Snowbound Snuggles

by T. F. Walsh

  Twice his prosthesis rose into momentary view. She weighed the consequences of a comment and decided to let him set the pace on that topic.

  “Good morning, Brad. Did Santa bring you a blonde for Christmas?”

  Laura glanced up at the speaker standing at the end of the booth and froze. Mahogany hair, special dark chocolate eyes, and a sharp defined chin matched her late husband all the way to a leather coat on a medium frame. It can’t be. Scott’s dead. I found his lifeless body.

  “Didn’t you get the memo? Santa’s a myth, my friend.” Brad’s final word lacked his earlier sincerity.

  Her hand pressed against the rings on their chain under her sweater. Her breathing suspended as she watched the stranger tug off an expensive leather glove. Please. Give me a difference.

  “Laura,” Brad interrupted her staring. “I’d like you to meet Myles Wilcox. He works out of the insurance office next door. Myles, this is Laura Tanner. She plans to open a bookstore.”

  “Really? I . . . I . . . wish you all sorts of luck.” He ran his tongue once across his upper lip as if shifting it into a new gear and extended his hand. “Come in and chat sometime and we’ll see what we can do about insuring your inventory.”

  She met his hand and clasped it for a brief moment. Her fingers registered the truth, prompting a sigh of relief too large to hide. His hand was whole, evidence he could not be her husband’s ghost. Scott damaged two fingers on his right hand during a carpentry project decades ago. “Which company do you represent?”

  His left hand fumbled in a pocket and surfaced with a business card. “Pick . . . Picket Fence. Are you familiar with them?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.” She repeated the phrase, afraid the first whispered response might be misunderstood. Her gaze stalled on Myles’s face, searching for a difference greater than the need for a haircut from her beloved late husband. Disjointed phrases of phone calls and emails from Picket Fence Insurance Company whispered in her brain. No, I can’t put Scott’s face on that company. She didn’t want any face at all on the corporation that treated her with as much warmth as a criminal for wanting to collect on a policy. They preferred whispers of suicide over an official ruling of murder to delay and wear her down. The blue oval logo on the card she held threatened to blur.

  “I also operate a tax service,” Myles continued. “Competitive prices on simple or complex.”

  “Shall we go, Laura?” Brad snugged on his cap and reached for his brown jacket.

  She nodded and snatched her coat from the bench beside her. After she stood and shrugged into her white parka, her hand fished in the left pocket.

  “My treat.” Brad slid a twenty under his coffee cup for both of them.

  “Thanks.” She flipped open a flat folder the size of her palm and pushed the insurance card behind several others. Her employee photo ID flashed under clear plastic before she returned it to her coat pocket. “Mr. Wilcox,” she forced her chin and voice to remain steady. “It’s good to meet you. Perhaps I’ll have a card with a local address soon.”

  “Tell me, Laura Tanner,” Myles didn’t hesitate this time, perhaps he’d found a moment to rehearse, “Where are you moving from?”

  “St. Louis.” Laura straightened to her full five foot ten, nodded once at a stunned Myles, and turned to the door.

  • • •

  Brad raised his prosthesis in farewell to Amy as he followed Laura out of the café. He caught up to her on Front Street at the corner of the Springs Press building. Please don’t be looking out the window, Daryl.

  “That was interesting.” Laura stepped off the sidewalk, leaned against the fender of a red Ford Taurus before facing him. “Thank you.”

  “Glad to be of service.” Not since his first days of active duty had he witnessed such a range of expression on both sides of a conversation within so short a span of time. Laura, with a complexion suited to a zombie enthusiast’s event, put Myles off balance enough to make him stammer. And Brad would have placed money that her reply, “St. Louis” put terror in the other man’s eyes.

  “Did we decide on seven fifteen Front Street as our first stop?” Laura thumbed a remote and unlocked her car.

  He nodded. “Older two story, painted yellow, driveway hidden by a row of pines from this side.”

  “Meet you there.”

  His mouth started to open, but he tensed his jaw in time. She had the best idea. Five short blocks up the street, a good distance to mentally shift away from the café scene. Laura, and half the literate population of the world, would have to work to get lost in Crystal Springs.

  A few minutes later, Brad pulled his white Silverado in behind Laura’s Ford on a narrow packed gravel surface.

  “Now I know what you drive.” She matched the comment with a customer service smile before reaching back into her car to retrieve a dark blue tote bag.

  “If I’d known you were interested, I’d have told you.” He took a deep breath and admired Laura in profile. Long legs in dark pants, a bright red scarf at her neck, and that mass of blonde hair pinned to the back of her head sent a tingle into his stump.

  “Some things a girl likes to find out her own way.”

  “I’ve been warned you’re stubborn enough to not always take the easy path.” He tucked his folder between his body and remains of his left arm while he searched for the lock box key.

  “Testing and experimentation can be a good thing. I can’t believe you accept every situation at immediate face value.”

  He juggled keys, pushed open the door, and gestured her inside. “I reserve the right to answer that later. Let’s just say I’m not the one counting the cucumbers and figuring the average number of pickles per jar.”

