Angels in the Snow

by Melody Carlson

  She stooped and stroked his head on her way out the door. It was her last night to make an appearance at the showing. “I’m sorry, boy, I have to go out again tonight. But I promise to take you for a nice long walk tomorrow. We’ll go to the park and chase sticks or something.”

  She tried not to notice the lights and decorations for Christmas as she drove through the city. And, although it wasn’t nearly as bad as the previous year had been—her first Christmas without them—she still felt lonely. Her father had invited her down to Palm Springs again, to join him and some of his retired friends for the holidays, and she’d told him she’d think about it, but somehow she just didn’t think that was where she wanted to be this year. Not that she knew exactly.

  Once again, Claire followed Jeannie and Henri around the gallery—the congenial marionette, jumping whenever they pulled the strings. She greeted potential customers, all the while smiling and conversing, trying to appear relaxed and comfortable when she was anything but. Still, there did seem to be a good-sized crowd moving in and about—even better than the week of the opening.

  “Word’s gotten around,” whispered Jeannie as the evening began drawing to a close with only a few stragglers remaining behind, picking at what remained of the cheese and crackers and finishing off a bottle of cheap champagne. “To think we had this much business tonight, and just a week before Christmas—not bad.”

  “And Leo’s review didn’t hurt any either,” said Claire. “Remind me to send him chocolates or something.”

  Jeannie laughed. “Don’t worry, I already did. And you’ve had a couple other good reviews too.”

  Claire felt her eyebrows lift. “And no bad ones?”

  Jeannie shrugged. “Hey, you can’t please all the people all the time.”

  “I figured as much.” Claire smiled. “That’s why I still think ignorance is bliss when it comes to reviews.”

  Jeannie patted her arm in a placating way. “For some people perhaps.”

  After the gallery closed, Jeannie invited Claire to go across the street for a cup of cappuccino with her. “Unless you’re totally exhausted, that is. As for me, I always need several hours to unwind before I can even think about sleep.”

  “Sure, that sounds good. As long as it’s decaf.”

  “Well, Henri seems very pleased,” said Jeannie after a pair of large mugs were placed on the table. “He sold another painting tonight and expects to sell another to the Van Horns tomorrow.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Tonight was the foggy one. I’m not sure which one the Van Horns are interested in.”

  Claire smiled. “That is so cool—three paintings sold within a week! I hope the paintings last as long as the show.”

  Jeannie laughed. “Now, wouldn’t that be something? Oh, by the way, someone inquired about consignments the other day. Do you want to consider it?”

  Claire frowned. “I don’t know if I could. I mean not with the angels anyway. It’s not your everyday kind of painting, you know? It’s like an idea just hits me, all at once like an inspiration, and I pour it out onto canvas—almost without thinking, although I know that doesn’t make sense. I don’t think I could have someone actually directing me in this.”

  Jeannie waved her hand. “No problem. I sort of hinted at that to the woman. Besides, she seemed pretty interested in your latest one anyway, the seascape.”

  Claire took a sip of coffee. She hadn’t really wanted to sell that one, but after already hanging onto two of them, she felt she’d better let it go. Especially since that’s what the picture had been about anyway—letting go.

  “I’ve also had several people ask about the one with the bird in her hands. It’s a shame you don’t want to sell that one.” Jeannie drummed her long painted fingernails against her coffee cup, making a ringing sound, almost like bells. “But you know, Claire, perhaps that’s one we should consider having some numbered and signed prints made from, that and a couple of the others. Had you thought about that?”

  “No, but it sounds like a good idea. If you really think they’d sell.”

  “I’ll look into it first thing in the morning. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.”

  Claire had to laugh. “You are such a businesswoman.”

  “Good thing one of us is.” Jeannie studied her carefully. “You seem to be doing better, Claire. Or is it just wishful thinking on my part?”

  Claire briefly told her about her recent letting go episode and how she felt more at peace than ever before. “It was such a simple thing to do really. I don’t know why it took me so long.”

  “Just a matter of timing, I suspect. You can’t force some things.”

  “But I have been thinking about something . . .”

  Jeannie’s eyes lit up. “What? A new project? Tell me.”

  Claire smiled. “No, not a new project. Actually, I was considering going back to the cabin—I mean if it’s okay with you—”

  “You’re kidding! You want to go back up there again?”

  She nodded. “I know it probably sounds crazy, especially this time of year—”

  “You’re serious? You want to go up there now? Right in the middle of winter and just days before Christmas? Are you really all right, honey?”

  Claire felt her cheeks grow warm. “Okay, Jeannie, I’ll tell you something, but it’s just between you and me, okay? Because I could be all wet and about to make a total fool of myself.”

  Jeannie leaned forward. “I’m in! Quick, tell me everything before I keel over from curiosity.”

  “Okay, do you by any chance remember a man and his daughter—they came in on opening night last week, and I spent some time talking to them?”

  Jeannie’s brows shot up. “Yes! A very handsome man—sort of a Robert Redford type, only I think this guy had a beard, didn’t he? Now, I don’t normally care for full beards like that, but as I recall it looked good on him. And a pretty little girl—” she snapped her fingers. “A girl who looked strikingly like a certain angel I’ve seen somewhere. Tell me more!”

