Snowfall: A Romantic Christmas Story

by Rusty Fischer

Snowfall:

  A Romantic Christmas Story

  By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake

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  Snowfall

  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: © Avel Krieg – Fotolia.com

  This story was formerly released under the title “First Snowfall in Snowflake.”

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  Author’s Note:

  The following is a FREE 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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  Snowfall:

  A Romantic Christmas Story

  She is flighty and nervous and high-strung and antsy and I know before stepping off the elevator straight into her penthouse apartment that working for Fern Chamomile is going to make for one helluva Christmas Eve.

  “Thank GOD!” she says the minute I step onto the marble floor of her spacious foyer, juggling a chafing dish in one hand and her menu for the evening in the other. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you?”

  I don’t have to look at my watch to ready my reply: “Ms. Chamomile, I’m 20-minutes early!”

  She looks vaguely… disappointed.

  “Oh,” she says, recovering quickly and flashing her large, brown eyes at me. “Well, I always tell my advertising clients if you’re not 30-minutes early, then you’re already late!”

  “Yes ma’am,” I grumble, figuring that even if I’d said I was 30-minutes early, she still would have complained about not being 40-minutes early.

  “And quit calling me ‘ma’am,’ already. I doubt I’m much older than you, uh…”

  She leaves that little pause there at the end; the one where I’m supposed to say my name.

  “Scott,” I say, passing over her gilded gold and silver holiday menu and extending my hand after she’s snatched it from me.

  She ignores it and says, “Great; good. Scott it is, then. Okay, Scott, why don’t you start setting up over there on the grand buffet overlooking the water? I’ve got some last minute calls to make, so…”

  Her voice fades out as her back turns toward me; I’ve just been dismissed.

  I shrug and slide the heavy chafing dish – the first of many – onto a low-slung table covered by a thick, black cloth.

  While she’s frantically working the phone, I sneak a peek out the floor to ceiling window of her spacious, sunken living room; 12 stories below us the Atlantic Ocean pounds the dull, gray beach with intensity so fierce I can hear it all the way through the thick hurricane glass.

  I sigh and turn, gazing at the crisp white walls covered only with small, oval mirrors in muted, silver frames.

  The furnishings are equally minimal; low-slung white leather chairs dotting the dark hardwood floors with a small, silver table next to each.

  A fireplace dominates the far wall, crisply crackling and surrounded by a roughhewn mantel filled with a variety of shapes and sizes of snow globes; all with silver bases, all featuring silver snowflakes inside.

  Between them are simple glass votives featuring flickering white candles.

  From somewhere overhead, well-disguised ceiling speakers play quiet, soft, instrumental Christmas music; it’s a mix between that slow, arty Winter Solstice stuff my Dad loves and the mellow but funky smooth jazz Christmas carols my Mom listens to, pretty much from the day after Halloween until Valentine’s Day Eve.

  In the middle of the room is a towering Christmas tree, 12-feet tall if it’s an inch, flocked with fake, white snow and covered in white lights and dangling silver ornaments.

  Even though it’s only midday, the sky outside Fern’s six sliding glass doors is savage and gray; they’ve been warning of an early snowfall since I got into work at six this morning.

  I retreat to the elevator, ride it all the way back down and sling the dolly out of the back of the Simply Snowflake delivery van.

  Christmas Eve is our busiest day, and all around town the forest green delivery trucks with the famous gold lettering are pulling up to big houses and fancy condos and office buildings, unloading the finest holiday treats from the bustling Simply Snowflake kitchen.

  Tonight Fern has ordered the Platinum Special for 30; enough warm and cold hors d’ oeuvres, bubbly champagne and finger foods to feed her entire high-powered, ad agency client list – and then some.

  Which means even after an hour spent going up and down, down and up to her pricey penthouse loft and back again, I’ve still got another hour of back and forth to go.

  And that’s before I can start setting up in her actual apartment.

  The snow starts, fat and heavy, just as I’m piling the last load on the dolly; two more cases of champagne, a flat of clean tablecloths and two boxes of clear, white Christmas lights to string between the ice buckets and chafing dishes on the endless buffet table.

  I stow the dolly just inside the lobby, move the delivery van out of the loading bay and into a parking space around back, then return to load the last dolly into Fern’s private elevator.

  Upstairs I unload the last of the boxes in the shimmering foyer only to find Fern on the patio, smoke billowing from between her thick, if pursed lips.

  At first I figure it’s just because it’s so darn cold, but then I see the thin pack of cigarettes and short black lighter clutched for dear life in her left hand.

  I let her have her “secret” and get to work, feeling the chill blast through the living room as she stumbles back inside some five minutes later.

  “Looks good,” she says absently, but the compliment doesn’t stop her from rearranging a spray of silver spray-painted twigs I’d arranged next to the spotless champagne glasses.

  I smirk and begin warming the individual baked brie in her oven, rotating them with the bacon-wrapped scallops to ensure freshness and just the right “crispness” in both.

  Meanwhile the champagne is chilling, the red wine is breathing and I find Fern to ask her where I can change into what my boss calls my “serving attire.”

  (And my ex-girlfriend Amber always called my “monkey suit.” You stay classy, Amber!!!)

  Fern looks nervous and distracted, biting her freshly manicured nails down to the quick as she paces back and forth in the empty foyer, her high heels making “clackety-clacking” noises with every long, athletic stride.

  “There’s a guest room in the back,” she says, looking me up and down with a brief flicker from those big brown eyes. “Try not to disrupt the vacuum pattern in the carpet, will you? I’m hoping to use it as a coat room if any of my frickin’ guests ever show up tonight!”

  I stifle a chuckle and try to do as she wishes; changing in the bathroom and hanging my work khakis and pine green Simply Snowflake pullover in the shower after I change into my black slacks, white shirt and thin black tie.

  I manage to exit the guest room without my thick-soled black work shoes leaving any damaging marks on her gray guest room carpet, only to find Fern practically whimpering into the phone, “But Miles, you’re the sixth guest to cancel in the last 20-minutes. Surely you’re not letting a little snow… yes, yes, I understand it’s more than a little slow, plus the slush. I want you to feel comfortable and I know it’s Christmas Eve… okay, fine. Sure, maybe New Year’s. I’d really like to nail down your account before… yes,
yes, ‘Merry Christmas’ to you too, Miles.”

  I stand in the kitchen, remaining silent while she stares at the phone.

  “Can you believe that?” she asks me, voice still hushed as her soft eyes meet mine. “They’re all bailing on me.”

  “All?” I ask, tempted to accuse her of exaggeration.

  After all, six guests canceling out of 30 is hardly cause for panic.

  “Not all,” she scoffs, giving me her officious look. “But enough. These aren’t friends and family, Scott; these are clients. Two or three clients backing out is bad. Six clients is… brutal.”

  I’m about to offer some small measure of condolence, or at least ask where she’d like me to stand when the guests who are coming do arrive, when the phone rings again; and again – and again.

  I get used to the awkward sound of her pleading voice, her disappointed voice, to watching her pace the heels off her sparkly silver shoes as her long, black-hosed legs work furiously up and down the length of the living room, spilling from her short silver skirt and matching brocade jacket.

  Her hair is raven black and keeps brushing against her high, stiff collar; in her