Snowflakes and Coffee Cakes

by DeMaio, Joanne

“Yup.” He bends for his hammer then, tapping in the few last nails.

  Inside, she ditches the robe and puts on a pair of faded jeans and a green cable knit sweater. She adds a scarf around her neck while she’s at it because even though the furnace wasn’t the source of the noise and is working fine, the cold wind outside leaves a chill in her drafty house. As she pours coffee, there’s a knock at her door and she opens it to see Derek there again.

  “I caught your raccoon.” He sets down a trap on the stoop.

  “Oh my God,” she says while jumping back with her hand to her heart. “Wait a minute, that’s not a raccoon.” She eyes the longhair gray tabby caught in the cage. A feline with tail fur that is black-ringed, like a raccoon’s. “It’s a cat!”

  “That’s right.”

  “What am I supposed to do with a cat?”

  “Don’t know.” He turns and starts walking down the steps. “Keep it in the barn, I guess. It’s a good mouser.”

  “Wait.”

  But he doesn’t, raising his hand in a quick wave as he walks toward his pickup truck, gets in and backs down her long driveway.

  “A mouser?” She steps outside and bends a little closer, watching the cat hunkered there with its paws folded beneath it, calm as could be, looking straight at her. “Swell,” she says as she stands and goes inside for her coffee. Cupping the hot mug in her hands, she peers out the paned windows of her door down at the trapped cat still sitting on the stoop. “Just swell.”

  * * *

  So Derek thought he was busy? Her days fly by with stripping floral dining room wallpaper and painting a living room accent wall, the floors covered with drop cloths and curled wallpaper scraps, her blonde hair pulled back beneath a bandana while Vera wields scrapers and paintbrushes until suddenly she can’t believe it. It’s the first week of November and the Holly Trolley deadline is looming. So until she gets her exclusive written, all home repairs are put on hold.

  “You’ll find so much information in our Archive Room,” Bonnie says over her shoulder as she leads Vera down a long hallway in the Addison Weekly offices. “All the old issues and articles are only referenced on the computer, with the full papers actually stored along the walls. But recent years’ issues are fully online and shelved, too. So a few clicks will get you all you need.” She opens a door onto a bright and spacious room lined with too many shelves to count and long tables set up for research. “And be sure to replace any old papers in the right chronological spot.”

  Vera settles in behind one of the desktop computers and starts her search for previous Holly Trolley articles. In the last two years, several photographs were published, but no in-depth profiles. The images show that the vehicle is actually a small bus designed as a festive green and gold trolley. Swags of holly and berries, bells and white lights line the interior ceiling. And the interior slatted wooden benches look like exact replicas from another era. She’ll have to research their origins, along with that of the twisted brass poles at the end of the rows of seats.

  As she types various search words into the archive system, one particular headline catches her eye. She can’t help but click on the link to read more and can’t help the way her eyes skim the words quickly, looking for details, finding herself desperate to know.

  A young girl died Friday afternoon after falling through the ice on Addison Cove, according to authorities … Seven-year-old Abigail Cooper pronounced dead at the scene … cause of death drowning … Members of the fire department’s water rescue team worked valiantly to save Cooper and a second child after receiving a call for help from a passerby coming upon the incident. The children were testing the ice … thick enough for skating when it gave way beneath them … Cooper located after nearly twenty-five minutes beneath the frigid waters and no pulse could be detected … Though record cold temperatures, ice is still thin this early in the season … Authorities warn residents to exercise caution near any frozen body of water. The child’s father, Derek Cooper, arrived on-scene … not available for comment.

  The last line has her stop reading any further. Instead her eyes seek out the accompanying photographs of the emergency scene at the cove. The images are devastating, even now: ambulances, paramedics, fire trucks, men emerging from icy water wearing bright yellow insulated dive suits. And yes, there—Vera scrolls the image onto the screen and enlarges it—there, off to the side. It looks like the fire chief Bob Hough talking to Derek. She recognizes Derek right away from his stance, his brown hair, his eyes. He stands beside the ambulance, hands shoved in his jean pockets, shoulders in a flannel shirt hunched against the biting cold without a coat on, looking away from the fire chief, not meeting his eye.

