Snowflakes and Coffee Cakes

by DeMaio, Joanne

  Vera lifts her foot off the gas and slams on the brakes, not that she really has to; she was driving so slowly already while mesmerized by the enchanted view. Beyond the imposing dark barn, Addison Cove stretches out, its crystal blue waters frozen solid and covered with a blanket of white as it winds its way to the Connecticut River.

  She parks in front of the house, gets out of her car and walks through the freshly fallen snow, slipping a little on the walkway, just to take a peek inside. Just to see if it all still looks like it did years ago when her parents brought her to the Christmas Barn. Ending the weekend with a drive down memory lane feels right, somehow. Oh, if ever she’d wish for a beautiful home of her own, wouldn’t this be it? Vera stamps her snow-caked boots on the Dutch Colonial’s front stoop and leans over to the side, trying to glimpse into the vacant house through the dusty paned windows, tightening her scarf against the blowing snow swirls, glancing up at those winter stars falling around her and closing her eyes tightly, for a long second, feeling the crystal snowflakes land on her face.

  Chapter Two

  Seven Months Later – September

  WHAT WAS SHE THINKING? WELL. She knows what she was thinking. Something along the lines that visions of grandeur are easily attained. All it takes is talking yourself into buying a moss-green, wood-sided, rundown New England colonial with a widow’s walk, no less, and a rambling barn too, and life will be as magnificent as the house. That the home was historic, once owned by a seafaring ship captain, even better.

  It seemed like a good idea at the time. After watching the status of the unsold property online for a couple months, and the status of her uneventful employment search, Vera finally decided. Before frittering away a sizable severance pay package that came with her pink slip, that money needed to be invested. In real estate. In one particular piece of Addison, Connecticut real estate, right beside the cove. Invested in drafty windows, in creaky floorboards, in a loose shutter, and in peeling paint.

  And right up until Vera stained the Dutch Colonial’s heavy front door a dark barnwood brown to match the brown timber barn that is also now hers, the idea still seemed good. She even sanded and stained the antique scrolled pediment above the door. A little painting, a little cleaning, a little patching, and the house was … home.

  And still is, right as she hooks a hammer claw around a large nail in the living room wall and yanks. Oh sure, yanks half a wall of sheetrock with the effort, veins and threaded cracks instantly spreading across the surface.

  “Swell,” she says, stepping back and surmising the damage. “Now what?” Okay, so there has to be some way to fix this, because everything can be fixed, right? She just needs someone to tell her how. At least on the way to the hardware store, Vera gets to walk outside through her newly-stained front door, looking back over her shoulder with, well, with hope at least.

  * * *

  “Read me back the order,” Derek says into the phone. He leans an elbow on the countertop, checking off items on the list as his vendor repeats the order he just placed: snow shovels, windshield scrapers, roof rakes, snow-melt, sidewalk scrapers and electric snow throwers. “Throw in an extra carton of the windshield scrapers, would you? I have a feeling we’re in for a good winter.”

  “What are you looking for in a delivery date? First week of October?” the vendor asks.

  “If not sooner. I always get those early-bird shoppers preparing for the worst. You know how that goes.”

  “I’ll do my best. We’re getting busy. Can’t believe the holidays are right around the corner, Derek. Where’d the year go?”

  Twelve months. Where they went, he can’t say for certain. Doesn’t really matter, though. Because no matter how much you’d like to, there’s no getting any of it back once it’s gone, not one damn minute. Not one lousy day. Not one split-second decision. He pulls off his baseball cap, runs a hand through his hair and resettles the cap backward on his head, then cuffs his sleeve and checks his watch before giving his wrist a quick shake. Day after day, still, his eye is drawn to his watch every midafternoon with the habitual time check, except when he gets busy enough to be distracted from thinking about it.

  He turns to the wall calendar behind the hardware store counter and lifts the September page to October to verify his order’s delivery date. As he raises this month’s page up, open to the October weeks not far off, his eye goes to the thick layer of tape plastered over and again along the top of the calendar where the hook passes through. Then he rips the whole damn thing right off the wall hook and throws it all in the trash can at his feet.

