Snowbound Read online

  "Were you planning on eating dinner on Christmas Day?"

  "Of course I was. I am."

  "Yeah, well so was I, but, it doesn't make sense that we eat alone, or make two dinners, when we could have dinner together and keep each other company."

  "So, what's your suggestion?"

  "We can have a traditional Christmas dinner together. You make something American, I'll make something South African."

  "I don't know…"

  "Besides, I've never celebrated a traditional American Christmas."

  "Oh, that's blackmail." I smile at him, unable to resist his quick smile. He is not my type. He isn't all chocolaty skin and swagger, like Evan. But his eyes are captivating, and he looks like the kind of man who could take me standing up…and that thought is enough to send a sexy shiver through me.

  "Why?" He steps a little closer to me.

  "Because, now, I'm obligated to give you a traditional American Christmas, just because you say you've never had one," I huff. "For all I know, you've been living here in the States for years."

  "I haven't really lived here, but I worked here for a while."

  "See? So you probably had one, then."

  "Alright, I give, but you have to admit that having dinner together one time is better than both of us being Grumpy Guses on Christmas Day," he says with a smile. "On Boxing Day, we can go back to ignoring one another."

  "Boxing Day?"

  "It's the day after Christmas Day," he says. "So, is it a deal?"

  "Yes, okay, that sounds reasonable."

  We shake on it. Then I lift the coffee pot and ask him, "More coffee?"

  "Doesn't this violate our agreement?"

  "No, because I invited you in."

  "So, I'm like a vampire then. As long as you invite me in, it's okay."

  "When you put it that way…" And can you blame me for imagining a sexy Alexander Skarsgård a la True Blood vampire? "Yes."

  I spend the rest of the day looking for essentials—namely light bulbs, circuit breakers, anything that will help me get a better grip of the workings of this house. I've already figured out that I cannot shower and run the washing machine at the same time—the result is water pressure that is more like a trickle. It's also not a good idea to use the microwave and the toaster at the same time—a fuse will blow. Obviously, I need to sort out an electrician who can check the wiring. God forbid I buy a nice stereo system or flat screen TV and then I can't use them both together for the ultimate movie night. That would suck, immensely. Grandma Ruth must be spinning in her grave, wondering how she could have such an incompetent grandchild. Unlucky at love, and definitely no good at running a house.

  I almost don't hear the doorbell ring. I've found my grandmother's ancient vacuum cleaner and I am attacking the dust tumbleweeds in the living room which, after staying hidden yesterday when I arrived, have miraculously appeared out of nowhere. It's not until I pause to catch my breath that I hear the gentle plings of the doorbell, mimicking church bells. I go to the door and pull aside the café curtain. On the porch is my mother's childhood friend, Ruth Carter. She's carrying what looks like a casserole dish and a plastic bag full of recyclable paper. I throw open the door and welcome her inside.

  She bustles into the kitchen, saying, "Damn cold out today! My God, like I froze my left tit out there waiting for you to open the door."

  "Sorry, I didn't hear.."

  "Never you mind, we're indoors now. Where do you want this? My daughter insisted on making it for you, so I wouldn't eat it if I were you, but I couldn't leave the house without it."

  "You can just put it on the counter…what is it?"

  "Her signature tuna casserole. Trust me, you don't want to eat it. Bland as hell. Can't believe a daughter of mine could be such a bad cook."

  "Which of your daughters?" Ruth's two youngest daughters, Carrie and Laurie, and I used to hang out when I'd spend summers here. I haven't seen either of them in years, but I have heard about them through either Ruth's emails or my mom's gab session.

  "It's my youngest, Laurie," Ruth says with a shake of her head. She starts brewing coffee. I like that she comes in and just starts fixing things. It's like the old days. "She thinks she's a caterer these days. She does just fine with cake, but don't ask her to make real food."

  "So should I…?"

  "Just dump it out…or leave it for the raccoons, might keep them out of the trash cans. And if you see her in town, tell her you loved it. Then she'll bake you some cupcakes. At least they taste good. That's one thing I'll say for Laurie—she can't cook, but she can bake like there's no tomorrow."