  Claire giggled. “Remember the Hendersons up in the mountains—the people you told me about?”

  “The ones with the cabin not too far from ours?”

  “Yes. Well, have you ever heard of an author—a G. A. Henderson?”

  “Historical novels?”

  Claire nodded. “The Hendersons’ son. I met him and his daughter up there.”

  “Aha, now it’s all starting to make sense. Do I smell romance in the air?”

  “No, no. Not romance. But I did find them both, well, interesting. And I want to get to know them better. I mean, I hardly even know them at all, but . . .”

  “Sometimes you know certain things . . . almost instantly . . .” Jeannie’s eyes grew slightly dreamy. “It’s like—you know, one of those things . . . you can just tell when you first meet someone that there’s something more.” She shook her head and chuckled. “Unfortunately it takes some of us years before we really figure it out.”

  Claire studied Jeannie. “You mean you’ve got something romantic going?”

  Jeannie smiled coyly.

  Suddenly Claire knew. “It’s Leo, isn’t it?”

  “Now, don’t you say a word to anyone. I’m not even totally sure myself yet.”

  “That is so perfect.”

  “Well.” Jeannie set down her cup. “That settles it then.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got to go back to the cabin.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I was only considering it; I’m not really positive it’s such a good—”

  “No arguing. Now, when are you leaving?” She looked at her watch. “Good grief, I should let you get on your way right now; that way you can start packing tonight. You can leave first thing in the morning and be up there just past noon.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. You better get going, kiddo. Look at it this way. It’s still, what, three days until Christmas? And if you find out you
’re wrong about this guy, say in the next day or so, well, you can just cut your losses and hop in your car and get back to whatever it is you were planning to do for Christmas.”

  “I didn’t really have any plans—”

  “Well, then you’ll just have to join Leo and me and some of our other single friends.”

  “But what if he’s not there, or what if he’s—”

  “I said no buts.” Jeannie picked up her purse and started to stand. “Now, it’s time for you to be on your way, kiddo. No argument. And don’t worry, the showing will get along just fine without you for the next week. Just promise to keep me posted on this.” She clapped her hands. “Oh, this is just too good! I can’t wait to write the press release—something like ‘famous writer and artist soon to be wed’! How about on Valentine’s Day? This is fantastic!”

  “Oh, Jeannie.” Claire shook her head in mock disgust. “You are such an opportunist!”

  Jeannie frowned. “I thought you were going to say a romantic.”

  Claire laughed. “Well, how about if we make a deal? I’ll pursue my romantic dream—as crazy as it seems—if you’ll pursue yours, which happens to be practically sitting in your lap.”

  Jeannie stuck out her hand. “Deal?”

  “Deal.” And they shook on it.

  Without allowing herself the luxury of even considering what it was she was about to leap into, Claire followed Jeannie’s instructions to a T. She went straight home, began packing her things, and was ready to leave the following morning. But instead of leaving first thing in the morning, she waited around long enough for the gallery to open, then called Henri.

  “I hate to bother you, Henri, and please feel free to say no, but you know the angel picture—the one with the girl holding the bird?”

  “Yes. The one I am not allowed to sell?”

  “Right. I wonder if you would mind if I took that one with me today. It’s meant to be a Christmas gift—”

  “Of course. You come and get it whenever you like. It might help some of the other paintings to sell, you know, taking away that unavailable distraction.”

  “Yes.” She considered this. “I can see what you mean.”

  So, before leaving town, she swung by the gallery and picked up the painting, then tucked it safely into the backseat of her Jeep. Even if Jeannie decided it was worth reproducing copies from, they could always borrow it back later for scanning.

  “Well, here we go, Michael.” She smiled at him as she pulled back into the traffic. “I hope this isn’t a great big mistake.”

  But Michael’s tail thumped happily, as if he knew that it wasn’t a mistake at all, and as if he knew he was going home. While she drove, she kept a constant train of CDs going, all her old favorites, trying to fill the space and to keep herself from thinking about what she was actually doing. She was afraid if she really considered all things carefully and the limited chances of success, she would simply turn back and forget the whole thing. And she really didn’t want to turn back.

  It was afternoon by the time she reached the cabin. Michael was so happy that he leaped from the car and ran around in circles, barking wildly and rolling in the snow. She immediately went inside and started a fire. She knew the cabin would feel like an ice chest after sitting vacant for more than a week. Then, taking her time, she unloaded her things. She had already decided not to visit Garret and Anna today. She needed some time to settle in, to prepare herself and gather up her nerve. But she could take Michael for a nice long walk—she had promised him as much yesterday. Of course, she had expected it to be within the city limits at the time. Now, the space was limitless, or so it seemed.

  With the fire stoked up and burning brightly, she bundled up in preparation for their walk. She tried not to remember their last walk—the time when they’d become lost and nearly frozen in the woods. But then it had turned out all right, all things considered. For how else would she have met them? Fortunately, there was no threat of snow today. The sky was perfectly clear and bluer than a robin’s egg, and the snow shone clean and bright, recently dusted with a fresh coat of powder.