  * * *

  Late afternoon sunbeams reach through the paned windows. She loves the way that happens, the way the sun’s golden color heralds the approach of fall. That and the creaking wood floors of Cooper Hardware have to be two of her favorite things. Vera walks along the aisle looking up and down the racks of spackle and sheetrock tape and spackling knives. She can do this, she knows she can. But it would be a lot easier if there were some manual to guide her.

  “Can I help you?”

  She looks up at the older man approaching. “I hope so. I’ve got a wall that needs repairing and if you could maybe walk me through the process, I think I’ll do okay.”

  “What kind of wall are we talking about?”

  Vera looks from his eyes to the shelves. “Sheetrock? I bought an old house here in town and I’m doing a few repairs.”

  “Is that right. Now which house is it? Because if it’s old enough, the walls might be plaster.”

  “Plaster? Hm. It’s the green colonial at the cove. Where the Christmas Barn used to be?”

  “No kidding. The big Dutch?”

  “Yes, the last one on the street. With the barn too, it looks right out on the water there.”

  “I know exactly the house you’re talking about. Have you moved in yet?”

  “I did, about a month ago now. And I was fixing things up until a wall and I didn’t get along too well this morning, so what started as patching a nail hole is now a major repair.” She shrugs a little. “Help?”

  “My son’s the carpenter. Derek. He does small renovations and repairs on the side. Why don’t you have a talk with him and see what he can do?”

  “And where would I find him?”

  The man points to the rear of the store near the office. “Right back there, doing some paperwork.”

  Vera glances quickly over, then thanks him before heading down the aisle.

  “Oh, Miss! Watch out for Zeus,” the man calls after her.

  “Zeus?” she asks, turning back while still walking slowly, a little confused.

  He motions with his arm raised, his finger pointing downward and to the left and so she stops suddenly and looks in front of her. A big yellow lab is spread sound-asleep across the wood-planked floor in a patch of afternoon sunlight. “Zeus?” she asks, and he nods at her before walking away.

  “Seems like you’ve got the right idea,” she says to the dog while stepping over him and rounding the corner to the rear aisle, just in time to see this Derek ripping a calendar off the wall and throwing it, not too casually either, in the trash.

  “Excuse me,” she calls out and he looks up at her. So she takes a few steps closer. “Your dad sent me your way?”

  He lifts his cap off and resettles it over his dark, tousled hair, adding a quick glance at the now calendar-less wall. “What can I do for you?”

  Vera hesitates, feeling as though she’s interrupted something, though he’s alone at the counter. She takes a quick breath and extends her hand. “I’m Vera. Vera Sterling.”

  He shakes her hand briefly. “Derek Cooper.”

  “Cooper, so your family owns the store?” She looks at him for a second longer, taking in his tall frame, a shadow of whiskers and brown eyes. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  He shakes his head and shrugs. “You from around here?”

  “I am. Well, I was. I recently moved back. Do you have a sister by any chance?”
r />   “Samantha.”

  “Really! I went to school with Sam. Sam Cooper. How is she?”

  “She’s good. Manages the store here, keeps me and my Dad in line. Married a couple years now.”

  “Wow. I haven’t seen her in ages.”

  “Where’d you move to?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You said you moved back here. In town?”

  “Yes, yes I did. And I’m doing some home repairs trying to make a grand dream come true with a handyman’s special house, if you get my drift. Which now has wall damage I need fixed up. Your father said you do small repairs on the side?”

  “I can take a look at it. What’s the address?”

  “Oh you can’t miss it. It’s the last house down at the cove, the one with the barn.”

  “The old Christmas Barn?”

  “That’s the one. So you know it then?”

  He looks past her for a second, quiet. “Yeah, I know it.”

  And that’s all he says, glancing down at the trash can where he’d thrown that calendar, adjusting the cap on his head, then sliding a pencil and paper across the counter. “Write down your name and phone number. I’ll try to stop by the next day or two.”

  She takes the pencil. “I know it’s short notice, but I’m sure I can find someone else if you’re busy.”

