouldn’t want him to hold on to the hurt, the pain, and the guilt. The guilt he’d held on to for so long it was a part of him, impossible to separate from any other facet of his personality.

  “I was supposed to die that night. Is that what you want? You want me to admit it? Okay. I cheated death.”

  Sam stopped treading the carpet, faced Wynter head on. The look in his eyes dared her to contradict him. Her jaw dropped. The look in her eyes was utter disbelief. Oh, come on! This was no big surprise.

  “Is that what you think, Sam?” She shook her head vehemently. “No. There was a reason you fell asleep in my bed that night. God had other plans for you. It wasn’t your time. Your life was spared.”

  “I was supposed to be there. If I hadn’t snuck out of the house, I would have died in my sleep, the same as them. I was supposed to die that night.”

  In his head he was back there, that early summer day, so long ago. He’d woken up, completely disoriented. Where was he? Shit! He’d only meant to watch Wynter as she slept. He’d never meant to fall asleep beside her.

  Home. He had to get home. He had to slip out of Wynter’s window and down the tree, before his parents found him missing. Sam didn’t want to make them angry. He’d just graduated. They were so proud. His dad told him to expect a big gift the next morning, but not to go snooping. He’d seen the look his parents had exchanged. They’d decided on this together and it was going to be huge. They were so happy. But if he disappointed them, if they found out that he’d snuck up to see Wynter, they might decide not to give it to him. He had to hurry home.

  Breath coming in short pants, he turned, confused. Had to find the window.

  Then suddenly Wynter was with him, wrapping her arms around him. He cupped her head in his big hand. Her hair. What had happened to her long, curly hair? She kept saying she was sorry. No. Everything would be okay if he could just get home.

  “Sammy, come back to me. Please. You’re scaring me.”

  “Have to get home. They’re gonna be mad.”

  “They’re at peace now, Sam. They are so happy. They love you. They will always love you.”

  He gripped her so tight he was afraid he’d leave bruises. He buried his head against her shoulder as the rest of the memories came flooding back.

  It was far later than he’d realized. Dawn had turned the sky a hazy gray by the time he’d made it home. The house was so quiet. They hadn’t heard him slip back inside.

  That was when the alarm had gone off in his parent’s bedroom. His dad had always been an early riser. Rain or shine, he ran five miles every morning. He always set his alarm for 5:30 am. Only this time, the alarm continued to blare and no one was bothering to turn it off.

  Why weren’t they waking up? Why were they letting the alarm clock just clamber away like a screeching banshee? Unsettled, Sam slunk down the hallway toward the last room on the end. They were sleeping so peacefully, too peacefully.

  He could still see their faces, in sweet repose. If he reached out, shook their shoulders. He just had to wake them up. If only they’d wake up.

  “Sam, I’m so sorry.”

  Wynter’s voice. It grounded him in reality. It brought him back, made him realize that it was too late to save his parents. The past was in the past.

  He lifted his head from her shoulder, mortified to discover that her bathrobe was soaked in his tears. He slapped at his wet eyes, turning away so Wynter wouldn’t see a grown man cry. He flinched at the touch of her hand on his back. He didn’t want her to see him like this. He needed to be alone.

&nb
sp; “Yeah, so it was great reminiscing and all, but I’ve got to get some work done.”

  He swept past her on his way out of the room. Her lips were pressed tightly together, like it was taking all the strength she had not to try to continue this horribly painful conversation. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  No. He couldn’t deal with this right now. Lock it away, down deep where it can’t hurt. That’s what you did with memories like this. He practically ran for his office, locking the door before sliding down it to crumple on the floor, where he wept for the boy who had lost both his parents to such a stupid, senseless tragedy.

  Chapter 14

  Sam was avoiding her. Wynter lifted a hand to knock on the closed office door and let it fall back to her side. She didn’t blame him. She’d pushed him to reveal feelings that she guessed he didn’t realize he had. She wasn’t sorry. He couldn’t avoid talking about that night forever. But he deserved a chance to retreat, time to think about his revelations.

