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A Summer with Snow
Frosted Seasons – Book 1
Copyright © 2015 by Hallie Swanson / J & L Wells
(Laura Williams & Judy Brimble)
[Hallie Swanson is a pseudonym for J & L Wells]
Cover design by Kellie Dennis of Book Cover by Design
Formatting and interior design by JT Formatting
Proof reading and editing by Sarah Cheeseman
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This book is written by British authors, and all spellings are British English.
License Notes
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We would like to dedicate this book to a very dear friend, Julie Titus.
Thank you to the wonderful people who helped make our book what it is:
Kellie Dennis, Julie Titus, and Sarah Cheeseman
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
A Preview of A Summer with Rayne – COMING in 2016
Other Titles
A Preview of Resisting the Biker by Cassie Alexandra
It was the summer of 2005, probably the most memorable summer of my life. I was 12 years old, and in the forty-two days we spent together, our friendship grew into something beautiful. Then, without warning, he upped and left. I couldn’t let go of his memory, and always hoped he’d come back to us. He became my first … my only teenage crush. He was in my thoughts every day, and every night in my dreams. Ten years on, this man is still my secret obsession; of all the men I’ve had any kind of relationship with, none has ever measured up. Even now, all I can think about is that summer, the summer I spent with Snow.
2015 – The Present Day
The metal doorknob of Mum and Dad’s bedroom feels cold as I clasp it between my fingers. I hold my breath for a second as my mind turns over and over. It feels so wrong knowing that they are not inside … and never will be again.
As I turn the doorknob, the door screeches open and I step inside, filled with apprehension. Hooper’s collar jangles and I almost trip as he darts out of the room between my legs. I turn and look out onto the landing.
“Let the dog out!” I bellow, hoping someone downstairs will hear me.
Turning back to face the room, I close the door behind me. I gaze across at the double bed, with its cream and pink floral quilt; it is creased where Hooper, our West Highland terrier, always sleeps.
I stand and close my eyes, and as I do so it’s as if Mum’s still here beside me. I can picture her permed hair, not a strand out of place. It was unbelievable how much hairspray one woman could get through in a week. She always wore the same bright-pink lipstick, verging on florescent, and although I moaned, she wore it anyway. I take a deep breath, and the scent of the face powder she pressed on her cheeks catches in my throat.
Suddenly feeling light-headed, I fan my hand in front of my face and sink down onto the small padded stool in front of the dressing table. My eyes stare back at me through the oval mirror. I ponder what I should do to improve my appearance, and tease my long dark hair with my fingers, scraping it off my face and pinning it up into a loose bun. I lean slightly closer to the mirror to take a more in-depth look at my face. My skin looks paler than usual, but this is not surprising, given the circumstances. I slouch, resting my elbows on the dressing table. Squinting, I notice several blemishes visible on my cheeks. As I look up, it seems that even my eyes have lost their usual sparkle and now have dark shadows lying beneath them. Perhaps it is due to lack of sleep, for God knows I lay awake for hours, with only the ticking clock and the shadows dancing around the walls for company.
Straightening my back, I open the top drawer of the dressing table and reach for Mum’s compact powder. I try to concentrate while I dab the flat sponge across my shiny forehead and cheekbones.
Poker-faced, I stare at my reflection again and watch as it shakes its head back at me.
“Dad, why did you have to drive that night?” I ask out loud.
My eyes sting and I try to blink back the tears, but they fall anyway, smudging my make-up and forging narrow streams down my face. I lift my hand and cover my eyes, losing myself in my thoughts. They may not have been my biological parents, but that didn’t matter to me; they were the only mum and dad I ever really had. If I could have chosen two people to love me and bring me up, it would have been them. I remember how I hopped from one foster family to another, never having enough time in one place to feel settled. I was getting older, and the adoption window was getting smaller every month. It was the summer of 2005 when Brenda and Jeff walked into my life. I bite down on my lip and smile to myself.
Suddenly, I jump, almost tipping up the stool as I feel the weight of a hand rest itself on my shoulder. My hair rustles as I flick my head around.
A tall man is standing behind me, wearing a white shirt and black trousers, with a matching jacket slung over his left shoulder. I look up and am met by a mass of wavy brown hair that trickles its way across his forehead and down to his dark eyebrows. His stare holds me, forcing me to blink; my stomach is in knots. Swallowing hard, my focus turns to his bronzed cheeks, which are interrupted by black stubble like a shadow working its way down under his chin and onto his neck. My gaze wanders to his shirt, where two open buttons reveal his chest.
He clears his throat, and I squint up at him. God, it can’t be! I can’t believe how much he’s changed. I lift my hands to my face and rub my eyes.
“Is that you, Snow?” I quiz.
