Snowbound Snuggles

by T. F. Walsh

  He checked in with the timekeeper and focused on the task at hand. The teams were starting their warm-ups and showing off for their friends. Mayor Miller clicked one switch after another at the aged sound system panel until her “Welcome neighbors” threatened to drown out the pep band.

  While answering questions from the novice statistician, Brad scanned portions of the bleachers. A smile formed easily when he spotted Laura and Amy sitting together across the court. Amy pointed toward her husband Jim in the line of firemen doing lay-ups. Laura raised her arms high and clapped as if among friends.

  He lingered his gaze on the pair and realized Laura needed a female confident in Crystal Springs. The girl full of giggles and the joy of life still lived under that stiff, proper widow façade. He’d sensed laughter simmering just below the surface after their breakfast conversation left his injury for lighter topics. And her eyes actually sparkled during his tale of armored personnel carrier driving lessons. He intended to learn more of the current Laura. The woman asking him questions yesterday remained to be reconciled to the mythical creature he’d turned her into over the years. Amy would be perfect for the task of breaking Laura out of her invisible prison. After all, his sister had experience. She’d drilled a few holes in the shell he’d retreated into when he first came home from the army.

  “Now please rise and join in our National Anthem.” Mayor Miller released the microphone button as the stands rumbled with movement.

  “ . . . home of the brave.” Brad’s hand trembled against his chest by the time they reached the last phrase. He couldn’t stare at the flag these days without seeing damaged and fallen soldier friends among the stars. Blinking fast and skimming the back of his hand across his face to obliterate any final trace of public tears, he swallowed hard.

  After the final note faded, he picked up the game ball, nodded to the second referee, and walked to the center circle. As the starting players for each team were introduced and took their places, he moved his gaze around the gym, locating family members and special friends. His gaze touched Amy and Laura then stuttered.

  Myles leaned close and spoke into Laura’s ear before moving to a seat two rows higher.

  Chapter Eight

  “No. No. No.” Laura jerked away from the pillow at the sound of her own voice. She pushed against the mattress with both arms, gasped for breath, and gathered bits of drifting information to orient herself to the farmhouse guestroom.

  Her dream changed tonight. After three hundred sixty-nine consecutive nightmares with the same incident waking her, tonight a different image broke what passed for sleep.

  She sighed defeat, arranged her body into a yoga Cobbler’s Pose and pulled the quilt high. A trace of cedar from the blanket chest reinforced reality. Her imagination packed her dreams with many things, including colors and the occasional sound, but never scents.

  Tonight’s mirage took her back to Scott’s funeral. In daytime the ceremony survived as a portion of a blur. According to others’ accounts, she figured her lost time had lasted twelve days. Almost two weeks before the mist lifted from her emotions and memory enough to trust her recall of events.

  But the initial horror stood clear and sharp. Her entire world changed with a single push of a plain wooden door. One moment, she opened Scott’s office with an invitation to begin their New Year’s Eve party an hour ahead of schedule. The next instant, she stared at his dead body.

  It was a dream. A new twist because I’m in a new location. Only part of her believed the rationale.

  A tiny lamp on Roger’s desk made soft shapes of the furnishings around her. She waited for the digital clock to change a number. Is that what she did best?

  Wait for the police.

  Watch the seasons change.

  Work with robotic motions until her employer closed down around her and a dozen others last week.

  Sit passive while the world moved around her.

  “I don’t want to.” Her soft words settled on the quilt. “I want . . . I need . . . to get on with my life. Isn’t that why I’m here? In Crystal Springs instead of St. Louis? I made plans. I put effort into modifying Scott’s dream—our dream—for a bookstore.”

  The new nightmare came back in small scenes. Her back rippled with cold under winter pajamas as each image paraded across her memory.

  Her hand brushed against smooth, dark wood. She looked up from the bouquet of six red and six white roses on the sealed casket. All the relatives and friends wore the same face. Scott’s.

  Or was it Myles?

  What did the man mean at the basketball game? “Are you enjoying the nightlife?”

  She calculated an hour to the alarm and lowered the quilt. A shower, a cup of tea, and a confession in her journal would fill the time until the farm animals expected their breakfast.

  Twenty minutes later, Laura clutched a mug of orange spice and stared out the front window. Across the road and fields, the security light at Asher’s shone as a sign of civilization. She added the low profile of farm sheds and outbuildings from memory.

  Do nightmares visit Brad? Warm, sweet tea bathed her throat while she lined up her micro-sample of combat veterans. Without exception they admitted to night terrors. One comment from John, a neighbor three doors away, stood out. “Experts say they fade. Four years on, I’m tempted to say they’re wrong.”

  She closed her eyes and conjured an image of Brad awake in the night staring off in her direction. He fears fire. Do other combat images frighten him? Aware that he’d answered many of her questions with incomplete responses she kept her eyes closed and drew completions where his burn scars disappeared under his shirt. He’d admitted to six months at Brooke, the army’s top medical facility for burn patients. How many surgeries and skin grafts? Exactly where between elbow and shoulder did the prosthesis and stump meet?