  Ruth lets out a hearty laugh and then says, "Now, come over here and give your auntie Ruth some sugar."

  I give her a huge hug and, for the first time all day, feel like crying. She has always been more affectionate than my mother, despite her coming across as gruff and taciturn. It's hard to believe they grew up together. As she pats my back and tells me everything will be okay, the scent of lilacs fills my nose. Ruth's hug takes me back to my childhood.

  When I was ten, I wanted to know more about my father. By that time, I hadn't seen him since my sixth birthday and any attempts to find out where he was or why he never came to see me were met with silence or my mother suddenly banishing me to my room and declaring I was on punishment. I'd tried asking my mother, but she would just shake her head and say the less I knew about him, the better. I spent the entire spring snooping around our apartment in Philadelphia, trying to find clues to why my father left us. But my mother had been thorough in removing traces of him from her life. There were no postcards, no photo albums with snapshots of their life "pre-me", nor "post-me", other than pictures obviously taken at the hospital when I was first born and a picture of my father and me sitting on the porch steps of Grandma Ruth's house. That last picture was framed and on the mantelpiece in the living room. It was the only picture of my father that was ever on display.

  That summer, Ruth found me high up in the branches of one of her apple trees. I'd been there all afternoon, plotting how I'd run away and, like a kid private detective, track down my father's whereabouts and interrogate him until he told me everything. Ruth coaxed me out of the tree with the promise of ice cream and the information. We spent the rest of the afternoon in her kitchen, despite the sweltering heat. Ruth kept her promise. She told me everything she knew—how he married my mom when he was still married to someone else, how he lived high on the hog while my mom worked to keep a roof over our heads, and how he waited until my mom was at work to leave her and return to his "real" wife. She even offered to drive me to the town where my father lived. But it was enough for me to know that someone knew where to find him if we ever needed him. And that someone was Ruth Carter.

  After Ruth releases me from the hug, I end up telling her my sordid story. She doesn't interrupt, just lets me blurt it out and express my anger with Evan. When I come to the end, she gives my back one last pat and says, "You're better off without someone who pulls you into a relationship full of lies and deceit."

  I want to say that he didn't pull me into it, but that feels like a lie. I knew what I was getting into, but I don't think we would have carried on as long as we did if he hadn't encouraged me to believe that this was leading to something permanent, something we wouldn't have to hide.

  Then I think about Melissa, whom I've tried to ignore throughout the course of my relationship with Evan. She was there already at the beginning, when Evan was still single and bouncing between the two of us without ever making a commitment. I didn't care at first. She was so mousy and insignificant—she was the very picture of the awkward black girl who may as well be invisible with her unflattering haircut, her church girl dresses and all her talking about the Lord like there was no tomorrow. I couldn't believe Evan even noticed her. But, she was the one he took home to meet his parents. And she was the one he married. I won't pretend I wasn't hurt. Even when he warned me he was going to propose to her, I thought it was a joke. Why
would he propose to her when he could have me and he said he loved being with me? But that's the thing. He never said he loved me. And I accepted it.

  I ask Ruth if she thinks this makes me an idiot, and she tells me, "Hon, we've all got that one man who makes us stupid. Evan was yours. Titus Hicks was mine."

  She tells me her story—how Titus Hicks was the captain of the Hunters Grove High School football team; the golden boy with his dancing blue eyes and his sexy grin, the boy every girl in the school primped for, but who only had eyes for Ruth Carter née Thibauld. And she was crazy about him. Anything Titus asked for, he got. Whether it was for her to bring him lunch every day, or for her to meet him under the bleachers for a make-out session. He got it. One night he convinced her to go all the way with him, said it was their way of sharing their love and she went for it.

  "And just like that he cast me aside. Found himself a virgin, a girl named Lucy Connor, and left me in the lurch." Ruth says grimly. "And your mother, brilliant woman that she is—now don't look at me like that, Mia Wilkinson. Your mother may be flaky, but she is a true friend, always has been. Your mother distracted me with a project—she wrangled me into the glee club and the next thing you know, I'm singing my heart out, instead of crying my life away over some bubblehead jerk."