  She blushes pretty. For a moment they were twelve again and he darted into the house to get a fresh jug of ice water. Laura worked at the counter beside the sink, filling quart jars with onion, garlic, dill, and scrubbed cucumbers no larger than his thumb. She counted them out, shook the container, and added more before recording the total in a notebook.

  “I wanted to get into the advanced math class. Is that so bad?” She began to step off the width of the first room.

  “Not at all. It’s admirable, in fact.” He pulled out his printed statistics for the building. “As I mentioned over breakfast, this has a complete two-bedroom apartment upstairs plus a kitchen and half bath down. The owner is willing to lease, lease with an option to buy, or sell outright.”

  She released a window lock, raised the panel, and tapped one finger against the glass. “Single pane? Any indication of how much to heat?”

  “Forced air gas furnace installed eight years ago,” he read. For a moment longer he searched both pages of close, printed facts. Without losing his place, he inspected the large picture window and held a groan at finding it was also single pane with a frame beginning to leak air. “It looks like we found a place with the old removable storm windows. I’ll check for them in the basement later.”

  Laura continued to pepper the air with questions during a tour of the main floor, upstairs, basement, and tool shed.

  He found the answers on the printout or from sharpening memories of accompanying his parents when this contained an upholstery shop. They ended the tour in the large L-shaped commercial area as she added another line to three pages of notes.

  “It’s a lot of space. I’d have room to add a line of office furniture.” She tugged down a window shade, released it, and watched it ascend to three inches from the top.

  “The other two are smaller.”

  “Let’s move on to the next one. I imagine a lot of dollars going up the chimney here.” Laura crossed the room and retrieved her tote bag.

  Brad conjured up a vision separate from money or heating systems as he locked the building and watched her stride to her car.

  • • •

  “Sorry Mr. Real Estate Man, I could tell right off it was too small.” Laura stepped outside the former beauty shop a mere fifteen minutes after they’d entered.
Across Birch Street her Ford sedan looked comfortable beside Brad’s full-sized pick-up truck.

  “Third one should be ‘just right’ then, Goldilocks.”

  She spun around. How would Brad know her father’s favorite nickname for her? “What did you call me?”

  “You heard. Don’t deny you have the hair for it.”

  “I’m not the only blonde in this town.”

  He adjusted the folder under his arm before tucking his hook into his coat pocket. “You’re the sole one looking at rentals this morning. Too big. Too small. Just right stands across the street and down one building.”

  “And if I were Goldilocks.” She steadied her gaze on the wide expanse of brown cloth over his chest rather than his smile inviting her attention to stray from the business of looking at properties. “Does that make you a big, brown bear?”

  “Park ranger. One of the good guys.” He snapped off a salute.

  She found a hint of old mischief in his eyes and wanted to laugh. In all the dozens of ways her father managed to twist and turn the ending of her favorite childhood story, a park ranger never appeared. “Wrong hat. Shouldn’t you have one of those . . . ” she gestured the shape into cold winter air, “campaign covers?”

  “Left it home today.”

  “Sure you did.” She switched her tote to the other hand and stepped forward. “Address please.”

  “Number one twenty-four Front Street. Look for a two-story building between the bank and the hardware. You’ll be right in the thick of the Crystal Springs business district.” He fell into step beside her.

  She paused at the corner as a dump truck dressed for winter with a front-mounted snowplow rumbled past. A white frame structure stood solid across the street with large matching windows flanking a doublewide entrance. No memories of it from her nine summer visits surfaced.

  “What was this most recently?” She continued down the sidewalk a dozen steps past the building and took an initial look at the parking space shared with the hardware store.

  Brad strolled up the handicapped ramp and opened the lock box. “Senior center. They moved out during the summer.”

  “Where did they go?” Senior citizens and widows were two categories—often overlapping—that thrived in the village. She pushed away the idea that she fit into the latter demographic. Widows should be peers of her mother or older. Fate—or God—played a cruel trick by ripping Scott out of her life. She focused on the railing and hurried up the steps to join Brad before self-pity gained a firmer hold.

  “They worked out a deal with the Legion Hall. I wasn’t in on the details.” He pulled the door wide.

  She opened the second door and stepped into a light, airy space that wrapped her like a towel fresh from the dryer. Unable to speak, afraid to break the spell, she lifted her arms and did a slow pirouette, letting her eyes explore the space first. Open, inviting display area with light gray floor tiles extended back until it bumped against a tiny office—okay, maybe it was an overgrown closet—extended a finger down a hall, and curled up the side of a serving counter with kitchen appliances visible behind.

  Ideal. An image of Scott behind the counter discussing a bestseller with a customer formed. She stood still, afraid even a blink would destroy the pleasant mental picture.

  “Where do you want to start?”

  Brad’s words dissolved the mirage and brought her back to reality. The business portion of her mind pushed the dreamer aside. “For the sake of consistency, let’s start with basic dimensions and go from there.”

  He read off numbers, listed features, and gave the year of construction.

  Laura stepped off width and depth to confirm his words and counted electrical outlets. She opened the fridge and wrinkled her nose. “Ewww! I better double the baking soda in my cleaning supplies list.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse.” She jotted a note on her pad, tipped her face to the ceiling as plumbing groaned above. “Did you say one or two apartments up there?”