  “No.” He folds down his black denim shirt cuff, then recuffs it. “No, it’s not a problem.” He checks his watch.

  “Well. Okay then.” Vera jots down the information and slides it back to him. “Thanks. You’ll call first?”

  When he only nods and puts her number in a pocket of his cargo pants, she turns to leave. But she turns back, looking at him for a moment more before adding, “Say hi to Samantha for me?” He nods again, and so she heads out, giving a quick glance over her shoulder to see him lifting that creased and taped-up wall calendar carefully out of the trash.

  Chapter Three

  A BALLERINA STANDS IN CLASSIC pirouette form, her pale gold tutu the color of late September’s maple tree leaves. “I can’t believe you still don’t have a job,” Brooke tells her while leaning over and lifting the scarecrow’s bent arm a little higher, then tucking loose straw into her ballet slipper.

  Vera pulls her cropped tweed jacket close with a glance at her ripped jeans. “If you’re referring to my pants, the rips are intentional, Brooke. They’re not because I don’t have any money. Distressed denim is actually in.”

  Brooke looks her up and down. “Seriously, Vee.” They pass a podium in front of The Historical Society building and each take a ballot to rate the scarecrows. Brooke tucks hers in her denim jacket pocket as they cross the street. “Let’s stop on The Green, I brought us something to eat.”

  They settle on a garden bench with their pumpkin spice lattes to-go and Brooke reaches into a large tote, her French braid falling over her shoulder. She pulls out a plastic tray of mini cinnamon-crumb coffee cakes.

  “Employed or not, I can count on you to keep me fed, regardless,” Vera says as she peels the lid off her coffee.

  Brooke hands her two cakes and a napkin. “I just don’t get what you’re doing, Vera. You need a job, and fast now. It’s been so long since you had a paycheck come in.”

  “No kidding,” Vera says around a mouthful of the coffee cake. “And you’ll be happy to know money is on its way because I’ve lined up freelance assignments with the Addison Weekly.” She nudges her sister’s arm, pointing to the medical building nearby. A scarecrow doctor clad in a white jacket holds a stethoscope to a worried looking patient, her straw hair standing on end. “One of which is a profile of the Annual Scarecrow Competition.”

  “Really? You’ve gone from Boston news to Addison scarecrows? I don’t know, Vera. The longer you’re away from journalism, the more out of touch you’ll be with the field. I’m worried about you.”

  “Well I’ll get paid for this piece, so don’t worry too much.”

  “Come on, how much can they pay you? You’re kind of slumming it a little. Because there’s no way freelancing for the town newspaper will cover your bills.”

  “I’ve got a few leads I’m following up on. And I was thinking of renting out my barn. Lots of people need that kind of storage space, so it’ll help until something breaks.”

  “The barn, the house. I’m sorry, but it’s all kind of a dump and it seems like you’re in way over your head. I still don’t understand why you want to renovate it instead of move into a nice townhouse, maybe?”

  Vera sips her hot coffee, letting her sister ramble while talking with her hands, a turquoise-ringed finger hammering home a point. Vera stopped listening somewhere around townhouse. Because she’s done the whole condo thing already. And really, what did Brooke know about being single and unemployed, when you’ll take any comfort you can find, even if it’s only in the hope of what can be? Her vision of her big colonial dream home hasn’t wavered, even though her checkbook is beginning to.

  “Tell me you’re at least thinking of flipping that house to help pay off your college loans.” Brooke stands and they cross to Main Street, stopping in front of the elementary school to rate the teacher scarecrow writing at a portable chalkboard. “Did you ever think about teaching?” Brooke asks as she rates the school display on her ballot. “Like maybe a journalism class at the community college?”

  Vera considers the teacher scarecrow with a bandana around its neck and a couple old-fashioned wooden desks set out behind her. “Two-stars to your suggestion. And four to the display,” she says as she notes her voting ballot.

