Snowflakes and Coffee Cakes

by DeMaio, Joanne

  ALSO BY JOANNE DEMAIO

  Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans

  Whole Latte Life

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2013 Joanne DeMaio

  All rights reserved.

  www.joannedemaio.com

  For Jena, always

  Chapter One

  IF VERA COULD CAPTURE THE perfect image of the long weekend ahead, this would be it, the snowfall a delicate backdrop to her sister standing near the bridal shop window. Even though it’s February, this moment feels a little like Christmas Eve, with its quiet anticipation of a special celebration. Her sister wears a vintage satin and lace gown with three-quarter lace sleeves for her winter wedding.

  “Even the lace looks like a snowflake pattern,” Vera says.

  Brooke holds out her arms, running a hand lightly over the intricately stitched sleeve. “I hope it snows Saturday. Just a little, like it is now.”

  “Me, too. Peaceful, wedding-white snow.”

  The shopkeeper emerges from the back room carrying a package wrapped in tissue. “Here it is,” Amy tells them, setting it on the counter and unwrapping the thin paper. “Close your eyes, Brooke.”

  Brooke steps up on the raised pedestal and squeezes her eyes shut while Vera moves closer to Amy to see. Her sister’s gown is so elegant, she can’t imagine what more Amy had found for it. That is, not until she lifts out the off-white lace belt embellished with the palest blue and ivory satin snowflake, anchored with a silver crystal brooch in its center.

  “It’s just gorgeous,” Vera whispers. “Where did you ever find it?”

  “At a flea market in New Hampshire, actually. I went with my mom,” Amy says. “And when I saw this, I knew it was meant for Brooke.”

  “Can I look?” Brooke asks.

  “No,” they call out in unison while walking over to the pedestal with it.

  “May I?” Vera asks, and Amy gives her the belt. Carefully she reaches around her sister’s waist, her hands skimming the satin, and secures it in place. A small adjustment to the sparkling snowflake precisely centers the belt on the gown. Vera steps back then, her eyes welling as the reality of her sister’s winter wedding sinks in with the reflection of the two of them, side-by-side, Brooke in white, Vera in a blue velvet dress.

  “Okay, open,” she whispers. It’s all she can manage, really, without breaking out in true honest-to-goodness crying.

  Brooke opens her eyes and when Amy sets the birdcage veil over her brown hair pulled back in a loose chignon, Brooke’s eyes move from the snowflake sash up to Vera’s in the reflection. “Do you like it?” she asks.

  “Like it? I absolutely love it.”

  “Me, too. But you looked a little sad there for a second.”

  Vera steps up on the pedestal and gives her sister a hug. “Those are just tears,” she assures her. “Happy tears. You will be thee most beautiful bride Saturday.”

  And all the while she tries to convince herself that tears are tears, right? Don’t all tears look the same, happy or sad? They’re nothing more than a bit of moisture that, according to her father, eventually contributes to water vapor and finds its way to a snowflake. At least she has the excuse of her sister’s wedding to blame on these tears. Because now is so not the time to tell her family that for all Brooke’s happiness, she’d just lost her job. Gotten one of the many pink slips circulating through the newspaper business these days. She’d never believed she’d be on the receiving end, not after writing four years of news articles, advancing each year to more serious and prominent pieces. While stepping off the pedestal, the shock of it continues to bring up those darn tears.

  “Vera?” Brooke asks.

  Vera looks over at her, silently, lest an I’m unemployed and afraid sob escapes.

  “I really missed you,” her sister says, “and am so happy you’re home.”

  Home, home, home. Having been away from it makes her realize how many things it can be: their old house, her childhood town, a holiday memory. It can be merely a sense of security. How much of her nostalgia this snowy day is only that, a longing for everything home. All she can manage is to give her sister the assuring smile she is waiting for.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go back to Boston.” Brooke reaches over and brushes a piece of lint from the blue velvet maid-of-honor dress Vera is wearing.

  “What do you do in the city?” Amy asks as she fans out the wedding gown chapel train behind Brooke.

  Vera pauses, unwilling to reveal just yet that she’d been laid off. “I’m a journalist for the paper there.”

  “Oh, now that’s exciting. What do you write about?”

  “Lately it’s been the local angle on national stories. But if I were writing this weekend, it would definitely be for the Society Page, covering one very special wedding. Speaking of which, I think Dad’s waiting at home, Brooke.”

  “I’ll get these dresses wrapped up so the snow doesn’t get on them,” Amy says, still fussing with the gown. “And what’s next on the pre-wedding agenda?”

  “We’re building a snowman,” Brooke tells her, twisting to look at her gown train in the full-length mirror.

  “A snowman?”

  Vera helps Brooke take off the lace sash. “What happens when your father is Leo Sterling, the local meteorologist with a passion for winter, is that you know things like this: Every ten minutes,” Vera begins, glancing at Amy, “the earth’s atmosphere produces enough snow to build a snowman for each person on the planet.”

  “Seriously?” Amy takes the sash from Vera.