My cheeks are flushed, and I know he can see. He nods in response to my question. It’s been years since I last saw him, yet I remember our goodbyes at Heathrow Airport like it was only yesterday; my memories almost turn back time. Time has certainly been kind to Snow. God, his body… He’s hot, with a capital H! Where’s that gangly, pasty seventeen year old gone? I wonder as I stare at his broad chest, my eyes tracing their way through his white cotton shirt as is tightens against his thickset body.
He doesn’t offer any words, but simply hitches up his trousers and crouches down at my side. Leaning into me, he wraps his muscular arms around my body, which crumples; he is strong, and I’m hardly able to breathe. The rough stubble on his cheeks cuts into the softness of mine; I inhale the manly scent t
hat runs so fragrantly across his skin. I’ve waited for this moment for so long, always hoping he would come back, but he never did.
“Missed you, kidda.”
His voice is far deeper than I recall; it has lost its softness and now has a gravelly edge. His words grate on me as they trickle into my ear. I roll my eyes. Do I look like a kid? I have breasts and wear make-up … can’t he see? His arms tighten and I’m almost folded in two, my chin forced to rest upon his shoulder.
“I’m not a kid any more,” I utter, pushing my breasts forwards, hoping he will notice me.
He pulls back slightly. God, what am I doing? I stare into the fullness of his face. Every feature sits in just the right place. His jawline is strong, his cheekbones are pronounced and high, and I can’t help but admire the sun-kissed glow of his skin. His smouldering brown eyes seem to speak to me without him having to utter a word. Were his eyes always this dark? I wonder. He blinks, and I look down, embarrassed.
“You never came back, Snow. Mum and Dad thought the world of you…”
“Darcy…”
My heart is pounding. His address of me has a nice ring to it. He reaches across to take my hand; how smooth his skin is against mine, the way I imagine a hand to be that’s never done a day’s work. It’s all come so easy to him. I pull away before our fingers have a chance to link. He comes back after all this time and thinks everything is okay. For a split second I almost hate him. As I jump up, the stool teeters on its back legs and crashes to the floor. I turn away from him and stare out of the window into the beautiful green garden below.
“It’s taken today, Mum and Dad’s funeral, to get you here. Like the prodigal son you return.”
Though my words are terse, I weaken in his presence and my expression softens. I know my face gives away my true feelings, but I can’t let him see … I can’t look at him.
I flinch as his hand snakes its way around my waist. An intense heat bubbles inside me, rushing to my head. I close my eyes and lean back into his chest, but only for a second, and then my senses return.
“Get off me!” I blurt out.
Turning round to face him, I gaze up into his eyes, but despite their smouldering brown, they have lost their appeal.
“Whoa, sis,” he says, and backs off, lifting his hands up to the air. “There hasn’t been a day I haven’t thought of you guys.”
“You could have fooled me!” I spit out with what I think is conviction, but my voice cracks, not allowing me to hide my true feelings from this man.
I’m beyond annoyed with him, his address so impersonal it’s like we’re strangers. I shake my head and open my mouth to continue.
“The cars have arrived,” a croaky voice calls out.
Interrupted, I spin round to be met by my mum’s sister, Aunty Dot. Her head peers around the door and the floorboards creak beneath her black court shoes as she steps inside the bedroom to join us.
“And who have we here?” she asks in an unusually high-pitched tone.
“Snow,” he announces.
I see her small eyes widen, though I’m not surprised; she has always made a fuss of Snow. That summer of 2005 there were always mint chocolates and barley sugar tucked away in her handbag for him. I always complained to Mum that he was Aunty Dot’s favourite, though maybe for good reason, for each Saturday and Sunday as I lay in bed, he was up early tending to her allotment. Aunty Dot never knew Snow hadn’t got a sweet tooth, and when she wasn’t around he would sneak into my bedroom and give the chocolate to me, making me promise to hide the wrappers.
Though her bright face looks drawn, through the many creases in her cheeks she manages a weak smile. Quite the doting nephew, I think to myself as he walks into her open arms. The dress she wears is black velvet and hangs just below her knees. She has fat calves and ankles, and as I look down at her black shoes, I can only imagine the struggle she must have had getting them on. I snigger, though cough in an attempt to hide it, raising my eyes to where she holds a wide-brimmed hat that rests on the back of Snow’s shirt. The hug he gives her in return seems hypocritical, and I look away. On my returning glance, I see she has placed the cumbersome hat back on her head. Quite a quirky old dear, I can’t help but think.
I see Snow’s dark eyebrows raise and his chocolate-brown eyes widen.
“Darcy,” he mutters, holding his arm out towards me.
My heart almost gallops in my chest, but feels broken; I miss Mum and Dad so much. Snow turns up unannounced, and I can’t put into words the ambiguity of all my pent-up emotions. I see Aunty Dot’s eyes follow his hand as it awaits mine. I roll my eyes to make a point, making sure he sees, and then loosely slip my hand into his open palm. A surge of electricity shoots through my body, and I tremble as his fingers tighten.
