Christmas in Snow Valley

by Cindy Roland Anderson

  I shook my head, thinking of all the other corps ballet dancers in the New Orleans troupe, and our true rival, Sierra Armstrong, who had just been promoted to prima ballerina at the tender age of twenty-four, while I was almost twenty-two and nowhere near that good.

  “You were beautiful, Jessica,” my mother said. “But your crown was having a bit of trouble. Didn’t you have enough pins with you? I could have helped you do your hair and makeup. I don’t understand why you won’t ask me to help.”

  I didn’t answer, just gave her a faint smile, aware of eyes on me. Aware—suddenly—of how tired I was. Now that I wasn’t dancing, and wasn’t under the stage lights I was turning cold again. But not cold enough to get hot chocolate with James Douglas.

  Which suddenly made me remember how cold Michael’s hands were as he lay in the coffin during the viewing at the church when I held them and said goodbye. Except that I was still saying goodbye three years later. I couldn’t seem to let him go. Because I’d promised to love him forever.

  Dad leaned in to drop a kiss on the top of my still sticky-with-hairspray bun. “I thought you were spectacular.”

  I tried not to blush in front of James Douglas’s watchful gaze. “Oh, Dad, you always say that.”

  “Because it’s always true.”

  I widened my eyes. “A wobbly crown and a weak ankle made for an embarrassing performance.”

  “Au contraire,” he objected, launching into the tiny bit of French he liked to brag that he knew. Which amounted, in reality, to about ten words.

  “Doctor Mason,” my mother chided. “Please no French attempts tonight.”

  My father shrugged at her admonition, and gave me a one-armed squeeze. “Going to New Orleans has been a good experience, I think,” he whispered in my ear. “Your dancing has made leaps and bounds. You’re truly a professional. I am proud of you. Not many dancers get that far. To support yourself in the arts is a huge achievement.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Not bad,” Sam told me, punching my arm and scoping out the theater foyer. “Where’s the refreshments?” he asked.

  My mother took several deep breaths, then instructed her son, “Ballet performances do not provide “refreshments.” Those are almost exclusively for church functions and baby showers.”

  “Bummer. Can we get something to eat then?”

  “Try not to make it so obvious that you’re in high school, Sam,” I advised him.

  He made a show of groaning, but he knew I was teasing.

  My mother went on. “No time for ice cream. Did you hear about the terrible accident just outside of town? A multiple car pile-up.”

  “That must have happened right after I got to the theater.”

  “I was so grateful you missed it, Jessica. It was slow getting through, a line of cars for a mile on both sides. It’s a good thing we left early or we would have missed the first act. Unfortunately, I got a phone call just as we were parking that Joyce was in one of those cars. It was too dark to tell by the time we came upon the scene. I want to stop by the hospital on our way home to see her.”

  For all her annoying ticks and habits, my mother was a good friend and neighbor. Joyce Hopkins was one of her oldest friends.

  “How bad is it?” I asked. “How is she?”

  “I talked to Harold and he said just a sprained wrist and some bruises. Thank goodness nobody was critically injured.”

  “I wish I could have been there to help,” James Douglas murmured. “I hadn’t even heard about the accident until now, Mrs. Mason.” There was a dark look of concern in his eyes. He was a stranger in town, but he appeared deeply concerned. As though the people were long-time friends of his.

  “Please call me Marilee,” she told him with a wave of her hand. “Oh, there’s Catherine now.”

  I glanced up and saw my older sister coming up the aisle.

  “I didn’t know you were in town already,” I said as she gave me a quick hug.

  “Barely made it for Act II. Terrible accident on the highway.” After she embraced our parents and Sam, I noticed her eyeing James Douglas with interest, her eyebrows quite elevated. I elbowed her and she glared at me, hissing. “We’ll talk later, little sister.”

  “Can’t wait,” I said under my breath.

  “You mean you came straight to the theater after the drive from Helena?” my mother asked Catherine.