  “Oh, yes. And our dad works really hard to keep up with those numbers, building a snowman in our front yard for every occasion, every holiday, every event he can think of. So we’re building a wedding snowman today, to greet our guests this weekend.”

  “My daughter Grace built her very first snowman last week.”

  “That’s so sweet!” Brooke says. “How old is your daughter?”

  “Two, the perfect age for snow play. And I have a great idea, hang on a sec.” Amy rushes into her back room and Vera hears her rustling through things before emerging with an old satin top hat. “Please take this. It’s my contribution to your snowman collection. Because as Addison’s official wedding authority, I declare that you cannot display a wedding snowman without the right, jaunty finishing touch.”

  * * *

  Dreams do come true. Brooke kept her guest list to under seventy-five for an intimate affair, and transformed Addison’s Community Center sparse hall into a winter wonderland. Yes, two days later, Vera sees every childhood wedding dream her sister ever imagined come to life. Silver spray-painted branches reach from centerpiece vases, white feathers gently sway in Br
ooke’s white rose bouquet, silver and blue glass balls and crystal snowflakes sparkle in clear decorative bowls, the snowflake motif continuing in a glittering garland strung around each white table. Even the wedding cake was dreamt up by Brooke. She made her own Tiffany-blue frosted chocolate cake, its center filled with a white-icing heart. Because for Brooke, love is in the air and in the cake. Or muffins. Or brownies. Anything she bakes comes with love. And so Vera’s thrilled that her dear sister’s winter wedding is going off without a hitch.

  It’s her own hitches that worry her, the ones that come from aunts and cousins she hasn’t seen in years. All evening, prying questions spin around her like snow swirling from the clouds: When are you getting married, Vera? Maybe you’ll have a wedding just like your sister’s. How’s the job in the city? Are you dating anyone there? Your mother says you’re seeing someone you work with. Is he here? Can we meet him? Maybe he’s the one!

  It’s all she can do to politely nod and politely lie until Brooke, as always, senses her distress and swoops in for the rescue, her lace and satin gown shimmering behind her.

  “Come on, sis.” She grabs Vera’s arm and tugs her to the dance floor. “I requested your favorite dance.”

  “Wait! Brooke, I’m really—”

  “One, two three, go!” the DJ suddenly announces as the Electric Slide begins and a crowd of people lines the dance floor, fanning out around Brooke and her winter-white gown. “Step right, left, behind,” the DJ calls out for anyone unsure of the steps. “Right, tap, clap.”

  Seeing no way out, and maybe glad for it too, Vera falls easily into step in her blue velvet dress, kicking and sliding further away from inquisitive relatives with each beat of the song.

  “Bend forward, bring it down, bring it down,” the DJ calls, and what Vera’s seeing is that the wedding guests don’t really need instruction. She figures most of them have spent plenty of Thursdays at Joel’s Bar on line dancing night. Which is yet another thing she realizes she misses from home, now that she is home: all the local hangouts and the local get-togethers.

  “That’s right, keep it going now.” And the guests do, sliding and stomping across the floor.

  If only she could keep her life going as easy as that, just scoot, step and tap through her days. Old friends around her wear glimmering dresses and the very best suits for her newlywed sister and brother-in-law. Vera’s not sure if she’s seen a happier couple than Brooke and Brett. But seriously? The way Brooke feeds him, it’s no wonder he’s always smiling.

  “Hey,” a dancing guest says, touching her arm. “Vera?”

  Vera looks over at him for a second. “Greg?”

  “Bring it back, bring it back, bring it back,” the DJ chants.

  “Good to see you, Vera,” he says, stepping close beside her. “It’s been a long time.”

  “And turn around,” the DJ adds.

  When she spins and looks up, it’s not Greg at her side, but another familiar face. One she can’t place though. He catches her eye, too, in his vest and button-down shirt, the sleeves cuffed, going through the slide motions with ease.

  “Okay ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to put your hands together, this time in each other’s arms, as we move and groove right into a slow number now.”

  At the same time the guy with the familiar face takes her left elbow, Greg takes her right arm, unaware of the other dancer.

  “So where have you been keeping yourself, Vera?” he asks. “Because you are truly a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Greg, hey,” she says with a smile, glancing quickly over her shoulder at the face of the other man who wanted only a dance, only with her. A few minutes of closeness, of questions, of touch. His dark brown hair curls over his collar and as he moves away, his face is shadowed, whether by the dim lighting or by life she isn’t sure.

  “Can’t stay away from Addison, can you? I heard you were back in town,” Greg says.

  “Just for a few days. Because as much as I love visiting, you know how it is. Life calls, and mine calls me back to Boston.”

  “Word on the street is that you’re a big-time reporter now.”

  “Oh I’m not sure how big time it is, but you know. I’m doing what I love, chasing the news stories.” She feels his hand on her shoulder turning her into the dance, the folds of her blue velvet dress swinging with the steps. “How about you, Greg? What have you been up to? Do you still live in town?”

