Let It Snow

by Sherry Lewis

  Cameron responded with nothing more than a sideways glance and a roll of his eyes. He slouched in his seat and stared out at the valley through the windshield.

  His constant tension exhausted her. She sent him a thin smile and tried to change the subject. “What do you want to bet Grandpa’s sitting by the window, watching for us?”

  He lifted both shoulders in a listless shrug. “Probably.”

  “He’ll be glad to see you.”

  “Probably,” he said again. He waited a moment, then turned a challenging glance in her direction. “I’m going to spend tonight at Dad’s.”

  Marti struggled not to respond in the same tone of voice. She’d long ago learned that rising to his bait only made him more defiant. “I think we should both stay at Grandpa’s tonight. Tomorrow we can decide when you and your dad can get together.”

  “I don’t want to spend tonight at Grandpa’s.”

  “Maybe not, but that’s what I’d like you to do. I don’t want you to start out this visit by hurting your grandpa’s feelings.”

  “It won’t hurt his feelings,” Cameron protested. “He won’t mind if I want to see my dad. It’s you who doesn’t want me to. You’re using Grandpa as an excuse.”

  “That’s not true,” Marti insisted, but she wondered if there might be a spark of truth in his accusation.

  “That’s why you made me move to California in the first place,” he insisted. “To keep us apart.”

  Marti battled to keep her voice from rising. “We moved to California because we needed a fresh start. I couldn’t stay here after the divorce.”

  “I could have.”

  “Not without me.” She glanced over at him. “I’m really not in the mood to have this argument again. We’ve been over it at least a million times.”

  “Yeah, and you always say the same old thing. You don’t care what Dad wants. Or me. You only care about what you want.”

  The accusation stung. “I care very much about what you want and about what’s good for you. The court granted me custody of you for a reason. Like it or not, I’m responsible for making decisions for you until you’re eighteen.”

  Angry red crept up Cameron’s cheeks. He looked away. “You can’t make me do anything.”

  “Don’t try me.” She steered around another curve and, at the first sight of her childhood home, pumped the brakes lightly to slow the car. The familiar two-story ranch house sat on a knoll and looked out over the narrow valley through huge plate-glass windows. Snow covered the roof, and smoke curled from the chimney into the gray sky. Blankets of white coated nearby pine and aspen trees as well as the steep mountains behind the house. The scene looked warm and inviting, like something from a Christmas card.

  “I’d almost forgotten how beautiful it is,” she whispered, more to herself than Cameron.

  “That’s because we’ve been gone so long.” Did she only imagine it, or did his voice sound a little less brittle?

  Wanting desperately to believe it, she relented slightly. “As soon as we’ve unloaded the car, you can call your dad and let him know we’re here.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Cameron’s lip curled and whatever softening she might have imagined disappeared.

  Marti forced herself not to respond. When he got like this, nothing she could say made any difference. She accelerated slowly, pulled into the yard and stopped the car in front of the house. Almost immediately, her father opened the front door and stepped outside. He looked far older than she’d expected and smaller inside his coveralls than when she left Gunnison three years before, but a broad smile stretched his rugged face and warmed her heart.

  Pulling the keys from the ignition, she glanced at Cameron. “Let’s not talk about this right now. Grandpa doesn’t need to hear us arguing before we even get inside the house.”

  Cameron climbed out of the car without responding and slammed the door between them. Marti watched him cross the yard toward his grandpa. For a moment, he looked happy again—young and eager and full of life the way he’d always been as a small boy, but she knew her son’s mood wouldn’t last more than a second after she joined them.

  She climbed out of the car and followed slowly. When her father released Cameron from a bear hug, she stepped into his embrace. Leaning against his chest, she breathed in the familiar scents of burning wood and fresh air. She could have stayed that way forever, but Henry Maddock had never been comfortable with physical displays of emotion.

  Releasing her quickly, he took a step backward and nodded toward the car. “You made it.”

