One Snowy Week in Springhollow

by Lucy Knott

  The glow of the moon lights up Devon’s tidy room. I can see that’s he’s unpacked, making himself at home, his suitcase put away neatly in the corner and for some reason that makes me smile. He switches on the bedside lamp and pulls off his hoodie. I go to do the same with my coat, my clothes damp from the afternoon chill, making me shiver, but get caught, unable to untie the knot in the toggles. My fingers are frozen and sore in contrast to the heat of the room, making it difficult for me to get a grip, and I keep going cross-eyed looking down at my chest to untie the top one.

  I look in the mirror to avoid the dizziness and locate the knot when Devon steps behind me and reaches over my shoulders to help. Instantly my body heats. He must have turned the heat on full blast, noticing my struggle with my icy fingertips, but as his hand brushes over my collarbone to the base of my neck I feel my spine tingle and I can’t be one hundred per cent certain the temperature of the room is the reason for my flushed cheeks. I can feel his warm breath on my ear. I watch his movements in the mirror, his lips graze my earlobe and I feel like I’m floating with his gentle touch. When he lets out a low groan my nerves get the best of me.

  ‘D?’ I say, turning to him before my eyes threaten to roll back with pleasure. I lift them up to face him. He looks like home, his features soft in the dim light. I want to pull him close, the only person who seems to be able to knock down my wall and make me want more, to give more of myself, but the foundations I have built are still there, the layer that remains terrified that makes me divert to casual chit-chat and humour to put distance between us.

  ‘D? Did you just groan?’ I chuckle and smirk playfully, patting him in the chest. His eyes fly open, my voice not quite filled with the sarcasm I was relying on and instead more of a croaky longing and wistfulness.

  He pulls at my toggles, successfully undoing the knot and laughs, clearing his throat.

  ‘Err, ha no. Are you wearing perfume? It caught in my throat.’ He makes a choking noise.

  Our eyes remain locked on each other’s and I can sense we’re both trying to read what’s behind them when there’s a knock at the door, snapping us out of our trances. Devon jumps and turns away, sliding a finger over the neck of his T-shirt as if to loosen it.

  I play with the now-untied toggle and make to take my coat off, its dampness now seeping into my skin, but I freeze when Devon pulls open the door and Ruby is standing there in a silvery shimmering dress, her eyelashes fluttering manically as she announces, ‘They need you downstairs, Devon.’ And barges into the room with a clothes rack in tow.

  ‘OK, can you give me a minute?’ Devon stammers but his question goes unanswered as she swings the rack next to the bed. When she looks up and her eyes finally find mine, her lashes stop fluttering as a perfectly evil scowl takes over her face. I manage a smile as I pull my coat back over my shoulders and suddenly want to be anywhere but here.

  I start to gather my things as Devon comes over to me. He bends down so he is closer to my ear. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow at the fair, Scar.’ His breath tickles my ear and my stomach flips at the excitement in his tone. He’s quiet enough that it’s like our little secret but I can feel Ruby’s hawk eyes watching his every move. Then out of nowhere he leans in and hugs me. It’s the warmest hug I’ve ever received. When he moves away, I half expect to see two hearts on his tummy; like he’s Love-a-Lot Bear in disguise, sent to spread joy and love to everyone with hugs alone.

  I nod, smile and walk to the door. I’m not even out of the room when Ruby makes a big show of grabbing Devon’s forearm and placing one hand on his chest and says, ‘We need you out of those clothes, mister, try this on first,’ with a tight smirk on her face. Does Devon know that she’s flirting? Does he like it?

  The thoughts wander through my mind as I make my way back to my house. My insides are a ball of confusion. My body still tingles from Devon’s touch and I get a ridiculous spark of electricity rushing through my veins when I think back to Devon’s lips being so close to mine earlier. What would I have done if he kissed me? Did I want him to kiss me?

  Devon had been the most special person in my life for sixteen solid years; we’d done everything together, but that didn’t equate to romantic love. We were just kids having fun. Seeing him now after all these years, it’s just a piece of nostalgia, a comfort zone that I am slipping back into and you’re not supposed to fall back into your comfort zone – everyone knows that. Then again, since Devon has arrived, I have been taking more steps out of my comfort zone – drawing again, skating again, dreaming again – and it feels amazing. There is something new, exciting, and different about our grown-up relationship, something comforting yet wild and inspired.