  And she can see what the camera didn’t capture because the moments that led to this sad image are clearly visible in his posture. What her mind sees is this: Derek running, desperately tearing out of his coat knowing they were only minutes too late, minutes, and he had to do something, anything at all for his little girl, something to help her. In his panic, his arm got tied up in a sleeve until he yanked it off for all he was worth. Because he had to, he had to do something just for her, to try to warm her small, wet body, to lay his warm coat over her and gently press it to her sides, his hand then running along her sodden hair and stroking her cold face, trying, trying to press life back into it until he finally just hugged her close, holding his face to hers. Yes, his coat must be laid over his child on the stretcher already lifted onto the ambulance.

  It’s all there in his stance in the one photograph, every sad bit of the last few urgent minutes that exhaustively defeated him.

  Chapter Nine

  WITH THE DAYS GETTING SHORTER, Derek thinks he can at least get the boat washed before the sun sets, especially with his sister minding the store. This way it will be ready for waxing in the next few days, its first of several shines before the Deck the Boats Festival. Already the emails from his friends are arriving, reserving a spot in the procession for their vessels. He lifts a soapy sponge out of the bucket of water and walks around the trailered boat parked behind the hardware store. A swirl of dried, brown leaves blows past and he glances up at the graying sky. “One section at a time,” he says quietly as he works the sponge in a circular motion on a small part of the fiberglass boat’s side. A stream of water dribbles down his sleeve and so he squeezes out the sponge, then continues. “We’ll get it all cleaned up for you.”

  The Customer Service bell inside the store is wired to ring in the work area outside, too. He looks back over his shoulder when it chimes, drops the sponge into the soapy water and waits, taking his cap off and resettling it backward on his head again. After a few moments, he lifts the dripping sponge from the water bucket and continues. “What do you think, Abby, colored lights this year or white twinkly?” He’ll have to pull the artificial tree off the storage shelf in the garage. “Maybe we’ll put colored lights on it. First time,” he adds, picturing the tree mounted on the boat’s bow with the colored lights reflected on the dark water. “I think you’ll like that.”

  The Customer Service bell rings again, a little longer this time, as someone waits for assistance inside. “Samantha!” he calls over his shoulder. His sister is supposed to be covering the store while he gets the boat cleaned. He moves toward the back of the boat, wiping the summer’s grime off its surface. “It’s an important step,” he says under his breath, “so we don’t rub the dirt right into the fiberglass when we wax it.”

  The bell gives two short chimes again. “Jesus, Sam, where the hell are you?” he calls out as he throws the sponge into the bucket and stands straight, his rubber-gloved hands on his hips. “You getting that?”

  When no response comes back to him, no wisecrack call from his sister, he hurries down the driveway to the store, peeling off the wet gloves as he goes, walking inside to see Vera standing in faded jeans and a black fringed poncho at the checkout area. He sets his wet gloves down on the counter and turns up his hands. “What broke now?”

  “What
?” she asks, looking from him to the wet gloves and back to his face.

  “Never mind.” He shakes his head and when Samantha rushes into the store with a coffee to-go and box of doughnuts, he glares at her.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Samantha asks.

  “What are you doing leaving the store empty?” Derek snaps back.

  “I didn’t. Tyler’s here, somewhere.”

  “He’s busy helping someone over at the paint,” Vera interrupts. “He said I should ring the bell for assistance.”

  “We could get robbed,” Derek warns Sam, “leaving the place practically empty like that.”

  She pulls a maple-frosted doughnut from the box and sets it on a napkin in front of him. “He’s nicer after he eats,” she calls to Vera while heading toward the back office.

  Derek watches her go, then turns to Vera. “What do you need?”

  “Oh.” She adjusts her shoulder bag strap. “Well I didn’t know if you maybe carried pet bowls. And a cat bed. I guess that barn cat’s sticking around, so I thought I could at least make him comfortable and give him some decent food. You know,” she adds while raising an eyebrow, “besides mice.”