  “Two. They enter through the common back porch.”

  Tenants might be another set of ears to hear the smoke detector. Or a theft waiting to happen. “Any security service available?”

  “Kennel south of town sells German shepherds.”

  “Not exactly my first choice.” In her family, pets stayed outside. She closed her eyes for a moment, but the image of unlocking her shop door and being greeted by a canine guardian refused to materialize.

  “County sheriff furnishes law enforcement for both village and township. I could look into other options. Or you could ask Daryl.”

  Her toes heated when she glimpsed his smile at the last suggestion. So he was on a first name basis with her uncle. Did that mean anything? Or did it only put him into the broad category of “resident” that she planned to join? Yes, she would ask Daryl about security systems. Her uncle knew volumes about electronic gadgets, which ones were legal, and how few would fit into her budget. She slammed a cabinet door harder than necessary. “Lead on to the rest of the building.”

  Laura followed Brad onto the enclosed porch as he delivered information about the various locks and keys.

  “Is this a typical village view?” She gazed out to a narrow patch of lawn, a limestone retaining wall, and trees on a steep slope.

  “The valley narrows at this end of town. The lot officially goes straight to the crest of the hill. Nice cluster of butternuts and one or two sugar maples up there.”

  Her gaze returned to the stone wall—a feature sure to attract village children. She jotted a liability question to her growing list before taking a closer look at the sturdy back steps.

  Brad unlocked and opened a plain door. “Basement’s dry with only the basics. Water heaters, furnace, storage lock . . . ”

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Her heart stuttered and restarted in tandem with the powerful downbeat climbing out of the basement. “What’s that?”

  “Water pump,” he called from the last step. “Village has individual wells and pressure pumps. Like the farm.”

  “Ten times louder.” She willed her hand to loosen from a clench to a touch.

  A full minute later, she approached the machine as the rhythmic pounding reverberated on raw concrete walls. “How old?”

  “Twelve years,” he called back.

  Silence surrounded them with the same suddenness as the thumping ended. A quick swallow and she adjusted her intended volume. “Can we have a professional look at it?”

  He pulled a pen from his pocket and jotted a note on his listing. “Decent plumber works out of his house at the other end of town.”

  Her nerves floated back from the far corners where the pump had scattered them and she started down a mental inspection list. She settled for a visual check of the back wall for evidence of water and pulled out the furnace filter.

  “Want to join me?” He stepped into the empty storage pen built from raw lumber and threaded his fingers through the taut chicken wire.

  Smiles that inviting should be illegal. She placed one foot on the bottom step. It was time to go upstairs and make a counter offer on lease terms. “You claimed to be one of the good guys. And now you put yourself in jail?”

  “I’m looking for a Goldilocks smile.”

  Chapter Three

  Laura parked on the wide shoulder of Back Street and remained in her car for a minute to study the Old Lady. That was the family name for the house beside her. Uncle Daryl lived in it now. Family history chronicled great-grandparents purchasing it in the early nineteen twenties, about the time their first child arrived. Her own grandfather moved his bride into the upstairs apartment after he returned from the army. Other than between upstairs and down, the couple never moved again. Her Frieberg relatives had called the two-story Victorian on the corner home for the better part of a century.

  The house and garden behind held an abundance of warm memories for her. The majority contained her grandmother and namesake. Laura Frieberg remained a vig
orous, alert woman until mere months before her death six summers ago. Only a few fragile imagines included Grandfather sitting in a leather recliner, an oxygen tube giving him a plastic mustache that girls didn’t understand at age five.

  You’re looking fresh, Old Lady. Clean white paint, sharp black trim, and a new light gray roof advertised that Daryl carried through with his plans to take care of his inheritance.

  Move, girl. Lunch and conversation wait inside. She lifted a pie carrier from the back seat, slammed the door, and picked her way across the yard where a few patches of snow persisted in the shady places.

  Uncle Daryl opened the door as she lifted the black matte knocker a second time. “Welcome, Laura.”

  “Mincemeat pie. Courtesy of Sharon.” She presented the squat plastic container with a bow and playful smile.

  “My sister knows the way to my heart.”

  “She’s had all your life to figure you out.” She straightened, ready to comment that retirement from the Secret Service appeared to agree with him when she glimpsed the living room furnishings. She stepped inside and forced her mouth to stay closed. What happened?

  Floral wallpaper, the green drapes, and an extensive cat figurine collection were gone without a trace. All the warm, familiar clutter of Grandmother Laura’s place retreated. Reason told her to expect it. Her heart didn’t believe the transformation could be so complete. She stood in a room that could have been a set in a black and white ultra-modern movie of nineteen fifty. “Wow.”

  “Do you like it?” He accented his asymmetrical smile with one raised eyebrow.

  “Different.” She scanned the room looking for something familiar in the clean lines of a black vinyl couch, glossy black lamps with white shades, the textured white walls. On the second pass, she found the wooden butler. Painted in formal black and white, he stood two feet tall next to a white wing chair. Today his hand held a dish of wrapped mints instead of Grandfather’s unlit cigar.