  But then there is Ruby. Ruby, the kind of woman who would fit into his new life; she would flourish in all the glitz and the glam and she is clearly making an effort to put herself out there and let Devon know she wants him. The gossip mill certainly ate them up as a couple if what Hope is telling me about the latest headlines are anything to go by.

  Stepping into my hallway, I lock the door behind me, check on Ed and follow my feet up the stairs and into my office. Without thinking I sit at my desk, pick up a pencil crayon and get lost in drawing; allowing all my conflicting emotions to melt away with each pencil stroke, while “Think like Scarlett” ricochets around my mind.

  17

  I toss and turn in my fluffy sheets as my brain registers the familiar constant beeping of my alarm. Taking in a deep breath I can smell the last batch of gingerbread cookies I had made last night dancing throughout the house, which makes me less cranky about my alarm going off at six a.m. on a Saturday after I’d not long since fallen asleep. I’d stayed up until I finished my comic book and then my mind had wandered back down the dangerous half-pipe of thinking about Devon and Ruby together and reminiscing about mine and Devon’s more intimate moments that we have shared since his reintroduction to my life, so I had ventured in to the kitchen.

  Wanting to avoid, with every fibre of my being, what I didn’t want to admit were jealous bubbles when I thought of Ruby and the tingly feelings the latter evoked, I had set about adding the final touches to today’s centrepiece and baking two batches of cookies to keep my mind occupied with much safer thoughts. One cup of molasses, two cups of flour, a pinch of this and that, until my eyelids were practically lead, and I knew I probably shouldn’t be operating an oven and that I’d drift off without a second thought.

  My forearms prickle with goose bumps as I make the first move to get out of the warm confines of my bed. I scrape my sweeping fringe back into a grippy clip and stretch my legs out in front of me, my toes tickling the wall, just as I hear a knock at the door. Then it all goes quiet and I wonder for a minute if I had just been hearing things, but then the knock comes again and this time there’s more thought behind it.

  Two knocks, one knock, a fast three knocks, followed by two more slow knocks and then silence. A grin spreads faster than the Flash across my face before I can catch it. I shoot out of bed ignoring the iciness that meets my toes the minute they connect with the wooden floorboards. I only just avoid a collision with my wall as I race down the stairs.

  Whatever conflicting and confusing thoughts were flying around my head last night disappear as quick as Susan Storm as I hear mine and Devon’s secret childhood knock. I feel like a kid again, which makes my stomach perform a triple flip, causing me to misstep and careen down the last three stairs like an avalanche.

  ‘Scar?’ I hear from the other side of the door.

  ‘I’m good,’ I shout, jumping up. I pat myself down and tell myself to play it cool as I yank open the front door with a bright smile. Devon is stood on the step wearing a black parka, striped scarf, five o’clock shadow and one of his beaming smiles. His nose is a little red from the cold and snowflakes fall in light flurries behind him. I notice the lines and crinkles around his eyes and mouth from the way he talks so expressively all the time, and his deep brown eyes are twinkling under the early sunrise. This
time I don’t think I can blame my stomach for the uncomfortable shift inside me. I’m pretty sure the sizzle and pounding is coming from a little higher up; in my heart.

  Devon’s grin widens as I just stand there, my legs turning to icicles.

  ‘I brought breakfast,’ he announces holding up the bag in his hand, which snaps me to attention with the mouth-watering cinnamon aroma of its contents.

  ‘You didn’t?’ I start, waving him and the bag in. ‘You bought us cinnamon twists?’ I ask, closing the door and practically skipping around him as he heads for the kitchen.

  ‘I sure did,’ he replies, shaking the bag above his head, teasing me as I hear the cinnamon sugar crashing around inside it.

  *

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Rolph,’ Devon and I say in unison.

  ‘Good morning, my dears, what can I get you today?’ Mrs Rolph asks us. D and I are bundled up and ready for the Christmas fair, coins in our hands that our mums gave us for our Christmas fair breakfast tradition.

