Sleepless in Snowflake:
A Heartwarming Christmas Story
By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake
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Sleepless in Snowflake
Rusty Fischer
Copyright 2012 by Rusty Fischer
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This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Cover credit: © Syda Productions – Fotolia.com
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Author’s Note:
The following is a FREE holiday short story edited by the author himself. If you see any glaring mistakes, I apologize and hope you don’t take it out on my poor characters, who had nothing to do with their author’s bad grammar! Happy reading… and happy holidays!
Enjoy!
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Sleepless in Snowflake
“I don’t understand,” I sputter loudly, the holly lapel pin I’d worn especially for the occasion scratching my chin as I raise my arms in frustration. “Why did I buy an extra bed for my mother’s room if you won’t let me use it on occasion?”
The receptionist bites her lip – again! – before explaining, a little less patiently than last time, “Well, Mrs. Astor, we told you when you moved that bed in that the Snowflake Senior Center doesn’t allow overnight guests. Period. We thought you understood that at the time…”
She is a brusque and efficient woman who always insists I sign in first before visiting my mother. She is plump and petite, with rectangular glasses resting on her chubby cheeks. Tonight she has on a snowman sweater that is doing little to calm my already frazzled nerves.
“So I won’t stay the night,” I bluff, using my shiny leather deck shoe to slide my overnight bag slightly behind my left leg. “If I can just peek in on Mom and wish her Merry Christmas before I leave, I’m sure we’ll both feel so much better…”
“Mrs. Astor,” says the receptionist – “Vicki,” or so it says on her crisp burgundy and gold nametag – “Visiting hours are over for the night.”
“But how can that be?” I fairly shriek, the reception area of my mother’s nursing home deserted and quiet at this hour. That is, except for me and my unseasonal bellowing. “It’s barely…”
And that’s when I look at the clock above Vicki’s head.
And that’s when I see why Vicki here is giving me such attitude: it’s nearly midnight!
On Christmas Eve, no less.
“I-I-I’m SO sorry,” I sputter, avoiding Vicki’s eyes as I try to do a little quick damage control. “It’s just that, well, Mom always enjoyed spending Christmas Eve together and now…”
“Your Mom had a lovely evening tonight, Mrs. Astor, just so you know.”
There is a hint of judgment – maybe even triumph – in Vickie’s voice as she adds, “There was a sing-a-long, of course, and a visit from old St. Nick, complete with cookies and milk. I tucked her in personally several hours ago and she was asleep before her head hit the pillow. Tuckered out from all the festivities, I suppose. I’m sorry you couldn’t have made it earlier, but…”
“I had to work tonight too, you know?” I snap, fiercely, picking up my overnight bag and turning to go. “Maybe if I’ve had a little notice from you people, I could have rescheduled but…”
“Well,” Vicki says, a tad more sternly than before. “Tonight’s festivities were clearly marked – in red and green, no less – on your monthly calendar that we send out, and a special invitation went out two weeks ago as well…”
“Oh, I see,” I snap, voice rising again and me, red-faced, powerless to do anything about it. “So now it’s my fault that—”
“I’m sorry,” interrupts a strong voice, a male voice, from just out of sight. I turn to look and see a giant of a man in a smudged white chef cap and bearing a bemused grin standing just south of the reception area. “Is there anything I can help you two ladies with?”
“No, Jim,” Vicki says impatiently. “Just a little customer service issue I’m dealing with here. As if working on Christmas Eve isn’t hard enough!”
I open my mouth to lodge another protest when the gentle giant known as “Jim” takes another step forward and says, to me this time, “Aren’t you Mrs. Astor’s daughter? Molly, I think it is?”
“Why, yes. But, I’m not sure I’ve seen you here before…”
“Really?” he sighs, sounding a tad disappointed. “Well, I see you at every Mother-Daughter brunch, every Easter breakfast, and Thanksgiving buffet. You might recognize me as the guy in the chef hat doing all the carving and the dishing up.”
“Oh gosh,” I gasp, hand to mouth and the warmth of a three-alarm blush rising to my cheeks. “Of course you are. I’m so sorry. And I’m sorry if things got a little heated out here. It’s just, I thought I might be able to visit my Mom before it got too late.”
“And I already explained to her,” Vicki adds, as if I’m no longer standing two feet in front of her, “that it was already too late three dang hours ago!”
Jim smirks and reaches for the soft leather bag at my feet. “Let’s get you a cup of coffee and see if we can’t work something out, okay Molly?”
“Jim,” hisses Vicki as he hoists my bag as if it’s full of marshmallows and hot air. “I told her ‘no’ and ‘no’ means ‘no,’ thank you very much.”
“Even on Christmas Eve?” Jim asks over his shoulder, his back to her as he guides me down the entry hall and toward the empty dining room.
Vicki throws words at our backs but he moves quickly and so do I; too quickly to hear what she’s saying.
“But Mom’s room is that way,” I urge, literally tugging on his massive chef’s jacket as we pass the left hallway where Mom’s small suite of rooms is located.
“I know where Mrs. Astor stays,” says Jim. “But I promised you a cup of coffee and, frankly, I’m not sure you’re quiet enough to visit your Mom just yet.”
I gasp, let go of his arm and stand still, waiting for him to turn around so I can give him a piece of my mind – NOT so quietly, at that. Instead he keeps walking and, eventually, I follow.
What can I do? The man has my overnight bag, after all!
The dining room is dark and quiet at this hour but, as we push through two double doors behind the decorated carving station at the back, the massive, gleaming kitchen is anything but!
Water is hissing as a huge washing machine in the corner trembles and spits its way through another load. Turkeys steam and roast in massive ovens while a fresh batch of yeast roll dough tumbles and turns in a huge mixing bowl big enough for an entire family to swim inside.
Yet amidst it all, on a massive butcher’s block in the middle of all this noise and action, sits a sumptuous holiday oasis. A steaming pot of coffee rests next to a tray heaped with colorful Christmas cookies. Another tray is piled high with cheese and sausage and, next to that, rest snowflake covered paper plates and napkins.
“Were you expecting… company?” I ask as he sets my overnight bag on top of a nearby counter and then indicates a stool at the butcher’s block for me to sit on.
“It’s a little something I do for the staff each year,” he explains, sitting across from me and pouring dark, rich coffee into a clean white mug. “We have a skeleton crew on Christmas Eve, just Vicki up front, Bob the custodian and me. I make sure to have plenty of coffee and cookies and heartier snacks for them to nibble on every other hour or so throughout the night.”
I nod. “That’s nice of you. But… what are you doing here so late?”
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�What aren’t I doing?” he chuckles good-naturedly, face red and ruddy in the kitchen’s glowing heat. “I’ve got eight turkeys roasting in the ovens, fourteen dozen yeast rolls and gallons of mashed potatoes to make from scratch, so… I’m pretty much here until first thing in the morning when the day crew takes over.”
I nod and take a sip of the coffee. “Mmmmmm,” I say immediately, even before I help myself to two sugar cubes – sugar cubes!!! – and several dollops of fresh half-and-half. “This coffee is delicious.”
“It’s my own secret recipe,” he says, sitting back on his stool and watching me drink contentedly.
There is a silence, but not an awkward one, as I sip my coffee and try to calm my frazzled nerves.
Before he can speak again I murmur, “I’m sorry about that scene back there. You must think me some kind of holiday whacko or real housewife diva or something, trying to get in to see my mother so long after visiting hours were over.”
“Not at all,” he says, softly. “I guess I’m just wondering why it’s so important to you… this year?”
“This year?” I ask, putting my mug
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