A Summer With Snow (Frosted Seasons #1)

by Hallie Swanson

  I punch in the four-digit code and my office door swings open. The scent of rich mahogany enters my nostrils. The furnishings in here are such a contrast to the rest of the suite. I sit down at my desk and stare through the window, looking out for miles across the turquoise ocean. This is a place I love, somewhere I come to clear my mind.

  I reach forward, opening a small drawer directly to my right. Rummaging with my fingers, I pull out a small packet containing the white stuff, my own personal stash of snow. I tip a small amount onto my desktop, then reach into the back pocket of my trousers and slide out my wallet, grabbing my bank card. I tease the powder into a neat line, then lean over and press my finger against my nostril. I freeze, immediately sitting back. It wasn’t a bank card I had grabbed from my wallet, but the folded picture of Darcy and Hooper, now masked by cocaine. I can almost feel her disapproval of me as her brown eyes stare up at me from the photo. God, if only she could see me now. She’s so lovely, and I… I am quick to brush the white powder off my desk and wipe off the residue with my arm. I relax into my black leather chair and cross my ankles, then straighten the creased picture with my index finger. Looking down, I take in Darcy’s unobvious beauty. So natural and gimmick free, she is perfection.

  I can still remember the sensation of the soft tips of her fingers stroking around the edges of my tattoo. Then I remember her words as she gazed up into my eyes: ‘Who’s Summer, Snow?’

  The floor creaks as I get to my feet; automatically I walk towards the metal filing cabinet. I rock back and forth on the heels of my shoes before pulling out the top drawer; I grasp all the files together, bunching them in my hand and pulling them forward. Bending slightly I reach behind them all and blindly search with my fingers. I trap it between my thumb and index finger and slowly lift it from its confines; it dangles before my eyes and my heart drops like a stone. That tiny red knitted glove, such an insignificant item of clothing, yet it holds so much significance.

  My thoughts wander back to a memory, an incredibly painful memory…

  I’m ten years old; my hair is wild, and whichever way a brush runs through it, it goes in the opposite direction. I do like my eyes, which are large and brown, but I don’t like my mouth, as when I smile I can see the metal braces I wear on my teeth.

  Feeling a pull on my arm I glance down and smile at Summer, my little sister, who has just turned four. We stand in the hallway of our large house, putting our arms through the sleeves of our coats, fastening our hats and pulling on our winter boots.

  “Are you ready?”

  I nod on hearing Mum’s voice and gaze up as she opens the front door. Everything in front of me is white, even down to the spiders’ webs that hang from the porch, decorated with a thin layer of ice.

  I take Summer’s gloved hand in mine as we step outside. I shiver; it’s a freezing cold afternoon in the middle of December. Each breath I let out sends mist into the air, and then in the briefest of moments the ice-laden atmosphere has swallowed it up. Mum reaches out to grab Summer’s free hand in hers. I listen as Mum counts to three, and we lift her small frame from the floor, swinging her forwards. She giggles.

  “Whoosh!” I shout before her feet are planted back down into the snow.

  After a while my arm grows tired, so I let go of her hand, leaving her to walk with Mum. I walk slightly behind, looking at them both. I can hear Summer’s chirpy voice, and watch her dark brown hair as it bobs up and down beneath her red beret. She looks so pretty, dressed all in red, and I notice how she stands out against the stark white snow.

  The blades of my ice skates chink together as they dangle at Mum’s side. We near the frozen lake and stop at an old wooden bench, where Mum leans over and dusts the snow off with her hands.

  “This would make a beautiful photo,” she says, placing my shiny new skates on the ground in front of me.

  Being new, they are a little tight. I take off my gloves, but still struggle to pull the skates onto my feet. The laces are long and awkward to tie, and my fingers fumble until I’m able to tie them into a double bow.

  “This is perfect for our Christmas cards, what do you think, Snow?”

  I glance up and look round at all our acres of land, with the snow-covered trees and bushes. My eyes wander back to our house, which now sits far in the distance. Every year Mum makes personalised Christmas cards for family and friends. We all sit wherever she decides and wait for the flash, with programmed grins on our faces.