  "I can't picture you in the glee club," I say with a smile. Ruth plants a motherly kiss on the top of my head and we take our cups of coffee into the living room. It's cozier there, now that the heat is working and the last rays of winter sunlight are filtering in through the windows.

  "Well, I was," she chuckles. "And now I am here with a project for you, to keep you from dwelling on the cad in your life."

  "Did my mom ask you to do this?"

  "She did, and we both agreed you need something to fill your heart with joy."

  "You didn't think my tenant would fit the bill?"

  Ruth raises her eyebrows. "Jake? I'm sure he's more than capable. Good looking boy like that could fill any red-blooded woman's heart with joy."

  "Oh stop it, Ruth. He's young enough to be your son."

  "A woman can dream. They didn't make them like him when I was your age."

  "I'm not here to meet anyone new."

  "Mmm-hmm, well, maybe Santa decided you needed someone new."

  I shake my head. "I hope not."

  "Well, then you can come sing with a bunch of us old folks. We could use some powerful lungs."

  "In church?"

  "Good lord, no. I'm talking about our annual Christmas Carols on the Green."

  "You know I can't sing."

  "We don't care about that, we want your energy. And you need a distraction. And you only have to do it twice."

  "Twice?"

  "In the afternoon, we go to the old folks home on Sugarloaf Drive, and then in the evening we sing on the green."

  "I don't know…"

  "You got any better plans for your Christmas Eve?"

  "Just a bowl of popcorn, some white wine and either Miracle on 34th Street or Love, Actually."

  "Come sing with us and you can cocoon yourself in here afterwards. It'll be just the dose of holiday spirit you need." Ruth looks around. "And while you're at it, you could start sprucing up the place and putting up some decorations in here. You know your grandmother wouldn't abide a house without Christmas decorations."

  I hadn't even thought about decorations. The living room does look bland without them. I'll have to go through the attic and find her boxes of decorations. Christmas was one of Grandma Ruth's favorite holidays. She would put electric candles in every window and hang a huge wreath on the front door. The closer we came to Christmas Eve, the more decorations she'd find—stockings to hang from the hearth, Nativity scenes to set on window sills, stuffed Santa dolls, centerpieces with red church candles sticking from the center. And the house always smelled of cinnamon and clementines.

  "I'll start tomorrow," I assure Ruth. She's right. It would probably cheer me up to have some Christmas spirit in the house. I haven't even begun Christmas shopping.

  "And you'll come on Saturday for our first rehearsal."

  "Okay, okay. Where is it?"

  "Just come across the yard to my house. We always practice in my living room. Don't be tardy. We start at 7PM, sharp."

  "Should I bring anything?"

  "Some sticky buns from Aunty Mo's are always welcome," Ruth suggests. "I'll supply the beverages. There's twelve of us, just so you know."

  "Okay. Anything else I need to do?"

  "Practice your Christmas carols. I left you the packet of songs in the kitchen."

  "You knew I would say yes."

  "Of course I did. I'm your godmother, my dear. I know these things."

  Ruth pulls me into another hug and then pats my cheek. "You're a beautiful girl, Mia. I just wish you'd stop selling yourself short."

  I smile weakly at her. If I am such a wonderful person, why can't I find someone to love me? But, I don't ask this question. I know the answer won't come from Ruth or from anyone else.

  She lets herself out with a reminder for me to get the sticky buns and to decorate. I nod and say, "I promise. I'll make a reminder on my phone."

  I watch her through the window as she crosses the snowy yard. She stops in front of Jake's and waves at him. I expect him to wave back without coming out, but he actually comes out in shirt sleeves and gives Ruth a bear hug. No wonder she likes him so much. The two of them laugh at a shared joke, then turn and look my way. I back away from the window. I feel like a schoolgirl caught eavesdropping. And I don't even know why I feel so embarrassed.

  5 Deck the Halls: Mia

  Rule #2 No unannounced visits and no social calls. We both want to be left alone so let's keep it that way...