  She grasped the chain resting against her skin and listened to her heart throb three times for each shallow breath. Scott’s wedding band felt strong and permanent next to her thinner one with the three tiny diamonds.

  Talk to me. Point me in the right direction, Scott. Where is justice for you? She’d made a promise—her one clear memory standing before Scott’s casket—to remain the faithful wife until his killer was arrested.

  A little later, Laura propped her chin on one hand and scrolled down the collection of emails from Scott. They spanned the final three weeks of his life. Typical for him, they dealt with his work schedule, reports on errands, and ended with a computer smile before his sign-off. She read the familiar tag line finalizing the first one again: “Ever and always, ST.”

  In the middle of the fourth message, she spotted it. The word “project” paired with noon, or lunch, or late appeared in each one. Immediately she copied them and consolidated them into one long document. Next she highlighted “project” plus the immediate modifier.

  “My conceit got in the way of his message,” she admitted to the empty room. The first time—every time—she’d interpreted “private” or “secret” with Scott hatching some sort of Christmas or New Year’s plan. He had surprised her in the end with tickets to a concert they didn’t get to attend and a set of kitchen knives she’d hinted about for months. “That wasn’t the project at all.”

  Tonight, with clear hindsight for the first time, she understood the words connected with something more important. The flash drive she’d given to the police? How long had Scott been collecting that data? Did he understand the meaning? Did he transfer all of it?

  The clock radio blurted an advertising jingle into the quiet.

  Laura saved all of the files, debated for about a second if she should send any to Daryl before closing them. He could look at them later today. They had talked about going out for lunch. She’d take her computer along and show him what she found. No doubt he’d think of the next step. Now the question became—could she get him to share?

  • • •

  “We’ll be back within the hour.” Mary Asher waved to Brad and Laura st
anding at the large kitchen table now cleared of supper dishes.

  “Don’t worry, I remember the house rules.” Brad gave a lopsided shrug and re-tucked his empty sleeve against his six-inch stump.

  “This is so lame,” Eric grumbled as his grandmother urged him out the door.

  “The boy’s right.” Laura giggled after the door banged shut. “No way does it take both grandparents to drive him home. But I appreciate it.”

  “They give it their best. It must be awkward for them at times, having a grown son living at home.”

  “How many years were you gone?”

  “Depends on how you count it. Ten. Maybe closer to eleven. I didn’t come home much from Madison.”

  Awkward for more than his parents. She trembled at his touch on her arm.

  “Let’s go sit in the living room. I don’t want you to think this house is only kitchen.”

  “I’d never assume that.” Conversation over a savory pork roast supper included a recounting of the remodeling after Brad’s injury. She formed a vivid image of Brad’s bedroom, a guest room, the handicap accessible bathroom and storage area on the second floor. Like many farmhouses of this era, the floor plan included one downstairs bedroom.

  “The view of the road is better in daylight.” He opened the drapes at a large window. “We took down the holiday lights on New Year’s Day. Did you get a chance to see them?”

  “One trip past, on our way to the party in town the day I arrived.” She made out shapes and struggled to ignore their reflections in the glass. Since she’d walked in to find the family gathering for supper, she’d been conscious of how long at a time her gaze remained on Brad’s shortened arm. “I recall one tree with multicolored lights and shrubs with lighted netting. How close did I come?”

  “Accurate observation. Do you put up outside decorations?”

  “Dad always insisted on a star above the garage. We also propped up a plywood trio of carolers every year until it became so battered and faded it embarrassed Mother.” She breathed in a trace of cinnamon from dessert blended with sea breeze after-shave.

  “And your house?” Brad prodded.

  “I put a wreath on the door. The holidays . . . they were hard this time around.” An image of Scott mounting a heralding angel on the roofline intruded. She sighed quiet thanks to the neighbor who finally removed it three weeks after the funeral. In early December, she’d found the box in the garage and shed tears over it. “Does it get better?”

  His hand pressed against her waist, heating her with a safe, reassurance.

  “Cream rises to the top.”

  She turned her head to him. “What?”

  “Raw milk,” he began. “If you let it sit, the cream, the portion used to figure the milk price, rises to the top. Think of it as the good part.”

  “And how long does this take?” She followed him to the sofa and sat close, enjoying the warmth of his large hand resting over her own.

  “Too long.” He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “Why don’t you tell me about Laura Starr, college student?”

  “She made several quality friends on campus, the sort that keep in touch, pick up conversations where they were interrupted months ago. Have you ever been to Columbia, Missouri?”

  As they traded stray bits of the years missing between them Laura relaxed. Brad prodded memories from pre-Scott years to the surface. Her face exchanged the customer service smile for a smaller, genuine model. Moments before she noticed a car slow and turn into the drive, she felt a seed of optimistic dreams within her germinate and put out delicate rootlets.

  Chapter Nine

  “Do you have limitations on interior painting?” Laura stilled her pencil on a checklist and raised her gaze to Mrs. Gladys Schmitt.

  “Neutral colors,” a strong female voice accompanied a worn index finger searching the paragraph headings in a two-page lease on the table.