  “I had to drop off the girls at a sitter because Dave is working nights at the plant, and then with the accident . . . But I saw your solo, Jessica—you were beautiful.”

  I made a face. “You’re being too kind about the Most Embarrassing Moment of my life. When’s Dave coming?”

  “Monday. The girls really wanted him to take them to the Night Before Christmas story and hot chocolate on Monday night, but he won’t get here in time.”

  My mother beamed stiffly. “He’s still going to take them to the Polar Express, correct? Your dad already got tickets.”

  “Of course,” Catherine said with a touch of annoyance. “That’s not until Wednesday.”

  “Don’t forget the tickets at the office, Joe,” my mother said to my father.

  “They’re in my desk drawer at home already, Marilee.” Dad rubbed his hands together. “Let’s go get dinner. Best part of dance recital night.”

  My sister Catherine stared at him aghast. “This wasn’t a recital, Dad.”

  “Oh, Jessica knows what I meant.”

  I gave him a weak smile. “Don’t worry about it, Dad. Let’s just go. I’m exhausted and want to get off my feet.”

  That’s when I remembered that James Douglas, Pastor Dude, was still standing behind me. Watching our embarrassing family conversation.

  My mother quickly introduced Catherine to him.

  “Welcome to the world of Snow Valley, Mr. Douglas.”

  “You can all call me James.”

  “No Jim?” Catherine said with a teasing tone.

  “My parents had this thing about calling me James, but I’ll answer to anything, actually. So just lay it on me.”

  “You’re quickly becoming Pastor Dude in my head,” Sam said with a teenage boy laugh.

  “You know, guys,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. “I’m too tired to drive anywhere for food or ice cream if the weather is so bad and there was an accident . . . besides, it’s already so late . . .”

  “I agree,” Catherine piped up. “I gotta get the girls from the babysitter and get them in bed so we don’t miss church in the morning.”

  “But I’m starving!” Sam protested.

  “You’re always starving,” Catherine teased. “I’ll make you some of my grilled cheese and ham sandwiches when we get back to the house. I also brought a plate of brownies from home.”

  Sam groaned in ecstasy as though he hadn’t eaten in a week. “Can I drive?” he asked Dad, taking off for the doors.

  “Not in this weather,” was the abrupt answer.

  “Aww man, how will I ever learn how to drive with snow tires if you don’t let me practice?”

  The theater was emptying, lights going off. Saturday evening performances were always a scatter-and-run afterward.

  Even the foyer had only a few people left standing in small groups, and then waving goodbye, crying “Merry Christmas!” as they exited the glass doors. On the far end, a janitor was already beginning to sweep.

  I heard a slight cough and glanced up to see James Douglas, not looking uncomfortable one iota at our Mason Family dynamics.

  “Aren’t we just a typical family?” I asked tightly.

  “Perhaps I should take a rain check. I’m sure you’re tired, and you need to put your foot up.”

  Suddenly, I felt a wave of disappointment and relief at not going out for hot cocoa. A puzzling reaction, actually. I would have thought relief would be my dominating emotion, and I’d spend the next two weeks of Christmas break avoiding the guy.

  Part of me wanted to debate him on the merits of dance and religion and h
ot cocoa.

  “My foot will be fine,” I said airily. “So, okay. See you around.”

  “Church tomorrow morning?” His dark hair fell forward as he tipped his head toward mine.

  “Don’t hold your breath, Pastor.”

  “I take the official final exam in January.”

  “Then I won’t hold my breath either.”

  “You’re not a Sugar Plum Fairy, you know that?”

  “Check your forehead for temperature.” I waved a hand through the air in the Obi Wan Kenobi mind-bending move. “It was all a fantasy.”

  “Touché.”

  Chapter Six

  SINCE I’D DRIVEN EARLY TO the theater for warm-up, makeup, and costume dressing, I drove myself home.

  Mom fretted, of course. “I should have driven you instead of helping Marianne Cook set up for the quilting booth at the craft show.”