  Marti smiled at his habit of stating the obvious, but Cameron’s expression tightened. “Barely. Mom almost got us into an accident by the bridge.”

  She should have known he wouldn’t honor her request to keep the incident between them.

  Her father turned a concerned gaze on her. “By the bridge? With who? Nobody should have been on that road.”

  “Rick Dennehy,” Marti said. “But it wasn’t any big deal. I just came around the curve too fast and skidded a little.”

  Cameron snorted in derision. “A little? He had to pull the car back onto the road.”

  Her father scowled. “You went off the road?”

  “No,” Marti said quickly. “We just slid sideways.”

  “Are you okay? Did anybody get hurt?”

  Marti shook her head. “We’re fine, and so is the car.”

  Henry studied her for a long moment, then turned to Cameron as if he thought the boy might tell him something different.

  To her relief, Cameron shrugged. “We’re okay.”

  Her father accepted Cameron’s word, but refused to let the matter drop. “I knew the minute I heard Dennehy had come back that he’d cause trouble.”

  “He didn’t cause anything, Dad.” Marti touched his arm gently. “I’m the one who made the mistake. I’ve forgotten how to drive on the snow.”

  Henry shook his head and held out one hand. “Well, after that, you probably need to sit down for a spell. Give me your keys and go inside where it’s warm. Cameron and I will unload the car.”

  Though Marti could have helped and made the job easier, she knew better than to argue. Henry Maddock had definite ideas about the roles of the sexes. Neither Marti nor her sister, Carol, had ever been able to change his mind and, at nearly seventy, he wasn’t likely to suddenly become enlightened.

  Dropping the keys into his hand, she walked back to the car, pulled out her purse and laptop computer, then followed the narrow path through the snow to the front door.

  The instant she stepped inside, she felt as if she’d never been away. She might have been ten years old again, looking at the fire blazing in the fireplace, the sturdy sofa facing it, the crocheted afghan lying across the sofa’s back. She could almost see her brothers—Jed lounging in an armchair by the fire, Neal on the floor. She imagined her sister, Carol, doing homework on the heavy pine coffee table, and her mother knitting while she watched them all. But they weren’t there, and a fine layer of dust and stacks of outdoors magazines scattered around the room reminded her that those days would never be again.

  To her surprise, her father had done nothing to prepare for Christmas. The huge pine wreath wasn’t hanging above the fireplace, the garlands weren’t winding their way up the banister, the tree wasn’t standing guard in the wide front window. Every year Marti’s mother had decorated the house on the day after Thanksgiving. She’d covered everything with brass horns, red bows and her collection of carved wooden Santas. Marti had kept up the tradition until she moved away. Now, without everything in place, the house looked empty—only half-alive.

  Sighing, Marti shrugged off her coat and hung it in the hall closet. She turned around just as Cameron stomped inside carrying both suitcases. Without a word, he brushed past her and started up the stairs.

  She followed and made another effort to put their argument behind them. “Which room does Grandpa want you to take?”

  Cameron dropped her suitcase at the
top of the stairs and started down the back hallway with his own. “The little one up here,” he said over his shoulder. “What else?”

  Of all the empty bedrooms on the second floor, her dad had given Cameron the one farthest from her own. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. Her father kept their childhood bedrooms empty, even when he knew no one would be coming to visit. Grandchildren and other visitors always stayed in the small upstairs bedroom or the guest room on the first floor.

  As Marti picked up her suitcase, she told herself to be glad he’d put Cameron upstairs rather than alone on the first floor where he could sneak out without her hearing him.

  She followed the main hallway to the front of the house and opened the door to her old room. Like downstairs, nothing had changed. Her narrow bed still stood where it always had, and the dresser and night tables held their time-honored positions. The blue flowered curtains and matching bedspread were the ones she’d had as a young girl, though the colors had faded a bit. She’d spent many happy hours in this room, sharing secrets with her best friend, Cherryl, whose mother, Greta, still ran the grocery store. Life had seemed so simple then, and suddenly she longed to hear Cherryl’s voice again. Hopefully, they’d find time to get together during Marti’s visit.