  “Yeah whatever, Mum,” I mumble.

  Her large blue eyes almost smile back at me as her blonde hair falls from beneath her hat to cover her face. With a look of exuberance she jumps up from the bench.

  “I must go back to the house and grab the dog, the camera.” Her voice almost bubbles over in excitement. “And Nana of course; she can take the picture.”

  I smile. Summer and I both love Nana, though she is not our grandmother but our au pair, a well-built Jamaican lady with a strong accent. She has a heart of gold and her face wears a permanent smile. Actually, thinking about it, she’s more like a mum and grandmother rolled into one, as we spend more time with her than anyone else. Dad’s very rarely home, working overseas overseeing his chain of hotels, and Mum, being the proverbial social butterfly, has an overly full diary and flits between her friends and the beauty salon.

  “I’ll be back in no time,” she calls over her shoulder.

  Rearranging her tartan scarf, she turns from me and looks towards Summer, who still sits on the bench swinging her legs.

  “Stay where you are and be good for your brother.”

  I catch the glint in her eyes.

  “You will watch her, won’t you?”

  I nod and see her flat-heeled boots disturbing the snow and leaving their imprint as she walks back towards the house.

  “It’s not fair.” Summer pouts. “You get to skate.”

  I pat my hand on her leg. “You will when you’re older, and anyway, you’ll have fun when Mum comes back. You can build a snowman, and I’ll help if ya like?”

  I reach out and take hold of her small gloved hand.

  “Tell you what, next year I’ll teach you to skate just like me.”

  Her dark-brown eyes gaze up into mine.

  “No, teach me now!” she shouts, sliding down off the bench.

  I feel her pulling away from my hold, so I tighten my grip on her hand, but her fingers are slipping away and she pulls herself free, leaving only her small red glove clasped between my fingers.

  “Summer!” I scream after her as she bounds off towards the frozen lake.

  I jump to my feet. Still shouting her name, I begin to run, but trip over my skates and fall face first into the powdery snow. Struggling to my feet, I rip at the laces, though my fingers are so cold I can hardly feel them and the double knots won’t loosen. I rub my hands together briskly and try again; this time success, and I pull my feet free.

  I can feel the cold biting through my woollen socks as I sprint towards the lake. I gasp. Summer has not waited at the edge, and she’s sliding around on the ice. I gather she’s seen me, as she shouts out my name and starts to jump up and down. I make my way onto the frozen expanse of water, but without my skates on I slide about and can’t control my feet; I feel my legs give way and I go down on the ice with a thud. Then I hear an awful cracking sound … and screams; they will stay in my head until the day I die.

  My head shoots up.

  “Summer!” I scream, my eyes scooting everywhere, but she’s gone.

  I try to stand, but I’m unable to get to my feet, so I resort to scrambling on all fours to where I last saw her.

  “Summer!”

  Blinded by the tears as they stream down my face, I turn and look towards the house.

  “Mum, Nana, help!”

  I’m forced to stop. The ice is moving, and large cracks are opening up before me. The middle of the lake is now flowing water from which steam rises and hangs. I catch sight of something red and I glance down; her tiny
gloved hand beats at the ice below me. I pummel my fist over and over on the thick ice until my knuckles bleed, but it won’t break. Looking down, I watch her ivory face distorting, making out the tiny air bubbles that slip from between her lips. I see her mouth my name…

  “Summer!” I yell in response, and then there’s nothing.

  No blink to her eyes, no expression on her little face, as if her body has lost its fight. Like a porcelain doll she hangs in the water, perfectly still, and then I lose sight of her completely as she sinks deeper and deeper into the darkness. I scramble towards the broken ice to find the opening and lunge forwards, throwing myself into the freezing water. Resurfacing, I gasp, trying to catch my breath. My legs move erratically as I tread water and look down into the nothingness.

  My body jerks as I feel my shoulder being grabbed, and I do the best I can to push the hand away.