  “There was no way to know I was going to fall, but I can walk just fine. I’m fine.”

  It was so difficult not to become testy with my family, especially my mother. I’d lived away for too long. Been too independent.

  “Are you sure your ankle is okay to drive?” James Douglas had asked as he walked out with my family, the theater lights extinguishing behind us.

  “I’m fine!” I repeated, biting my tongue at my snappish tone. Instantly, I apologized. “I’m sorry. I’m just—there’s no reason for me to be irritated.”

  He gave me an understanding smile. “Families. Enough said.”

  “You too?”

  A shaft of moonlight glinted on his white teeth. “That’s a story for another day. Drive safely, Miss Jessica Mason. I’m pleased to officially meet you.”

  “I suppose I wasn’t particularly friendly at the cemetery today, either. I was—I just was visiting—” I stopped speaking, not wanting to share Michael with anyone.

  “No need to apologize. I came up to you because you looked like you’d frozen to the ground. I wasn’t sure who you were at first. But it’s understandable. You and Michael Grant were close.”

  I stiffened. A strange roar filled my ears hearing Michael’s name on his lips and I spun toward him. “How did you know—?”

  “Um, I saw the headstone.”

  I didn’t answer—hoping he would drop the subject.

  “I often walk through that section of the graveyard from Main to the church. It’s a beautiful path along there with the lines of cottonwoods and oak trees.”

  I just nodded, annoyed that he would presume to know the relationship Michael and I had. “You don’t know anything, Mr. Douglas. Don’t you dare talk about him.”

  “Now it’s my turn to apologize. I never meant anything hurtful. Please know that.”

  I shrugged, feeling my nose drip just a little from the cold. I walked more briskly, trying not to slip on the ice.

  Once I reached my car, I jabbed the key into the lock and swung the door wide.

  James Douglas held the door open while I climbed in.

  “Good night,” I said, reaching for the handle as my family’s vehicle pulled out of the empty parking lot.

  I glanced up and James Douglas’ eyes were dark and meaningful. There was a long pause.

  “I’m afraid I keep sticking my foot in my mouth around you.”

  I shrugged. “Just try to avoid religious platitudes.”

  “Why would I say something like that?”

  “I heard more than enough to last a lifetime after—after Michael died.” His name stuck in my throat. Painful. I swallowed hard, biting my lips.

  “I’m not going to say any trite clichés. I’d rather cut my tongue out.”

  I snorted again, but the laugh suddenly died in my throat as my neck prickled. The way he was watching me was so . . . so unexplainable. So tender.

  “Jessica, I’m serious when I say that I would love to get to know you. Your dancing was really beautiful.”

  I snorted, because I knew my stupid fall was unprecedented. Some of the corps ballet girls tripped or slipped during rehearsals but never during a performance.

  If my director had seen me tonight, he’d give me a pink slip. No second thoughts.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” he went on.

  “You have no idea what you’re saying. Goodnight,” I said again.

  “Travel safe, Miss Mason.”

  “Don’t call me Miss Mason, either.”

  “Alright. Jessica.”

  I shook my head, wanting to bite his head off. I almost told him not to call me that either, but I stopped. I wasn’t normally so rude.

  I gave myself a list of excuses. I was tired. I was embarrassed. I was still grieving. I was regretting ever coming home.

  But I was also, suddenly, wanting to burrow my face into his warm wool coat and sob my eyes out. But why, why, why, would I do something like that? It must be his whole “pastor” demeanor. A childish reaction to the running away episode at the cemetery when I thought he’d been stalking me.

  I hardly knew James Douglas, but I was already completely overwhelmed by the man.

  Slowly, I shut the door and rolled out of the parking lot.

  I could see James Douglas’s car lights following behind me.

  At first, I was just annoyed again, but then realized it was comforting to know I had a safety net behind me in case I slid off the road.