Following Aunty Dot, he leads me out of the bedroom and side by side we walk down the narrow staircase. It feels like eyes are following us from the many family portraits and pictures that hang on the walls as we pass. Within seconds I can feel the skin of my hands become damp and clammy. Snow gazes down at me, his full lips creasing into a smile, and for that split second I’m taken back to when he’s that seventeen-year-old boy and I’m that twelve-year-old girl with the childish crush.
Leaving the house, I turn briefly and gaze up at Mum and Dad’s bedroom window. The breeze is warm and soft as it kisses my cheeks, as though it’s her touch, her way of telling me everything will be okay. I blink back my tears at the thought. I see a group of people gathered outside the house: my sister, her kids, our neighbours Dennis and Ivy, and lots of faces I don’t recognise; the only thing they have in common is that they’re all dressed in black. Snow pulls me forwards and my body stiffens. No, this can’t be… I can feel myself shaking my head in denial. They were too young to die; I’m not ready to say goodbye to them. I pull my hand from his.
“Snow, get off me.”
But his grip only tightens. Whenever I am upset, my way of coping is to run away; it’s as if I believe that if I don’t face it, it hasn’t happened, and if it hasn’t happened it can’t hurt me.
“Darcy, there are just some things you can’t run away from.”
“Why, Snow, why? Why can’t I run away? What’s keeping me here? I’ve lost Mum and Dad, and now I’m losing the house; in a few days the For Sale sign will be up, then what? When that goes I’ve lost everything… So tell me, what’s the point of anything any more? I’ll be the orphan I used to be.”
He releases my hand and my arm falls free at my side. I sigh deeply and like a feral cat my eyes roam, looking anywhere to escape this situation. I hear the constant hum of engines, and out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of jet-black hearses approaching. I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand when I see the coffins. My legs buckle beneath me and I cry out. Snow’s arms are already there, comforting me as he pulls me into him. I never knew it was possible to feel one’s own heart shatter, and I lean against Snow’s chest and sob what seem like endless tears into his white cotton shirt. For a split second the warmth of his body seems able to shield me from reality. I feel my feet move as he walks me towards our black Daimler.
I peek from the confines of Snow’s chest. A sombre-faced man in a black suit and white shirt opens the car door. Aunty Dot has to remove her large-brimmed hat to get in. Normally this is something I would snigger at, but not today. The next few moments are a blur; I can feel the soft purr of the engine vibrating beneath me and hear Aunty Dot reminiscing. Though for me it’s all too much. I sit quietly, tears distorting my view as I stare out of the tinted window. I see the church getting closer, feel the car slow down. This is it. I close my eyes and Snow takes my arm.
It’s been a long day, an awful day; my head hurts and my heart aches. Politely I offer my goodbyes and thank everyone for turning up at the wake. Forty-seven, forty-eight… I count in my head and watch as they take their coats from the wall hooks in the hall and leave through the front door, then close it for the final time. I sigh and lean back against the cold glas
s.
I look across the hallway through the double doors and into the lounge; the coffee table is still covered with food and the red wine has left its mark, bleeding onto the white napkins. Black bin bags are tied at the top and have been left on chairs, thanks to Aunty Dot, whose favourite pastime seems to be bustling round tiding up after everyone.
My eyes fall on Snow, who is sitting on the carpet, leaning back against the settee. It seems the funeral got to him more than I thought it would; he had hardly said a word to anyone all day, and didn’t even strike up a conversation with Aunty Dot. I stand silently and watch him. He has a light-green tennis ball clutched in his hand, which he is throwing against the wall in front of him. I watch it bounce back and forth. I’m not sure if he senses my presence, but he looks up at me. His white shirt is unbuttoned to the waist, and as I move closer I see a smudge of mascara down its front and a spot of red wine that has split on his collar.
“You joining me, Darc…?” His words are slurred and spoken overly loud.
Hooper is sprawled out on the cushion directly behind Snow’s head, his black button nose teasing his dark gelled hair. I can’t help but smile as I sit at Snow’s side. I lift an empty wine glass from the carpet, steadying my hand as Snow fills it to the brim.
“The dog hasn’t changed, still showing no interest,” he says. “Look…”
Again he throws the ball at the wall and on its return opens his hand to catch it.
“Six bloody weeks, the whole fucking summer we tried to teach Hooper fetch, and ten years on, look at him, still useless.”
We laugh. Sitting by his side, it’s as though he’s never been away. I turn my head to look into his eyes. I feel able to look at him now and my heart doesn’t beat quite so fast. I pluck up the courage to say what I’ve wanted to say to him all day.
“Mum and Dad waited, I waited. Why didn’t you come back? Didn’t the years they brought you up mean anything?”
A Summer With Snow (Frosted Seasons #1) Page 1