  “Snow, it’s Nana. Give me your hand.”

  My mind is back in my office and I realise I’m sitting on the floor next to the filing cabinet, clutching Summer’s tiny red glove against my chest. I hadn’t even realised that I’m crying. The memory in my head continues. I remember Nana’s kind black face, her wide eyes, the way she looked at me as she lay flat on the ice, trying to pull me out of the water. Between her cries were Mum’s high-pitched screams and Benji’s constant barking. It was as if I looked past them all, seeing only that old weathered bench and that one solitary red glove, all that we had left of my little sister.

  After that day Mum was never the same towards me, never looked at me with love in her eyes and never spoke to me like she cared. Up until then she had always been obsessed with the seasons, hence our names. In her eyes I was to blame that she now hated the seasons, and she would often make snide remarks; but I knew what her words truly meant.

  I push myself up from the carpeted floor and lift the tiny knitted glove to my cheek, allowing it to wipe away my tears. I throw it the courtesy of one final glance, then toss it back from where it came and slam the metal door on all the hurt it’s caused. I stand with my elbow on the top of the filing cabinet, shaking my head.

  Fuck this, fuck today; I leave my memories behind as I leave my office. I haven’t even got the energy to undress, so I slip into bed as I am. Pulling the quilt over my head sends me into darkness; all I can hope is that my conscience allows me to sleep.

  I’ve slept my jet lag away, and have no idea what time it is. It isn’t Summer that pricks at my conscience as I wake, but the funeral, Darcy and the awful way I treated her. I pick up my phone; it’s dead.

  “Bollocks,” I hiss and plug it into my charger.

  I search the Internet for local florists in Dawlish, near to where she lives. I find Roses and Posies, and type in the area code for the UK. I wait with it pressed against my ear as it rings.

  I hear a lady’s chirpy voice at the other end.

  “Hello, Roses and Posies,” she announces.

  “Whatever your most expensive bouquet is, I want one, and I want one sent to her each day this week. I’ll ring back each evening to check they’ve been received.” I reel off her name and address, and then pay by bank card.

  “The note, sir, what would you like written on the note?”

  “Address it to Darcy,” I tell her.

  “And the message, sir?”

  “Snow.”

  “Snow?” she repeats.

  “You got it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No,” I reply, and pressing the red button I cut her off.

  I stroll into my en suite and turn on the shower. I will leave Darcy for a couple of weeks, and then, on the off chance, I will be back in England and will pay her a visit. I scratch the top of my arm. I don’t have feelings for her as such, but there’s something about her; she’s different to all the other women I’ve known and there’s something inside prodding me, telling me I need to know more, and when I get an itch, I have to scratch it.

  I glance into the oval mirror above the wash basin; mine is not the only face I see. I imagine Darcy standing beside me, picturing her long dark hair, her pretty eyes that dance their way into mine. I glance down, feeling myself getting aroused with only these brief thoughts.

  “Fuck!”

  I hit out at the wall tiles, thinking back to what I did, what I said. I told her she was like every other woman I’d had and that I felt absolutely nothing. What was the big deal anyway? She was right, we were never related, she was never my sister, but when you want something as badly as I did, sometimes your mind plays funny tricks; well, it did with me, and for a while I saw her as Summer, my kid sister. It was as if I blinked, and then one day she was all grown up. No, she was never Summer; she was Darcy. I lower my head. What have I done?

  I breathe in the warm fragrant air before placing the lemon-coloured kneeling pad down in front of Mum’s oval flower bed. Resting on my knees, I pick up the secateurs and gaze at the dead heads on the roses as they sway in the breeze awaiting their fate. My gaze wanders further down the garden past the vegetable patches and the tall green leylandii, then back to the flower bed, and I can’t help noticing that the flowers don’t look as vibrant as they did this time last year. If it were possible for flowers to look melancholy, I’d say that these ones do, and I can’t help wondering if they miss Mum and Dad too.

  Something brushes past me; I flinch and look down.

