Snowflakes and Coffee Cakes

by DeMaio, Joanne

  “No, no.” He follows her back to the living room where it looks like she’s already scoping out a spot for that tree. “You wait here where it’s warm.”

  And as he goes outside again, feeling the biting cold and picking up a tree he never planned on having, he glances up at his living room window. Well a tree won’t be enough. So he quick unlocks the store to get everything else, then hauls it all back up the stairs: tree and stand and a couple boxes of glass ornaments and a string of white twinkling lights.

  The thing is, it’s not like he’d thought it would be, all this sudden busyness. There’s no sadness this time like in other years. No remorse at having a tree, or at the possibility of enjoying the holiday, a remorse he’d felt even this morning. There’s just his apartment, he sees it as he walks in with the tiny fir. His apartment with its one brick accent wall; the worn braided rug over hardwood floors; the older sectional sofa and end tables; the large paned windows with no curtains; a framed photograph of Abby in her favorite purple sweater, her brown hair hanging straight, the bangs a little too long, on the console table that Vera stands near, looking up at him when he returns. There’s all that and something more. There’s a life, somehow, an intensity or purpose in the room that he hasn’t felt since Abby’s death. And it makes the tree feel suddenly important.

  “Okay,” he says, pulling off his vest and taking his watch off, too, shaking out his hand as he does. He sets the tree, which can’t be more than three feet tall, top to bottom, in the small stand first. “What do you think about putting it there?” he asks, motioning to a small mahogany pedestal table in front of the window.

  “Perfect,” Vera answers, lifting a few books and small lamp out of the way. When he moves the tree there, centering it on the table, she takes a box of ornaments, opens it up and puts a hook on a red one, then holds it aloft, waiting. “You’ll need to put on the lights first,” she tells him.

  “Right.” He cuffs his flannel shirt sleeves back over a black thermal shirt beneath, then pushes those sleeves up, opens the lights package and lifts out the string of bulbs, plugging it into the wall outlet and lacing the bulbs onto the tree branches.

  “I’m keeping you from dinner,” Vera says quietly as she picks up another ornament, this one gold, standing close and waiting to hang that one, too.

  “That’s all right,” he answers. “It’s better if it sits awhile.” He works the string of lights around the tiny tree.

  “If you’re sure.”

  Derek moves beside the tree, glancing at the lot down below outside his window with its own twinkling lights running along the Christmas tree frames. “You don’t have somewhere to be on this holiday night, Vera? Not seeing anyone you kept from the Thanksgiving table crowd?”

  “No.” She steps to the lit tree and hangs the gold ornament, thin bangles on her wrist jingling lightly. “I was dating a coworker in Boston a while back. Bad policy, very bad. He got the promotion, and I got the pink slip and was sent packing. In more ways than one.”

  “What about the doctor?” he asks while working on a section of lights near the treetop.

  “Greg?” She finds a spot for the red ornament. “The guy from when I saw you on my birthday?”

  “You were with him at your sister’s wedding, too.”

  “Brooke’s?” She squints at him. “Wait a minute. Was that you on the dance floor?”

  He shrugs while holding a few of the lights.

  “Greg and I are just friends from back in the day. That’s all.” She smiles and picks up another ornament, touching a few branches while looking for the right place for it. “And what about you, Derek?”

  What about him? It had been so long since anyone asked, since anyone didn’t look at him with sympathy, that it takes a second to get his thoughts together. He finishes with the white lights, wrapping the end around a branch and tucking it under, then steps back, pushing up his sleeves again. “I was married, for a long time. We met in college in Pennsylvania. Things were okay with us, but they say that a traumatic experience will either bring you closer or split you up. After Abby died, well the marriage shifted. We couldn’t hold on.” He picks up a red ornament. “I don’t know. Maybe our daughter was what held us together and once she was gone,” he pauses, hanging the ornament on the window side of the tree. “Well, it doesn’t really matter now. We split up a year after Abby drowned. Sold the house and my ex moved back to Pennsylvania. Her family’s there, her home.”