  “Moved back after college and have been here since.” He leads her into another turn. “I keep busy, my folks are around, my brother’s here.”

  She waves her fingers at her mother and father twirling past beside her. “You’re lucky, being near family,” Vera tells him as she watches them dance, her mother’s pleated gown fanning out in a spin.

  “Lucky? Maybe sometimes. Other times it feels like just more of the job. You know, if I’m not fixing things at home, or with the family, I’m fixing things all day long at work.”

  Vera tries to remember what he does, certain her sister had mentioned it in the past few days. When they do another dance turn, she notices the mystery dancer putting on his jacket, getting ready to leave. He catches her eye and if she’s not mistaken, hitches his head slightly at her as he goes. She glances back at him again, still unable to place his familiar face.

  “Lord knows there’s always something at work needing fixing,” Greg is saying.

  Vera looks back at him right as the bouquet-toss announcement is made. She quickly thanks Greg for the dance as a cousin tugs her toward the bouquet-crowd. Can it be that time already? Where did the night go? So much of life’s been like that, passing by unnoticed until it is suddenly gone. Her job, a visit home, Brooke’s wedding. A dance, a few words, a look. Passing as quick as that one moment on the dance floor, the moment a man took her elbow for two seconds that never amounted to more than that, yet linger still.

  * * *

  The snowman stands with his top hat tipped at the same saucy angle, but today, the sauciness seems gone. If she’s not mistaken, Vera thinks he looks a little forlorn, wanting the happy time of the weekend back. And the snow hasn’t stopped, either, more arriving the day after Brooke’s wedding, the day Vera heads back north. Her parents’ gray colonial is dusted in fresh white powder, the windows glowing with lamplight, her mother holding aside the lace curtain and watching her pull out of the driveway. And she knows. Home can be a big, boisterous family or a shadow of what once was. Because her memory of the weekend, which is only a shadow of it now, will always feel like home. Her heart tells her so. As she puts the car in gear on the street, Vera gives a small wave to the snowman, then presses a finger to her eye to stem the tears.

  So her younger sister is married now. She’ll settle into life right here in town where her husband is an accountant, keeping the numbers of their lives straight and orderly. And her parents’ nest is empty now, too, so there’s that. As happy as weekends like this are, there’s always a sadness about them, because with the significant marking of chapters opening there always comes a chapter closing.

  While driving through Addison, crossing the train tracks toward the historical part of town to pick up the highway there, the snow continues falling. She leans forward to see the view clearly on the return trip to Boston. Returning to what, though, she’s not sure. Well. She is sure—sure that it’s nothing. It’s a life for which there is little more than this imagined headline: Unemployed and Single. The rest is yet to be written. It’s ironic that as a journalist she writes everyone else’s story, but doesn’t even know her own.

  The wind outside blows whispers of snow around old neighborhood landmarks: Whole Latte Life Coffee Café looking cozy with its frosted, illuminated window panes; the vintage bridal shop Wedding Wishes with twinkly lights around the doorway; the local nursery with snowy garden statues holding still until spring; The Green and its grand wishing fountain; all on a Main Street lined with historical cape cods and saltbox colonials. Why she ever decided to leave this picturesque snow
-globe town is sometimes beyond her.

  The snow falls even heavier. For all her father taught her about winter and snowflakes, still, in a magical and sad moment like this, as she sees her old hometown through a windshield covered with glistening crystals, she has to wonder. What are snowflakes, really? Today she’d say they’re nothing more than perfect stars dropped down to earth, each one a treasure, casting a sense of hope on the view through her window.

  Winter stars. But do snowy winter stars possess the same power as celestial stars up above? If she could wish on a winter star right now, pick the biggest star-shaped white glittering snowflake that she could find and make a wish, what would it be? To not leave behind her family? To find a new journalism job, soon? To have someone in her life? Or to just embrace whatever comes her way, like the way she’s embracing the swirling snow tumbling down on this little town.

  A few blocks before picking up the highway, as she nears the cove, Vera squints through that darn snowy windshield and turns the wipers on faster to make out the approaching view. The street is lined with tall old maple trees, the white snow like gloves on the branches reaching skyward. Those gloved branches frame historic homes with gingerbread trim and gabled roofs and wraparound post-and-rail front porches, some of the homes behind white picket fences.

  The snow is falling so thickly, crystals and dendrites and ice particles at once, that one Dutch Colonial, the last home on the street, seems to rise from it all like a dream.

  Or a wish, she thinks, as she looks at it wistfully. Set off to the side behind the old house is a large barn looking merely like a shadow hulking behind the white snowfall. Its snow-covered roof and brown weathered wood planks bring back wintry childhood memories from when it was the Christmas Barn, full of wonder year-round. And there’s one more thing she notices as her car crawls along, as her arms pull her even closer to the windshield to squint through the swishing wipers growing more coated with wet snow with each passing second. A faded For Sale sign stands in the front yard, a little crooked and nearly buried in the winter’s snow, as though it’s been there for a long time.