  ‘Please can I have a cinnamon twist,’ we say again in sync.

  ‘Sure thing,’ Mrs Rolph replies. She takes our coins and hands us our warm, delicious treats then eyes us suspiciously. ‘Have either of you seen Bonny lately? My old cat seems to have wandered off,’ she asks, peering over the counter causing both Devon and I to take a massive bite of our twists, shake our heads with our mouths full and run away.

  *

  My heart does another flutter at the memory as I watch Devon pouring the contents of the bag onto a plate. His tall and grown-up stature doesn’t seem out of place in my kitchen. He somehow, after only two visits, knows where everything is; which I can only attribute to him knowing how my brain works in regards to where I would keep things, and I find myself smiling at the thought as he takes a seat at the table.

  My stomach rumbles, reminding me that the cinnamon twists are to be eaten and not admired. I immediately flush as that thought takes a naughty turn, making me avert my eyes from Devon and busy myself with the kettle to make coffee.

  By the time I turn back around Devon has placed a cinnamon twist on to my plate but has yet to start eating. He’s just staring at me, holding his fork aloft, elbow on the table, dimple in his right cheek. I place our coffees by our plates and take a seat, grabbing my fork and diving in.

  ‘What?’ I say through a mouthful of delectable flaky pastry.

  ‘Nothing,’ Devon says, using the side of his fork to cut the twist, his head bowing down like he’s suddenly gone shy.

  ‘Your cheeks have gone red,’ I point out, smiling now because he looks kind of cute when his cheeks go red. There must be way too much sugar in this twist because I should not be thinking of Devon as cute.

  He chews thoughtfully and then shrugs casually, a cheeky glint washing over his eyes.

  ‘Do you own a pair of pyjama pants?’ He chuckles and now it’s my turn to blush furiously and in front of him this time.

  *

  After we devoured breakfast in comfortable silence, I excused Devon to the living room first so as to not flash my knickers further from under my baggy tee and got ready in record time so that we would make it on time to the fair for early set-up. I was even more grateful for Devon’s presence this morning when he helped carry the gingerbread houses while I carried the plethora of bags holding my boxes and boxes of gingerbread cookies and pieces.

  It was only a short walk but not having to make a dozen trips was appreciated with the snow falling heavier and the ice glistening from some precarious spots already in the early hours.

  Hope and Jess were already milling about our booth, twinkling lights strung and an array of Village Gazette magazines expertly decorating one of our tables. Hope had left a space in the middle and placed a cake stand ready for our gingerbread house to take centre stage. I left the bags on top of the adjacent table while Devon helped set the house down to do the big reveal for Hope.

  ‘What’s in that box?’ Hope asks eagerly when Devon gently pops the other box next to my biscuits that I have yet to unwrap. Her cheeks are positively red from the morning air’s icy nip and no doubt her buzzing around trying to get everything perfect.

  ‘Hold your horses, I want to show you this one first,’ I say mock exasperated, but her excitement is contagious. The sunrise, the sparkling lights, the glittering Christmas trees huddled in every one’s booths, this morning’s throwback to childhood eating cinnamon twists with Devon on the best day of the year – sometimes the fair is better than Christmas Day, with all its joy and magic – and Hope smiling at me expectantly, I get a flurry of snowflakes whizzing around in my stomach. Hope gathers closer to me. Devon and Jess are stood back, hands in pockets watching us both in our giddy states with grins on their faces.

  I take the lid off the box on the stand and carefully fold down the sides and slide the box from under the silver tray the house is iced onto for security measures. Hope gasps and I feel a swell of pride looking at my replica of our office building made in gingerbread form as all the intricate details are exaggerated with all the highlights and shadows caused by the sunrise and festive lights shining around it.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, look at that wreath and look at all the bricks, oh and you got the front door simply perfect. Didn’t I tell you she was amazing?’ Hope is walking around inspecting each side of the gingerbread building. Jess steps closer, putting an arm on her shoulder. I’m not entirely sure who she told I was amazing because she doesn’t look up; her eyes are trained on taking in the features of our centrepiece.