  “Hooper!” I grin. “Not yet.”

  My little West Highland terrier looks up at me with his large brown eyes, wagging his tail; I can almost feel his excitement as his grey leather lead hangs from between his teeth. I cut through the first green stem and jump as he paws at my bare leg, leaving four white marks.

  “Okay, okay!”

  Giggling, I get to my feet. Dropping the secateurs, as they land they stab themselves into the overgrown grass. I reach down to grab Hooper’s lead, but he holds onto it and runs off; it is a game we play daily, a tug of war that I always win. I chase him back towards the patio, getting tangled up in my bed sheets that hang from the washing line. I screw up my face; it was either wash them or throw them away, but Mum bought them, so I couldn’t possibly get rid of them, yet I know in my mind they’ll never be clean, no matter how many times I wash them. He’ll always be there, lost in the fibres. What was I thinking? He wasn’t my boyfriend, just a one-night stand, and it certainly wasn’t how I’d pictured losing my virginity.

  I back-hand the flannelette sheet out of my way and run back towards the house, where Hooper sits waiting in the open doorway. He pants, his partially open mouth making him look like he has a smile for me.

  “You’re one little old man who’ll never let me down,” I say as he again tugs at one end of his lead while I tug at the other.

  After a few minutes he gives in, and I’m quick to attach the lead to his collar. Hooper pulls me into the kitchen, and passing the breakfast table I grab my phone. Glancing down at the screen I see that I have three missed calls and one text. I open the message; it’s from Jenny, my adopted sister: Hi Darc, tried to call, have a house viewing at three o’clock, let me know how it goes, jen x

  I have to stop and hold onto the table with shaking hands while rereading the message. Then, breathing deeply, I sink down onto one of the high-backed chairs.

  Couldn’t you have waited a few more weeks? I text back, go to send, but delete it. No, that isn’t fair, my brother in-law has just lost his job at the factory, they have two young kids and a baby on the way. I sigh and type Okay; my finger hovers over the button, I sigh again and press send.

  I glance across the kitchen towards the tiled window sill and smile at the row of chef ornaments that stare back at me. Mum loved finding them wherever she could, at a car boot sale or bidding for them online. Most months a new one would appear, and Dad would always moan there was no space for them, but as if by magic a new shelf would appear; somehow Mum always managed to find them a home.

  “When I finally get my flat I’ll have to remember the order she placed
you in,” I say, like a child talking to her toys, as I am pulled by Hooper towards the front door.

  As we walk out onto the porch, I turn back and give the door a push, checking it’s locked. I gaze into the garden and frown. Not again; does this woman not get the message? The same small white van is making its way up the driveway towards me.

  “Hooper, sit,” I tell him as his lead tightens.

  I stand with my hand on my hip and tap my foot as I wait. The warm breeze lifts strands of my hair, which I push back as they fall into my eyes. The van pulls up and I read the lettering on its side: Roses and Posies. The door opens, and the same dark-haired lady that came yesterday steps out.

  The woman turns, walks towards the back of the van and opens the doors. The cellophane wrapping around the bouquet rustles between her fingers as she lowers it so that I can see the flowers. Roses, crimson red, most tightly in bud and interwoven with beautiful white jip. Lemon yesterday, peach the day before. Doesn’t he get it? I don’t want his apologies; he can keep his olive branch.

  “He’s got it bad for you.” The lady chuckles. “Need your signature, just going to grab my pad.”

  I drop Hooper’s lead to the floor and am quick to place my foot over it. She passes me the flowers and I clench the beautiful arrangement in the bend of my arm. The corner of a small white envelope peeks out, and with my free hand I reach between the dark green stems. Disturbing the petals, a rich fragrance dances its way into my nostrils. Slipping my little finger under the seal of the envelope, I rip it open and pull out a note.

  “Snow,” I read out loud, the same one-worded message.

  Just like him, I think; conceited, no emotion. The woman stares at me as I stand there, shaking my head.

  “You know what I’m going to tell you to do with your flowers?” I utter.