  Slipping off her shoes, she resisted the impulse to lie on the bed even for a minute. A minute could easily stretch into an hour, and she knew Henry would want her to come back downstairs so they could visit before dinner.

  A soft noise in the doorway pulled her around just as her father stepped into the room. He lowered her overnight case and duffel bag to the floor, placed a hand on his back and straightened again. “Well? How does it look?”

  “It looks wonderful, Dad. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Nope.” He smiled, as she’d known he would, and gestured around the room as he stepped inside. “I give it a once-over every month or so. Your aunt Martha stopped by and put clean sheets on the beds yesterday.”

  “I’ll call to thank her,” she promised. “Next time, though, I can do that when we get here. There’s no sense bothering Aunt Martha.”

  “She doesn’t mind,” her father said, crossing to the window that overlooked the front yard. “In fact, she’s glad to help out when one of you kids decides to come home.”

  His implication wasn’t lost on Marti. She knew she didn’t come home often enough to please him. He’d been disappointed when Jed and Neal went away to college, one right after the other, and disheartened when they’d both chosen to pursue careers in other states after graduation.

  But he’d been equally disappointed in his daughters. Carol had gone to college for a year, then dropped out to marry Bud Waverly. Henry hadn’t approved of Bud at the time, and Bud hadn’t been able to change her father’s mind during the intervening fifteen years. After Carol’s marriage, her father had focused his hopes on Marti—or, more accurately, on her marriage.

  After she married Gil, her father had made no secret of his plans to leave the ranch to them. But her divorce had thrown everything into disarray again, and her father’s belief that a woman alone couldn’t handle the Lazy M had influenced her decision to leave Gunnison. She hadn’t wanted to watch a stranger take over this land she loved.

  With effort, she pushed aside an unwelcome surge of old resentment and picked up her duffel bag. “What do you want me to fix for dinner tonight?”

  Her father glanced at her over his shoulder. “Martha left a casserole in the fridge. I figured we’d just heat that up tonight. There isn’t much else in the kitchen.”

  Marti pulled several blouses on hangers from her bag and started toward the closet. “Does Martha fix many meals for you, or is this a special occasion?”

  “She brings extras over once in a while,” he admitted. “A couple of times a week, maybe.”

  Marti turned to ask something else, but when she noticed Cameron in the open doorway, she forgot what she’d been about to say.

  The boy held himself rigid, his eyes flashed and his chin jutted out the way it always did before he started an argument. “I called Dad,” he said. “He wasn’t home, but I left a message telling him to pick me up tonight.”

  Marti glared at him. “Call him back and tell him not to come.”

  “No way. I told you I was going over there tonight.”

  “And I told you to stay here.”

  Henry turned away from the window and let his gaze travel from one to the other. “What’s all this?”

  Cameron put on an innocent expression and took a step toward him. “I want to see my dad, but she won’t let me.”

  “That’s not true,” Marti said. “I simply asked you to wait until tomorrow.”

  The teenager lifted his eyebrows at Henry, as if her response somehow proved his point.

  Rubbing his chin, her father started toward her. “Well, now, I don’t see any real harm in letting the boy see his father—”

  “1 never said he couldn’t,’.’ Marti interrupted. ”I just asked him to stay here tonight.”

  Her father put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t think it’ll hurt anything if you let him go.”

  Marti had no intention of letting Cameron manipulate the situation. “I’ve given Cameron his answer, and I’m not going to change my mind.” To her son, she said again, “Call your dad and leave another message.”

  Cameron’s face reddened. “No.”

  “Do it,” she insisted, “or I will.”

  “Fine,” Cameron shouted. “Do it, then. I’m not going to.” He pivoted away and stomped down the hall. His boots echoed on the hardwood floor and matched the sudden steady pounding in Marti’s head. She bit back frustration and shoved a lock of hair from her face.