  Derek picks up the wet gloves and walks over to the far side of the store, stepping around the yellow lab sleeping in front of the electrical aisle. “Watch out for Zeus,” he says over his shoulder. “He’s my father’s dog.”

  “The store mascot?” Vera asks from behind him.

  “Something like that. He pretty much overlooks his kingdom, which is the store,” Derek explains. He heads down an aisle of leashes and collars and catnip toys, with pet beds and bowls at the end. “There you go,” he tells her while shoving the wet gloves in his cargo jacket pocket. Vera stands beside him looking at various silver bowls and ceramic dishes when he checks his watch. “You should be all set now. You and your cat.”

  “Derek,” she says. “I was thinking.” She takes a quick breath, then goes on. “Can I make it up to you?”

  “Make what up to me?”

  “The whole birthday thing, from a couple weeks ago. Because when you saw me and Greg at Cedar Ridge Tavern, well, it wasn’t what you thought it was.”

  “And that would be?”

  “I don’t know. That I’m seeing him or something and stood you up. Because I didn’t.”

  He rubs his knuckle along his jaw, looking at the cat bowls in front of them. “Yeah, sure,” he finally says. “Okay.”

  “Really? Because I could so go for some pasta and Bella’s is running a special. Are you free tonight? My treat?”

  “The Italian place?” He pushes up his jacket sleeve, which is damp still from washing the boat, and checks his watch again. “I’ll be done here around five. Pasta sounds good, Vera. On one condition, though.”

  “What’s that?” she asks as her hand reaches out from beneath the poncho and picks up a cat bowl.

  “It’s on me, seriously.”

  “But I owe you one, for showing up at my nonexistent party.” She drops the bowl into a small store basket hooked on her arm. “Which I’m still sorry about.”

  “Forget about that, okay? My treat, or no deal.”

  “Fine, then.”

  “Okay. I’ll pick you up, Vera, after work. And stick with the shallow bowls.”

  “The what? Shallow?”

  “For the cat.” He walks away, headed toward that maple-frosted, his wet work boots squeaking on the wood floor. “They like the shallow bowls, it’s easier for them to eat out of.”

  * * *

  Joel’s Bar and Grille is on Main Street, not too far from the firehouse and a few blocks past The Green. A nursery, small shops, the historical society and a pizza place are close by, too. Derek’s always thought that its location gives it an intimate neighborhood feel, the way it’s within walking distance of so many places. The bar is tucked into a low brick building and you could almost pass by it unnoticed if it weren’t for the changing neon signs that management switches up in the front window, depending on the event, the season. They park near The Green and Vera walks beside him with a soft brown scarf tucked into her cropped tweed jacket, brown suede gloves on her hands.

  “Wasn’t that good?” she asks. “Bella’s food is just like homemade.”

  “Never had a better penne with sausage and peppers. A little wine now, with some nice company, what more could a guy want?”

  “Ha, check it out,” she says when they get closer to the bar and its red neon Christmas bells blinking on and off as though they’re chiming a happy song.

  “Getting a jump on the season.” Derek opens the door and steps back for her to go in ahead of him. The commotion and festivities inside are infectious, with waitresses stringing silver garland and colored twinkly lights throughout the bar. Another is stacking Christmas records in the old jukebox, and the rock and roll carols are already playing.

  “Hey guys, we meet again,” Samantha says as she pulls her coat on and nears them. A couple of her friends walk beside her, bundled up and ready to leave. “What’s up?” She eyes them with a mischievous grin while pulling her thick black hair from her coat collar.

  “Not much,” Derek answers. “Just having a drink.”

  Samantha wraps a wool scarf around her neck and sends a wink their way. “Make it a sweet one!” she says while breezing past, pulling the door open to the cold night.