  “All right, Michael,” she said as she opened the door. “Let’s go!”

  Everything was the same as she remembered—only better. Much, much better! The trees seemed taller and greener, and the smell—why, the smell was almost intoxicating. Why hadn’t she noticed that before? Air so clean and fresh, a person might become rich if they could somehow bottle it up and sell it as a health tonic in the city. She paused to notice the various tracks crisscrossing through the snow, the usual rabbits and squirrel and deer and birds. Oh, what a story something as simple as snow could tell! She continued on until she came to the dead tree, then stopped just to admire its flawless form once again dusted with glistening snow. Of course, she realized—she must paint it! She walked around, considering it from various angles, finally deciding on the way she always found it on her walks, pointing to the right, as if indicating which way the trail went. She was glad she’d brought her camera to the cabin this time. She’d have to remember to carry it with her on all her walks. Who knew what other great things she might discover out here, things full of inspiration and worthy of painting—

  Suddenly she stopped. Frozen in her tracks, she stared down at the trail before her. Her hand flew to her mouth, but in the same instant she told herself not to worry, that it was nothing really. Nothing that should concern her anyway. Not really. Still she stayed put. Michael paused up ahead, turning to look back at her, his head cocked to one side as if to inquire about why she’d stopped.

  “It’s okay, boy,” she finally assured him, forcing herself to continue walking forward and averting her eyes from what it was that had so stunned her.

  Three sets of footprints. There were three sets of footprints today. Two pairs looked familiar. She easily recognized them as Garret and Anna’s—the same she had seen so many times before. But the third set, the new ones, looked to be a woman’s boots—about the same size as her own. She knew this for certain on first glance. And in her mind’s eye she could see the three of them walking together too. The happy family—husband and wife and child.

  Well, of course, she chided herself, why wouldn’t he have a wife? And why shouldn’t sweet Anna have a mother? It was only normal. What had made her think otherwise? Certainly nothing he’d said, and nothing from Anna had misled her in this regard. It had simply been her own stupid assumption. The wife probably worked, maybe in the city. Perhaps she kept things together in their home while Garret went off to write in the woods. And why not? She knew plenty of people who lived somewhat independent lives—especially creative people. Oh, why hadn’t she seriously considered this possibility before? She brushed away a cold tear that had streaked down her cheek, and fighting against the lump in her throat, told herself to be an adult. “Get over it!” she said in a sharp voice, causing Michael to turn and look curiously at her.

  “Not you, Michael,” she said in a friendly but forced tone. “You’re a good ol’ boy.” Happy with this praise, he continued along, and obediently she followed him, moving her feet like a pair of leaden boots and wishing she were at the bridge so she could finish her walk, turn back, and go home—back to San Francisco.

  She blew out a long puff of air, watching it turn into white steam as it hit the frigid air, then quickly vanished. And what difference did it make that he was married anyway? What was it to her? It certainly didn’t change anything. Garret and Anna had still been good friends to her. Good grief, they had literally saved her life. So why on earth should she think of them any differently now? It was silly for her to react like this. Childish even. And, she told herself sternly, she would still give Anna that portrait—partly as a thank-you and partly as a Christmas present. A very valuable present, of course, but then Anna was special. And for some reason Claire felt she deserved the portrait. Sure, it wouldn’t be easy to take it up to their door and perhaps risk meeting the mother—the wife—but then, it would be necessary. A
nd maybe it was a good way for her to simply close this door and move on.

  Claire paused at the bridge, taking a moment to touch it, then turned around and began walking quickly back, averting her eyes from the trail in front of her. But as she walked, she prayed. She confessed to God that she felt disappointed and sad by this new revelation. But she also asked him to help her move through it.

  “You’ve gotten me through so much more than this,” she said aloud as she walked. “I know you can help me with this too. I trust you.”

  It was just getting dusky when they reached the cabin, and despite her longing to get out of that place, to return to the city and to never, never look back, she realized the wisdom in waiting until morning before she made her final exodus. Besides, she needed to drop off the painting for Anna. She briefly considered calling Jeannie and telling her the disappointing news, but what if Jeannie used this as an excuse not to pursue her chances with Leo? Claire would wait until she returned to the city—or maybe even after the holidays. Why should she crash their happy Christmas gathering and be forced to share her pathetic story? Then, realizing that Jeannie might actually call her, she unplugged and turned off her cell phone. She had no desire to hear Jeannie’s voice oozing with sympathy. That would only serve to unleash the sadness inside her—the sadness that she had, so far, managed to keep mostly at bay.

  She went to bed early that night, worried that this most recent distress might disturb her sleep with restlessness or troubling dreams, but when she awoke the next morning, she felt surprisingly rested and peaceful. While she went about her chores of cleaning and repacking, and finally reloading the Jeep, she could almost feel Michael’s confusion; he studied her with quiet canine curiosity—as if he somehow knew she was making a huge mistake. Perhaps he wanted to ask her if she really intended to take him back to the confines of that city, but being a dog, he simply remained silent but watchful.