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on him?” Henry asked.

  “No, I don’t. You have no idea what’s happened to bring us to this point.”

  “Maybe not,” he said slowly, “but I know that boy, and I know he doesn’t usually act that way.”

  She started to answer, but when she heard Cameron go down the stairs, she abandoned the argument. She didn’t want him to run away—not now, not here, not in the bitter cold miles from anywhere. She hurried toward the door, but Henry stepped in front of her.

  “Stay here,” he ordered. “If you go after him now, you’ll just drive him away.”

  “Then you stop him. He’ll run away. He always does.”

  If she’d expected sympathy from her father, she’d have been bitterly disappointed. He cocked an eyebrow at her, and the expression in his eyes left no doubt he thought she was the one at fault.

  “One of us has to stop him,” she insisted, and tried to push past him.

  “I’ll talk to him.” Henry turned away, motioning her toward the bed. “You stay here.”

  Battling discouragement, she sank to the foot of the bed. The flight, the long drive and the near accident had taken their toll. She didn’t have the energy for another argument.

  A second later, she jumped up again and trailed her father as far as her bedroom door. Her father wouldn’t be able to change Cameron’s mind. He had such a soft spot for the boy, he’d probably let Cameron have his own way. And that would undermine everything she’d been trying to do. Cameron’s counselors had warned her that he would see compromise as weakness. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t afford to relent, even for an instant.

  CAMERON HEARD his mom calling him as he walked away, but he ignored her. He heard his grandpa move down the hallway after him, but he didn’t stop. If he did, his mom would make him stay. She’d get right in his face and yell at him—well, not yell exactly, but she’d talk a lot. And she’d give him a hundred reasons why he should stay here tonight instead of going to see his dad.

  Cameron didn’t want to stay at his grandpa’s house, not even for one night. He hadn’t seen his dad in three years and now, with his dad less than ten miles away, he didn’t want to wait even one day longer to spend time with him.

  Right afte
r the divorce, Cameron had believed his mom’s stories about why he never got to see his dad. His dad had been busy that first summer after his mom made him move away. Cameron knew that. His dad was a busy man. But when Christmas came and went without a visit, and the next summer passed the same way, Cameron had started getting suspicious. Especially since every time his dad called, he promised to bring Cameron home for a visit. So lately, when his mom claimed that his dad couldn’t work out a visit, Cameron knew who to blame. Somehow, his mom was screwing him over with his dad. He just knew it.

  Moving faster now, he started down the stairs.

  His grandpa picked up his pace and called him again. “Cameron, hold on there. Wait just a minute.”

  Yeah, sure. Wait just a minute so his mom could make up more excuses. Next thing Cameron knew, she’d claim his dad didn’t want to see him this Christmas, either.

  He stopped partway down the stairs and turned back. His mom stood just inside the door to her room. She’d put on that pathetic face she used sometimes to make him feel bad. But it didn’t work. It hadn’t worked in a long time. “I don’t know why that stupid judge ever made me stay with you,” he shouted at her. “I’ll bet he didn’t know what a bitch you are.”

  He could tell by the look on her face that the words hurt her. A little guilt wormed its way up his spine, but he didn’t let it bug him. After all, she deserved it. She didn’t care about him anymore. She only cared about the stupid articles she wrote for that stupid travel magazine, and taking him to counselors so people would think she cared.

  He waited for a second, hoping he’d made her mad enough this time to show some emotion, to yell or something. But, as usual, she just stood there, clenching and unclenching her fists. Her face turned red, but she didn’t say anything.

  Anger coiled through him. He couldn’t believe her. He’d just called her a bitch, and she didn’t even say a word. Nothing. Before the divorce, he’d heard his dad say that she didn’t have any feelings. The more Cameron thought about it, the more he decided his dad must be right. She probably didn’t even have a heart anymore.