  Derek touches Vera’s elbow and points to the raised bar. “Let’s grab a seat.” He guides her over, saying a quick hello to a few familiar faces when they pass small, square tables clustered beside a dance floor. They sit at the far end of the bar, away from the mounted television where it’s a little quieter. “Wine?” he asks her, and when she nods, he orders two glasses.

  “I talked to my mom today,” Vera tells him as she slips out of her jacket. He takes it from her and drapes it on the back of her stool. “The swelling’s gone and her foot’s feeling so much better.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Derek says as the bartender sets down their glasses.

  “Hey Derek, my man,” the bartender greets him. “How’s things?”

  “What’s up, Kevin? I’m hanging in there.” Derek takes a sip of the wine. “Busy tonight, no?”

  “Tis the season,” Kevin tells him as he moves on to take another order.

  A couple waitresses continue decorating, one draping garland along the half-wall behind them, the other hanging silver and gold ornaments in the greens.

  “So my mom? She wanted to stop by and help me clean out the barn this week, but I told her no way. Maybe in a couple weeks, when she can really use her foot easily.”

  “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Definitely. But I plan on getting in there tomorrow to sweep it out and toss some old stuff, now that I’m safe from wild animals, thanks to you,” she says with a smile, giving his hand a quick squeeze. “You know, catching that beast. Who, I must say, couldn’t be more gentle. He’s the sweetest barn cat.”

  “You should probably take him to the vet for shots, keep him healthy.”

  “Already done. With a clean bill of health. He’ll be good company while I’m working out there in the old Christmas Barn.”

  “Hang on a second.” Derek starts to stand. “Speaking of the barn, I have a little something for you. It was for your housewarming party, but I didn’t have a chance to give it to you that night.”

  “Oh that’s so nice, you didn’t have to.”

  “It’s out in my truck, let me go get it.” He pulls his keys from his pocket. “You’ll wait here?”

  “Hey, you two.” They both look back at Kevin, tending bar and having a few laughs with the patrons. “Holiday cheer’s begun,” he says while pointing to the mistletoe hanging above them at the bar, raising an eyebrow.

  Derek and Vera glance up together at the sprig of mistletoe with a red bow curled around it, and both laugh him off. “No, that’s okay,” Vera says, a little flustered.

  “Just friends, Kev,” Derek adds.


  “Right, Coop.” The bartender crosses his arms in front of him and eyes them until they have to look away from him and at each other.

  Derek silently takes his seat on the stool beside Vera and now that he’s looking at her, he can’t take his eyes off hers. She gives him a small smile and starts to say something, but whatever it is, he doesn’t know. Because she stops when he raises his open hand to her neck, touching it alongside her face. “Come here, friend,” he whispers as he leans over and kisses her. But it’s what happens next that surprises him. Because he thought, really, he’d just keep the bartender quiet and give in, not wanting to hurt Vera’s feelings, either. And she starts to pull away, but then it all changes amidst the music and clamor of the bar and he feels her kiss him back, feels her smile beneath his kiss, and when her hand lifts to touch his hand, well, he can’t help it really. His other hand rises to cradle her face as he deepens the kiss, his fingers tangling in her thick blonde hair, the moment soft and festive and startling all at once.

  “Just friends, like hell,” he hears Kevin say under his breath, followed by a low whistle as he turns and heads down the length of the bar.

  Derek pulls away then, but not before kissing her again, briefly, once then twice. With his hands cupping her face, she says something softly. “What’s that?” he asks, tipping his head to hear her above the talking voices and music rocking the halls with songs of jolly and glasses clinking and chairs and bar stools scraping.

  “I said,” Vera answers, “I guess you gave him something to think about.”

  Derek looks down the bar at Kevin, then stands beside her, his hand moving a strand of hair from her face. “Yeah,” he says. “Me, too.” He shifts his fleece trail jacket on his shoulders and reaches for a long swallow of his wine. “Come on, it’s late. I’ll get you home.” When she stands, he lifts her coat off her stool and sets it on her shoulders, his arm staying around her as he walks her down around the tables and to the night outside. Okay, and he throws a quick glance back at that darn mistletoe, too.