  They walk on in the late September sunlight, approaching a New York Yankees batter facing off a Boston Red Sox pitcher, the mini-stadium set up in front of Joel’s Bar and Grille. The Yankee player’s arms are overstuffed with straw, ready to hit the ball out of the park. Vera lifts her sunglasses on top of her head. “Oh now this one is fun. There’s definitely going to be a rivalry in the votes here.” She discreetly notes her five-star Yankee rating with a Go Yankees addendum.

  “Hey look, it’s me and Brett.” Brooke nudges her arm as they near Wedding Wishes. Bride and groom scarecrows stand side-by-side in the afternoon sunlight, the bride wearing a cream pleated gown and a birdcage veil similar to the one Brooke wore. Satin gloves are tucked on the end of the bride’s straw arms. They see Amy through the shop window and give her display a thumbs-up, and when her young daughter steps close to the door to watch them, they send along a happy wave to her, too.

  But rating scarecrow astronauts, and a fireman climbing a ladder to a stuffed cat on a branch, and a police officer writing a ticket merely fuels Brooke’s job ideas. “Maybe you should look into another line of work.”

  “What. Like a police officer?”

  “No.” She sips her coffee, thinking. “I don’t know, something with writing … like a job in advertising?”

  “Bossy Brooke,” Vera answers with a wink. “Always looking at my life through one of these.” She reaches into her tweed jacket pocket and pulls out a mini-magnifying glass.

  “Dad’s been at it again, I see.” Brooke pulls her own magnifier from her denim jacket pocket. “You always know when snow season is around the corner.”

  “Yup. New magnifying glasses for all.” Vera slips hers back in her pocket. “Dad’s been up to other stuff, too. He’s checking at the station to see if they can use me as a reporter there.”

  “Really, Vera? Dad’s going to line up a job for you now? And you’re freelancing with fluff articles? Plus fixing up an old home to boot and maybe renting a barn? Do you hear how chaotic your life’s become? There’s no pattern to your days, no routine. No plan.”

  Vera sighs, then moves on to the scarecrow horses in front of the small stable a block away. Beyond the stable, Addison’s covered bridge is framed with tall maples brilliant in red and gold foliage. The bridge is a pretty time machine; when you pass through it, it brings you into historic Olde Addison and its vintage antique homes, wide tree-lined streets and the sil
ver expanse of the cove, the destination of so many long-ago ship captains returning from trade at sea.

  But here in the present, Brooke’s right, in a way. Vera’s hand slips into her pocket for her voting ballot and feels the magnifier there. Her father never wants her to miss a chance to see a snowflake up close, including a perfect icy specimen that might fall gently from the sky onto her sleeve.

  The thing is, if she’s learned anything about snowflakes from her father, it’s this: Their pretty patterned shapes of star-like crystals and hexagonal plates might seem random, but they’re not. Specific scientific conditions that seem arbitrary—from physics to math to chemistry—combine to determine each one’s precise formation. There’s nothing random about the shape of a snowflake that tumbles from the clouds. And that’s the beauty of looking at them up close. Each delicate flake tells a unique and complex story about its form and pattern.

  That’s all she wants, really. Some of that distinct, snowflake structure in her own life. A structure that brings what looks like random choices and arbitrary wishes together in a very certain pattern.

  * * *

  Derek sweeps the sanding powder into a dustpan and dumps it in Vera’s kitchen trashcan, brushing the sheetrock dust off his denim shirt, too. He hears her car door slam and figures he’s got a minute or two to throw his tools together and be on his way. As he’s carrying the toolbox to the kitchen, Vera breezes in through the side door in a rush of cold air and packages and hurries to drop them on the round pedestal kitchen table.

  “Hey, Derek. Finished?”

  “I am, you’re all set to paint the wall now.” He sets down the toolbox and resettles his cap backward on his head.

  “Terrific! Let me pay you before you leave then.” She pulls a checkbook from her shoulder bag and quickly writes out a check, which he folds in half and tucks in his shirt pocket. “I really appreciate it,” she says while slipping out of a tweed jacket and hanging it on one of the white-painted mismatched chair backs: a Windsor, a couple ladder-backs, a cottage and a café style.