  My list seems to be working. It's been five days since I last saw Jake—with the exception of the one time we both ended up at Aunty Mo's, the local diner, at the same time. We both kept our end of the deal; we were civil and we didn't share a table. Some of the locals eyed us curiously. They all know he's my tenant. One of the waitresses asked Jake if I was always so stroppy but he said, "Mia's not stroppy. She's just trying to have a little privacy." He sounded so sincere when he said it that I almost wanted to go over to him and thank him. But I just ate my plate of blueberry pancakes in silence and scanned the Hunters Grove Gazette.

  Today feels like a good day; my first good day in a while. I hadn't woken up feeling like a complete failure. The heating system is going fine, belching out its usual morning symphony of clanks and sputters as it pushes steam through the pipes. I've showered and changed into a pair of my grandmother's old overalls with my favorite red turtleneck and a pair of flannel thermals underneath. I don't bother to put on any make-up. And my hair, which is in desperate need of a hairstylist, has been pulled back into a messy bun.

  I should be working on my last copywriting project for my soon-to-be-ex-client, Taylor Harrington Cosmetics, but my drive to please them is dwindling. I've worked for them for close to three years as a freelance copywriter, tackling all their copy needs for their Color Cosmetics section. The team I worked with was indecisive and terminally late with every project. I always delivered on time, but now I've been the one who's been let go, since I wasn't employed full-time and, as their category manager repeated during our last phone call, "These are challenging times, Mia." But I notice they haven't fired anyone else yet, so I can't see how getting rid of me will suddenly solve all their financial woes. This last piece of copy is for the company's make-up blog with tips and tricks for the best way to wear their latest lipstick. It's the sort of copy that isn't very taxing, but that everyone puzzles over for weeks. Usually, I write several drafts and then they decide the first version was perfect.

  Since I've been in Hunters Grove, I've had three email about the copy. Everyone seems to think that since I am not in Philadelphia I am shirking my responsibilities. I've already sent them a new draft. I sent it to them before I left the city. Now, they want a new draft and they bomba
rd me with questions as to when I plan on coming back to Philadelphia. What does it matter? They've canceled my contract. I am only fulfilling my contractual obligations until the end of December, when my contract was scheduled to be up for renewal.

  But today, I don't feel like working. I've told myself that I am going to finish decorating the house. I already spent part of the last few days searching for my grandmother's boxes of Christmas decorations. So far, I've only found three in her attic. Oh God…then it means I have to break the agreement. After I made Jake swear we wouldn't bother one another with unnecessary requests to invade the other's privacy, now I may have to do so. My grandmother often stored seasonal decorations in the guest house attic. His car isn't in the driveway,, so I could possibly sneak in but what if he caught me? Would he be furious that I took such liberties? Or would he be nonchalant and not even care? The spare keys to the guest house are on my key ring from my college days. I never returned them to my grandparents, even though I always promised I would. I liked knowing I had the freedom to go there whenever I needed to.

  I slide my rag-sock covered feet into my snow boots and then bundle into my down jacket. Outside, the Vermont air is crisp and crystalline. As I trek across the yard, invisible snowflakes flutter onto my skin. I leave a trail of blurry footprints in the snow. More snow is on its way. According to the local radio station, we're expecting five more inches tonight.

  In Philadelphia they'd be panicking at the thought of five inches of snow. Right about now, Melissa would be rushing to the store with all the others, emptying the shelves of bread, eggs, and milk, while I would happily survive on ramen noodles and pizza, knowing all my favorite takeout places would be open again in a day or two. Evan used to get perturbed with me that I didn't take snow in Philadelphia seriously. He never considered how much snow I was used to every winter in Vermont. He forgot that black people lived in Vermont.

  There aren't many of us here. We only make up around 2 percent of the population. A few years ago, the state of Vermont launched a campaign to attract more minorities to the state, but I don't think anyone took them up on their offer. When I was driving up, I only encountered New Yorkers and Bostonians on their way to the ski resorts. They were so conspicuous in their SUVs and their brand-spanking-new ski parkas. None of them knew the lingo and the locals at the rest stop regarded them with the usual suspicion they have for anyone—regardless of skin color—who doesn't sound like they are from southern Vermont. Jake probably went through it too. But, he is so down-to-earth that they probably gave him a quick appraisal and decided he was an honorary Vermonter.