  The snow had stopped and, as I pulled onto the interstate to head the last couple miles into Snow Valley, it became apparent several inches of fresh snow had fallen during the late afternoon and evening. I saw skid marks, and a car sitting askew on the left side going the wrong direction. Pieces of metal and broken glass glittered in my headlights. The pile-up earlier. I shivered, knowing I’d just missed it coming this direction on my way to the theater.

  Chills ran along my neck and down my arms. Déjà vu of mine and Michael’s accident three years ago. In a week it would be the anniversary of his death.

  A sudden stab of pain pierced my ribs. The thought caused my breath to leave and my car swerved just a little bit.

  A quick glance behind me at James Douglas’s car made my face burn with self-consciousness. Would he think I’d secretly drunk something to ease the pain from tonight’s humiliating performance? Except James Douglas didn’t realize that I’d never touch alcohol again in my life. Not even a sip of plain, benign beer.

  I shuddered, tempted to turn around and head straight back to New Orleans on Interstate 25. But I couldn’t do that to my parents, or my younger brother. Sam had changed a lot the past couple of years, and I’d missed it.

  Instead, I turned up the heater, running it full blast to get warm. Even my bones felt cold. I felt as though I was suddenly getting so old. Visiting Michael’s grave had created a peculiar aura of having aged ten years.

  I eased back on my speed as I hit the 30 mph sign on Main. Up ahead, the tree-lined streets were decorated with thousands of lights. Even the church’s evergreens were lit with a brilliant, blinking white. It was certainly beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

  When I passed the church I snorted for the third time that evening. Pastor John always had “creative” signs on the church billboard, which was stuck into the manicured grass along the sidewalk—although the usual green had become a silvery white of snow.

  Whoever is praying for snow, please stop.

  That was a sentiment I could say “Amen” to.

  My eyes flicked to my rearview mirror again. I noted that James Douglas did not turn into the church yard. I’d assumed he was living with his uncle, Pastor John. Maybe I’d assumed wrong.

  Then I had a strange thought. Almost like a voice speaking inside my head.

  Maybe I was assuming wrong about a lot of things.

  Chapter Seven

  WHEN THE SUN PEEKED THROUGH the curtains, I rolled over, slipped my eye mask on, and stuck ear plugs in so I wouldn’t hear my mother knocking at my bedroom door.

  There was no way I was going to church and run into James Douglas. His eyes were mu
ch too discerning, as if he knew what I was thinking. I burrowed under the blankets, laughing at myself, but it was actually sort of true. Silly, but true.

  A prickling ran along my skin when I remembered the touch of his gentle hands on my ankle, the whoosh of my stomach as he slid his fingers partway up the calf of my leg. Just being doctor-ish of course—which he wasn’t. I guess his years at med school could come in handy for first aid if the occasion arose during a sermon.

  I hadn’t had prickles since I was sixteen and Michael kissed me for the first time on my birthday.

  A burning in my eyes made me nostalgic all over again. I sat up, ripped off my eye mask and stared out the window at a pale blue sky. The storm from yesterday had disappeared. Bet it was only twenty degrees—if we were lucky. Clear and cold.

  Swinging my legs over, I tested out my ankle, rolled the ball of my foot a few times and then stood to attempt a run to the bathroom.

  The tiled floor was icy. “Dang! I forgot I need socks and slippers here in the winter.”

  I’d been wallowing in grief and guilt ever since I’d come home, and now I was officially protesting church attendance. My mother was probably having fits. A moment later, I realized with a sudden jolt of good humor that I had the whole house to myself for another hour.

  I smiled. I wasn’t so tired anymore.

  Funny how I’d planned to sleep in for hours and then found myself wide-awake, a million things going through my mind. The performance last night. James Douglas’s evocative stare. Chills running along my neck, a fizzy feeling in my stomach I was desperately trying to ignore.

  Oh, and Michael. Of course. Yes. Him.

  I bit at my lower lip, stabbed by the familiar guilt, and opened my laptop to check email.