  The last of the snow was now a muddy wasteland. The white stuff had lost its charm long ago, anyway. It was time to get out of the house, explore Sam’s town and actively look for signs of spring to help raise her spirits.

  She’d finished her letter to Sam’s grandmother and slipped in a recent photo of Charlotte for good measure. Ruby Dennis had long been on a one-person crusade to make sure that letter writing did not go the way of the dinosaurs. Emails and phone calls would have been more convenient, but Wynter treasured their correspondence and enjoyed partaking in the old-fashioned tradition.

  Dropping the letter in the mailbox would have been easier, but running it all the way to the post office meant the chance to borrow Sam’s car and take a little field trip into town, such as it was. Wynter bundled the baby in her car seat and headed for the barn that had been converted to a garage. She winced with each squelch of her sneakers, slowly getting covered in slime.

  Backing out of the driveway, she hoped she could remember her way to town. Was it a straightaway? Didn’t she have to take a left at the signpost? She sort of recalled how to get to the hospital, but that was a couple of towns over. And there was lots of farmland in between. She shrugged, sparing a quick glance at the gas gauge and geared up for an adventure.

  Four houses. She’d counted. That was exactly how many residences Wynter spied on the way to town. And she’d managed to find her way, avoiding the turnoffs to the myriad farm lanes that meandered through fields of cows. Seriously, she wondered if the cow population exceeded the humans in the state of Vermont. She’d have to look that one up.

  To say the town was a disappointment would be an understatement. Brick shoeboxes were arranged side by side. Every building looked exactly like the one beside it, across from it. The sleepy little town looked cold and industrial. So much potential wasted. Where they could have built window boxes to dress up the facades, there were none. Where they could have brightly colored awnings that welcomed guests, they had stark, naked doorways.

  Wynter couldn’t find a single bench for townsfolk to stop and rest while running their errands. Perhaps they were not encouraged to linger. Just because it was a small town did not mean it was a close town. Maybe people had no desire to stop and catch up with each other.

  Pulling into the empty parking lot beside the post office, Wynter reminded herself that she was unfairly comparing Braeden to her hometown. She resolved to withhold judgment until she’d had a chance to do a little exploring. Maybe she’d find a hidden gem that made the bleak little town worth visiting.

  Lucky thing she could drop her letter off in the big blue mailbox outside the door, because the post office did not open until 10am. Wynter pondered whether lugging around a heavy car seat, only to browse if no one was open yet, was worth it. She peered at the windows, trying to make out the lettering on the nondescript signage across the street.

  An old plastic Coors logo was lit up in the window of a building on the corner. Hopefully it was a restaurant and not a bar. Looking both ways before crossing the street, Wynter scoffed at the wasted effort. There wasn’t a car in sight, save for Sam’s SUV.

  Yes. Red Formica tables and sticky vinyl booths. No bar stools. Not sure where these patrons were hiding their vehicles, Wynter was surprised to find the place half full. There was no bell over the door to announce her arrival, yet every pair of eyes turned to watch her shuffle uncomfortably to the hostess station.

  “You want a table?” An older, tired looking waitress appeared at her elbow, holding a menu in one hand and a carafe of coffee in the other.

  A table, a booth, anything to get her out of the spotlight. “Yes, please.”

  The waitress walked her to a table in the back. Wynter tried smiling at the first few staring faces, but gave up when they only scowled back. Tough crowd. She set the car seat on the floor, taking a moment to tuck the fuzzy pink blanket beneath Charlotte’s chin. The waitress’ eyes lingered on the baby, her lips puckering in what could have been an attempt at a genuine smile but then she huffed and broke her gaze.

  “Coffee?”

  “I’d love some, thank you.”

  She shouldn’t be here, on Sam’s dime, as it were. She’d eaten breakfast at home so this was just wasteful. Only she needed an excuse to explore the town. Flipping open the menu, Wynter searched out the side items. Surely Sam wouldn’t begrudge her an English muffin and a cup of coffee? Of course he wouldn’t. Any guilt was solely on her.