  ‘It’s awesome, Scarlett, everyone’s going to love it,’ Jess tells me with a smile.

  ‘OK, OK, I had another idea while I was baking.’ I start moving around to our other table where everyone will be able to decorate a gingerbread cookie; I made gingerbread men, houses and trees for them to choose from. Jess and Hope follow me; Devon is stood close by near the tree, a smile on his face watching my current performance. He’s quiet, which is unusual, and his eyes look a little misty but I’m wary of the time and that soon there will be giddy kids and cheery adults swarming our booth. We need to finish setting up and putting up all our signs. I will have to check in with him later and see if he’s all right.

  ‘So, I thought, when everyone comes to decorate a biscuit, that they could add some decoration to this house.’ I repeat the box number one process with box number two, to reveal a plain undecorated house. ‘That way at the end of the day we will have a house that has been created by the whole village. We could do a raffle to raise money for the Gazette and the winner gets to take it home for Christmas Day.’

  I barely get the word day out of my mouth when Hope attacks me with a hug. ‘You are a genius – a festive, Christmas fair genius. I love it so much. The village is going to love it. Have I told you before, your creative genius is wasted being my personal assistant? Talk about village spirit, oh I can’t wait to see what everyone creates together,’ Hope says, clapping her hands, squeezing me again and then bouncing off to get our banner, tugging Jess with her to help. I adjust the communal gingerbread house on its silver tray, better to leave this one flat on the table so the kids can reach it, rather than on a cake stand. It will help avoids wobbles too. I begin to unpack the boxes of gingerbread cookies, icing and decorations and spread them across the table in an inviting way, when Devon wanders over.

  ‘I know I haven’t been around for your previous Christmas escapades, but I think you’ve outdone yourself this year. Everything looks awesome, Scar, way beyond awesome actually, like beyond awesome,’ he says, putting one arm around my shoulder and dropping a kiss on the top of my head as I step back to admire the table. From the top of my head right down to the tips of my toes I feel a rush of warmth. Such a kind and gentle gesture feels intimate coming from Devon. I automatically rest my head against his chest, a sense of contentment overwhelming me.

  ‘I was feeling extra inspired this year,’ I say smiling at him. It’s the truth. With Devon around my creative juices are flowing
freely again. While baking last night, after finishing my first comic book, all the ideas I had as a kid came flooding back and then some. My hands are itching to get back to the drawing board again. But if I’m not careful, right now, I’m close to falling back to sleep nuzzled up in Devon’s parka. Saving me from doing so I feel a tug on my coat, which snaps me back to attention. Looking down I see two green eyes staring up at me.

  ‘Miss Scarlett, can I do a biscuit please?’ I recognise the girl to be the daughter of Mrs May from the sweet shop. I know Mrs May will be busy getting her stall ready and I’m pleased ours is just about done. I have a few signs to pop up around the decorating table, but I can do that while Penny is decorating; she shouldn’t be a problem.

  ‘Of course, Pen, let me get a spot for you. What would you like to decorate?’ I ask, unfolding a chair for her to sit on and retrieving one of the paper plates I brought with me. They’re Christmas ones with little snowmen and Christmas trees on them.

  ‘A Christmas tree, please,’ she replies her eyes growing wide when she gets closer to the table and sees all the yummy sprinkles. I pop a tree on her plate and encourage her to help herself and to have fun before turning to Devon.

  ‘I’ll be busy on here for a little while, but you go and explore. You’re under strict instruction to enjoy every morsel of this festive gathering. By time you come back you should be stuffed to the brim and nearly Christmassed out, though save the mulled wine for me and I can maybe join you later if Hope and I can get a short break each,’ I say wagging my finger at him, grinning from ear to ear, Christmas joy well and truly weaving its way through my veins now.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Devon and I both turn to Penny who is looking at us both through puppy-dog eyes. ‘Can superheroes decorate cookies for Santa too?’ Without missing a beat Devon’s already animated nature becomes extra enthusiastic but with a more soft and gentle approach, when he takes a seat next to her exclaiming, ‘They absolutely can.’