  “I’m sorry, Derek, about all of it.”

  “I know. But hey, it’s the holidays,” he says as he walks over to a small shelf stereo and turns on Christmas carols, “so enough of this sad talk.”

  “Deal. And if I do say so myself, your tree is looking very festive. Loving the twinkly lights.” Vera backs up a step near the window and considers it.

  “If you like festive trees,” he tells her while hanging another ornament, a gold one he places near the top, “the store sponsors Addison’s Tree Lighting Ceremony on The Green. You’d be amazed at that tree, it’ll be lit up and about as festive as Rockefeller Center’s.”

  When she doesn’t say anything, he looks over at her. “Will you come with me?” she asks then, still surmising the tabletop tree.

  He looks longer at her standing near the window but shifting her surmising from the tree to him, while a quiet song about home and Christmas and missing someone plays on the stereo.

  “Come on,” she persists, walking to the tree holding an ornament. “It’ll be fun! We’ll bring hot chocolate, sing a few songs.” She lifts a small branch near where he stands and he puts his hand on hers to stop it from fussing, feeling her delicate gold bracelets move beneath his touch.

  “Vera.” He takes the glass ornament from her hand and sets it on the table.

  “But we’re not done,” she answers softly.

  He reaches over and turns off a tabletop lamp so that only the white twinkling lights of the tree illuminate the small room. Then he takes her hand again and leads her to the dark green sofa and motions toward it. “Just sit,” he says so quietly, he wonders if she hears him. With his hands on his hips, he drops his head with a long breath, then sits with her and leans back and eyes the decorated tree.

  She sighs beside him. “It’s so pretty. I love it when a tree lights a room.”

  A few moments pass, time that is purely Christmas with its peace, before Derek answers, “Me, too.” He reaches his arm around her shoulder and they just sit in his hardware store apartment and look at the tree together. That’s it, nothing else, because it’s enough. It’s what the whole day led to with its running around and holiday mood and people and talking and last-minute grocery shopping and tree and wreath set-up in the store lot and chicken cooking and Vera. This. She shifts close and his hand touches her hair while they sit in the light of that tree. “I waxed the store sled today.” He feels her head turn as she watches him talk. But his eyes stay on the tree, his hand touching her soft blonde hair. “It was sunny earlier and it felt good to be outside, even in the cold.”

  “People must love that, taking a sleigh ride.”

  “It’s a pretty sled, you’d like it. Red, with a green velvet seat. And lots of shiny gold trim. Gold runners too.”

  “Sounds very merry.” She settles close into his arm and looks at the lights on the small tree.

  “I never would have had a tree this year,” he says, and a few more moments pass, the kind when you do nothing but look at tiny lights sparkling in boughs of green, which is actually everything. “So thank you, Vera.”

  “For this?” she asks, sitting up a little and turning her face to his.

  His hand pulls her closer and he kisses her in the dimly lit room, the twinkling lights and low music and shadows all a part of the tenderness of the kiss.

  But three loud knocks that shouldn’t be a part of it, suddenly are. Three sharp knocks followed by Sam’s voice. “Derek?” she asks as she opens his unlocked apartment door.

  Vera stands right a
way, pressing her skirt, while Derek sits back straight on the sofa and clears his throat. “What is it, Sam?” he asks as he slowly stands.

  “I brought food,” she says, rattling two large bags of plastic containers while rushing into the kitchen. “Turkey, my homemade stuffing, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie, the works.” After a quiet second, she calls out from the kitchen, “I don’t know why you cooked a chicken. Didn’t you figure I’d drop this off?” When she walks through the kitchen door, she stops in her tracks right as Derek turns on a lamp and Vera is slipping into her coat. “Oh! I guess not.” Her eyes shift from Vera to the tree to Derek. “Well why didn’t you say something, Derek?”

  “I was just leaving,” Vera says.

  “You don’t have to go,” he tells her quietly. “Sam’s not staying long.”

  “No, really. I’ve got an early day tomorrow. My Holly Trolley tour is scheduled. For the article?”