  “Just passing through town?” The older woman set a chipped coffee mug down in front of her with a nod in the direction of the sugar dispenser and the little bowl of non-dairy creamers.

  “Staying with a friend, actually. We’ve been here a few months now. Well, I have.” She gave the baby carrier a little bounce with her toe. “This little one only arrived about six weeks ago.”

  “Never seen ya before.”

  “Well, with Sam living out on Rockford Road, we kept getting snowed in. Not really sightseeing weather.”

  “Sam?” The waitress frowned.

  “Sam Dennis. He’s lived here for about eight years now, I guess.”

  “Nah. Never heard of him.”

  “How about Riley Tucker? They live across the street from each other.”

  “Nope. Him neither.”

  Unsure what else to say, Wynter held out the menu. She ordered an English muffin, no butter and a slice of cheese. Her waitress frowned, like she wanted to say there was a minimum order and if she wanted to eat there, she’d have to order more food.

  The baby started to fuss and Wynter wished she could join her. She rocked the car seat back and forth. Why would Sam punish himself like this? Hide in a town where no one seemed to know, or care, that he even existed. This was awful.

  In Scallop Shores, he’d been loved by all. He’d been on the basketball team and the baseball team, rubbing elbows with the jocks. Proud geek, he had been the one to start a chess club in high school and won trophies for math club. His family hailed back so far, Wynter wouldn’t be surprised if they were some of the town’s founding fathers.

  Mr. Dennis had been the town vet, practicing out of an old house in town that had been in his family for generations. Sam’s mom had been the police dispatcher, the voice everyone heard over their scanners whenever the police were summoned, which in their town was rarely for anything exciting. It was with bitter irony that Wynter realized the most action Scallop Shores had seen, while she’d been living there, was the call that the Dennises had asphyxiated in their sleep.

  That was Sam’s last memory of his hometown. Hers, as well, practically. But while it was enough to keep him away for the rest of his life, it did nothing to curb her homesickness. She still wanted to go back, now more than ever. But how to get Sam away from this awful place he chose to serve his penance? She really hoped she heard back from Ruby soon. If anyone could help her convince Sam to move back home, it was his grandmother.

  • • •

  If he didn’t stop and take a break, his eyes were going to perma
nently cross. Sam pushed off against the edge of the desk, sending his chair flying back a few feet. Because it was fun, he did it again. Remembering the reason he’d barricaded himself in his office sobered his mood.

  Sure he’d been avoiding her but Wynter, being Wynter, was supposed to come in and get in his face. It was what she did. It was their routine. He tried to hide from the things that made him uncomfortable and she forced him to deal with it. So where was she?

  The house was quiet. He hadn’t heard Charlotte crying in a while. It was hardly likely that they were just napping together. They must be out. And she hadn’t told him she was leaving. Good grief! They weren’t an old married couple. How many times had he said exactly that to Riley? So why was he working himself into a snit now at the possibility she’d gone out without him?

  Get used to it, Sammy boy. This is what it was like before she got here. This is what it’s going to be like when she moves back to Scallop Shores. Leaning his head back against the leather chair, Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. His computer went into sleep mode and a photo of Wynter and the baby popped up on his screensaver.

  She thought he’d told her everything about that night. She thought she understood his guilt. She had no clue he had really been in her room to finally admit his feelings for her. And there was no reason to tell her now. So why did he feel sneaky, as though he was hiding something from her?

  A form of self-flagellation, Sam’s mind went into the old ‘what if’ scenario. What if he’d had the nerve to tell Wynter he loved her that night? Would she have returned his feelings? Would he have been so anxious to run, to escape Scallop Shores and everyone that reminded him of his parents and the fact that he’d cheated death? Would she have made more of an effort to find him when he first left, not twelve years after the fact? And the kicker, would Wynter have chosen Sam over Holt? Married him? Had his baby?

  It shouldn’t even matter at this point. Sam growled, banging a fist on the armrest. He was hanging on to the past and it had to stop. Scrubbing his hands over his stubbled face, he shook his head. He needed a shower—and a toothbrush. It was time to let go of the ‘what ifs’ and start focusing on the ‘what could bes.’