  Laura jotted a note and attempted to concentrate on her new landlady, but not without risking a glance at the man to her left. Brad fills a room. His right arm rested on a copy of the lease. A slim black pen between his fingers wagged in slow motion, a color and texture contrast to his pale blue dress shirt buttoned at the wrist. He hadn’t uttered a word for several minutes. His most recent complete sentence seemed ancient history, during a short discussion of locks and keys.

  At the moment his prosthesis rested on his lap, out of sight but clear in her memory. How many hours ago had they sat together trading comments about their former lives? Twelve?

  “What do you think, Brad? Would three shades of beige in swirls get attention in the sales area?” She braced for a reaction.

  “Morning sky blue.” He turned his gaze a few degrees to meet hers. “The walls should match your eyes.”

  Her body hung between breaths for a long moment. Most men in her acquaintance seldom got past blue, green, or red to name a color. What sort of minor went with his journalism major? She pressed her lips tight to stifle another half-formed question more suitable for a private conversation than a lease signing.

  Would they have future secluded meetings? Her heart stuttered at the realization this morning signaled a change in their budding friendship. She gathered her attention and reminded herself that in Crystal Springs they were certain to cross paths often. And he lived only half a mile from the farmhouse. Maybe we’ll have more snow.

  “Is that your final item?” Mrs. Schmitt called her back to the business at hand.

  “Yes. We’ve covered everything on my list.” She studied the signature area and stalled at the space for a notary.

  Brad moved, digging into a jacket pocket. “Brought my stamp along this morning.”

  “Another hat?”

  “You’ve been talking to Amy.”

  “Do you have a problem with my choice of friends?” Laura avoided settling her gaze on any one portion of his face.

  “Not at all. Go ahead and be friendly with my family. Sell them books if you can. For that matter, make customers of every old and new acquaintance in the valley. Plus the farmers on the surrounding hills, too.” He lifted his prosthesis to the table and shifted his smile to Mrs. Schmitt. “I want Mrs. Tanner to be successful after her radical move.”

  “Absolutely,” Mrs. Schmitt signed the paper with bold, black strokes. “Do well and when the time comes, buy the building from me.”

  “I can’t think that far ahead this morning.” Laura signed on the designated line and passed the paper to Brad for the official stamp.

  Radical move? His word choice implied daring and courage. She viewed her actions as cautious, taking the safe path with an inherited plan. Strong, painful memories of Scott in St. Louis drove her relocation to Crystal Springs as much as the pleasant memories and cluster of relatives at this end of the road. And now, with her city job dissolved, circumstances forced the issue more than an active decision on her part.

  Fifteen minutes later, Laura unlocked her car and gave a final wave to Mrs. Schmitt. The lists of errands and cleaning supplies to purchase nestled in the bottom of her tote, shrinking in importance as the magnitude of the morning mushroomed into clear joy.

  “Mr. Asher,” she called before he could get into his truck. “I want to celebrate. Where’s a good place for lunch? My treat. Offer good for today only.”

  “Wrong day.” He rested his whole arm across the top of the door. “I’ve another appointment to keep.”

  “Is she pretty?” Where did that come from?

  His mouth straightened. “Compared to who?”

  She drew in a breath of winter air, attempting to cool her hasty words before tipping her head to invite an explanation.

  “I like my women blonde. With braids. Your status is secure, Goldilocks. Now you take care. I’ll see you around.”

  “Yes, Mr. Park Ranger.” She snapped her boot heels together and gave a salute.

  • • •

  “I’ll have the roast beef special.” Laura handed the laminated menu back t
o the server. She checked her watch—she was satisfied with her decision to do her shopping before enjoying her solo lunch celebration. As one thirty approached, many of the day’s patrons at The Rest Stop shrugged into winter coats.

  Outside, traffic paused at Wagoner’s single light at the end of the block. Another glance toward the courthouse and the thin line of people ascending the steps made her smile. The crowd included a table of diners wearing juror badges that filed out since her arrival. What sort of cases did they hear in this rural corner of Wisconsin? Would Scott’s murderer ever stand trial? She closed her eyes at an image of sitting beside her mother, squeezing her hand in a courtroom audience.

  A clatter of silverware from another table chased the fantasy away. With a tiny shake of her head and determination to enjoy the day, she raised her coffee cup. Savor today. The present only comes this way once. She sipped her drink and thought of the signed lease and her shopping list of cleaning supplies with neat check marks by the purchased items. One more list of errands to begin back in Crystal Springs waited for the afternoon hours. I should have time to rent the post office box today.

  “May I?”

  She startled at the voice and blinked at the too familiar face, but she nodded permission for him to join her. “Good afternoon, Mr. Wilcox.”

  He pulled out the chair across the square table and gestured for the server. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

  Her shiver went all the way to her fingertips and she stared at the resulting ripples on her mug. Engrained good manners enabled her to find a fake smile. “Are you in Wagoner for business or pleasure?”

  “Business. And you? Do you miss the bright lights and bustle of the big city?”

  She relaxed a fraction and released a small, genuine laugh. Wagoner boasted four times the population of Crystal Springs and enough traffic at the intersection of a state and federal highway to necessitate a traffic signal. St. Louis outer suburbs were more urban than anything within this Wisconsin county.