  He nods, then turns to his sister.

  “Well, happy Thanksgiving, Vera! It’s good to see you again.” She walks over and gives Vera a hug. “And great tree going on here.” She turns to Derek with a slightly raised eyebrow. “So this is why you backed out of my turkey dinner?”

  Vera looks quickly from Derek and back to Sam. “No,” she explains, rushing to the chair to pick up her large tote. “No, really. I just stopped by on my way home, and well, the tree,” she turns and smiles at the tree, then looks at Derek with a shrug that says Get me out of this?

  He walks to her and kisses the side of her face. “Let me see your phone.”

  “My phone?” She reaches into her tote and hands it to him.

  “Give me a ring when you get home,” he says while programming in his number. “So I know you made it okay.”

  She nods slightly, looks to Samantha with a wave, hikes up her tote and hurries toward the door with Derek following close behind to walk her out. “Oh, Derek,” she says, turning back so quickly he nearly bumps into her.

  “What is it?” he says softly, taking her hands for a second.

  “I almost forgot. Well. It’s just that I’m having this painting thing Saturday. You know, Brooke and Brett are coming over for pizza and painting.”

  “Painting what?”

  “My dining room. So anyway, it would be great if you could come, too. You know, a painting party. Food, drinks, a few laughs. And I promise I’ll be there this time.”

  He nods, watching her closely.

  “So you’ll come? After work?”

  “You bet. I’ll be there.”

  Chapter Twelve

  IT’S A CHRISTMAS VILLAGE COME to life. That’s what Vera jots down in her notes when the trolley passes Wedding Wishes with its twinkly lights strung around the windows and the bride mannequin wearing a white fur cloak over her long white gown. And there’s Whole Latte Life with its pieces of cotton tucked into the window corners to look like snow, the coffee shop enticing you in for a holiday mocha. On The Green, fresh balsam garland wraps up the coach light lampposts topped with festive wreaths, and beyond, the covered bridge is outlined in white glimmering lights. Really, how many times has she seen these quaint scenes set out in storefronts decorated with miniature holiday villages, or in a friend’s home, the white-steepled chapel and nursery with its poinsettia greenhouse and historic colonial figurines set along a fireplace mantle, or in a dining room china cabinet?

  Yes, Addison looks like a full-size ceramic Christmas village with swags of evergreen garland across white picket fences, pine wreaths on doors, candles in the windows. And as the green and gold trolley with its jingling bells drives through town, women smile as they hurry past with bags of gifts; neighbors stop and turn as they string lights on their shrubs; and carolers outside Sycamore Square sing a merry tune while bedecked in scarves, caps and mittens. She waves at them as the trolley drives by, thinking the only thing missing is snow.

  There’s a change, though, as they reach the neighborhood near the cove that includes her Dutch Colonial. The large, old homes with their painted wood shutters and widow’s walks and occasional carriage house set beneath even taller oak and maple trees on imposing yards, have no holiday spirit. Windows framed in antique lace are dark, grand wood-panel front doors bare. Not a balsam wreath is found, not a window candle lit nor a mechanical snowman waving hello. Nothing.

  “It’s been quiet on that one stretch for years,” the trolley driver explains when she questions him. “Ever since that little girl died, so close by. Folks just never seemed to find it in their hearts to decorate there since.”

  * * *

  Derek’s been seeing the Holly Trolley jingle past the hardware store all morning. Whether he’s at the checkout, or in the tree lot, or helping a customer out on the floor, it catches his eye and has him do a double take, the green vehicle toodling by with its gold top and gold scrollwork, a wreath hung on the front grill.

  So it’s no wonder that he notices when it stops in front of the store to let a few riders off, Vera being one of them. She steps down wearing a short black cape over black skinny slacks, black knee-high boots with bright green long leather gloves on her hands. The trolley’s a far cry from the big news stories of Boston, but it’s so apparent each story gets the same professional treatment. She turns back to say a few words to the trolley driver after her tour and interview, then slips a notepad into her tote and heads over to the Christmas tree lot. He lifts his cargo vest off the hook behind the counter and goes out to see her.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” he asks with a wink, Zeus following at his side, wagging his tail in a slow loop.

  She smiles at them. “Well, sir,” she begins. “It depends on how much you know about these here Christmas trees.”

  By that time he’s at her side, takes her shoulders lightly and gives her a quick kiss. “Hey, Vera. How was the trolley?” he asks, holding her gloved hands in his.

  “So charming. What a pretty town this is, I wish you could’ve come on the tour, too.”

  “Maybe another time,” he says, turning to the tree display. “Now, about that tree.”

  Vera walks the length of the first line of balsams, studying them carefully.

  “See one you like?”

  “How about that one?” she asks, pointing to a large tree on the end.

  Derek lifts it off the tree frame and tamps the stump so that the green branches nicely fall open. “Zeus!” he calls out when the dog veers off toward a small family. “Come on,” he orders, reaching into his pocket for a small dog biscuit.

  “He’s very friendly, in his kingdom and all.”

  Derek looks down at the yellow lab sitting at his feet beside the balsam fir he holds. “Sometimes I think he’s still looking for Abby.” He nods over to the family Zeus was following, one with a young girl. “She loved this old mutt. When I’d bring her to the store, she’d set up her toys on the window ledge inside and the dog would lay right there with her. Part of her kingdom, I guess.” He pats the dog’s big head.

  “That’s so sweet,” Vera says with a smile.

  “Now what about this tree?” He gives the tree a small shake. “Sweet for you?”

  “No.” Vera eyes it closely. “Wrong shape.”

  So he sets it back and hands Zeus his treat.

  “Maybe that one,” she says in the second row, and he pulls up a smaller blue spruce and tamps that one, too. “Way too small.”

  They continue walking along the trees, passing other couples and families who are standing random trees straight, setting back down a Scotch pine, stopping, backtracking, doing needle-checks on a white spruce, looking at balsams from a distance, then close-up.

  Derek steers her to the next row where the trees are taller. “You’ve got a big, grand house, Vera. You need a tree that makes a statement, don’t you think?”

  “Hm.” She walks slowly, her hands touching this one, pointing to that one, waving off wrong ones. “How do you know?” she finally asks. “How will I know which one is thee tree for me?”

>   Several customers wait to have their trees checked out, then wrapped in netting and tied onto their cars. “Listen,” he says, standing close beside her. “You’ll just know. After years of doing this, I see it all the time. The tree will, well, it’ll just speak to you. You know,” he says, pointing to the small decorated tree in the second-floor window, its lights on and twinkling brightly, even in broad daylight. “Like mine did.” He pulls heavy work gloves from his vest pocket. “I’ve got to run. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow night. Do you need paint? Any brushes?”

  “No,” she says, distracted by all the trees and walking slowly among them. “I’m good.”

  With Zeus still at his heels, he hurries over to the netting area, looking over to see Vera consider a few more Christmas trees before leaving with only a balsam wreath decorated with pinecones and holly berries and a burgundy velvet bow, still not hearing the call of her tree.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I TOLD YOU THIS COLOR would be nice,” Brooke says as she rolls a swath of the deep gold paint on Vera’s dining room wall. An extra paintbrush is tucked in the back pocket of her overalls.

  “And as usual, you’re right,” Vera answers. She ties a bandana over her hair while looking at Brooke’s sample. “It’s amazing how it warms the room right up.”

  “I researched the colors for the time period of this house and saw lots of these golds and ambers.” She paints another strip of gold. “Can’t you picture the old colonial family gatherings and dinner parties here? And with that view of the cove, wow, you wouldn’t want to leave this room, whether it’s the 1800s or today.”

  “Maybe it’s because so much time was spent at sea. The ship captains sailed all over the world and when they returned from the cold, stormy seas, they came home to warmth and comfort. Thus the gold paint.”

  Brett stands in jeans and an old college sweatshirt high up on a ladder and lines a strip of blue tape along the crown molding, having worked his way around the room. “Hey Vera, where’s your new dude?” he asks.