Snowman

by AC Netzel

  That’s an odd saying, but… okay.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell him.

  He shrugs a shoulder. “Since I was a minor, Holly and Kris took my brother and me in.”

  “They seem like good people.”

  “The best. I have a great family.”

  “And just like your aunt and uncle took you in, you took in Noelle.”

  “We’re all we have.”

  “Seems to me, you have a lot.”

  “Yeah, I think so.” He nods, looking a little lost in thought. “You ready to get inside a heated car?” he asks, changing the subject.

  “About fifteen minutes ago.” I’ve already lost the feeling in my toes.

  “Let’s go.”

  I slide into the passenger seat and secure my seatbelt. Glancing over at Nick, I watch as he slips on a pair of aviator sunglasses.

  Holy scorching hotness, lumber-delicious morsel of man.

  Mmm.

  Closing my eyes, I rid myself of the filthy thoughts dancing through my head and savor the soothing sound of Nat King Cole playing softly on the car radio as we drive into town.

  “My parents used to play this Christmas album over and over when I was a kid,” I tell him. “They’d slow dance to the slower songs in our living room while we decorated our tree.”

  “Mine too.”

  “It’s my all-time favorite Christmas album.”

  “Same.”

  “There’s something magical about his voice. It always brings me to a happy place.”

  “It’s timeless.”

  I sigh, looking out at the snowy scene in front of us. “Like coming home.”

  He looks at me for a beat and nods. “Yes. Like coming home.”

  “I haven’t listened to it in years.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  I do know. It reminds me of an irreplaceable magic from a long time ago.

  “Do you want me to turn it off?” He reaches for the radio.

  “No.” I place my hand on top of his, stopping him and surprising myself. “Keep it on.”

  He gazes down at our hands for a quick second then stares ahead again.

  “Sorry.” I pull my hand away. “Didn’t mean to kidnap your hand.”

  The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I think I could have gotten away.”

  “You’d be surprised at my brute strength,” I tease. “I could have held it for days.”

  “You kidnapping me wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen, would it?”

  Is he coming on to me? Or worse, does he think I’m coming on to him?

  “I was only kidnapping your hand,” I clarify. “You can keep the rest.”

  He laughs. “I come with my hand.”

  “Oh?” My eyes widen as I bite down on my bottom lip to ward off a giant perverted grin.

  “Let me rephrase that,” he says quickly. “My hand is attached to me—unless you have a machete in your handbag that you plan on using.”

  “Damn, they confiscated it at the airport.” I feign frustration. “Guess I’ll have to kidnap all of you.”

  “That,” he flicks his sunglasses up for a quick second, looks at me with a wicked gleam in his eyes, then looks back to the road, “would be very interesting.”

  Clearing my throat, I squirm in my seat and wonder how this conversation steered so far off course. Not speaking another word, I reach across my seat and turn up the volume.

  My eyes widen as we drive down Main Street. Every single business is adorned to the max in sparkly Christmas decorations. Every. Single. One. Even the Post Office. Meticulously shoveled sidewalks, lush garlands, and winter florals are at the entrance of every storefront. I grab my cell phone and snap a quick picture of a gorgeous white-steepled church while we’re waiting at, according to Nick, one of only four traffic lights in the entire town.

  “Want to take a walk around? The shops should be opened by now,” Nick asks.

  I wiggle my toes to confirm I’ve regained feeling back. Heat is a beautiful thing. “Sure.”

  He parks the car in front of a quaint brick building. The front window is packed with pink, red, and white poinsettias, beautifully displayed along with a fixture full of red and white amaryllis. I look above the window and read the ivy-green and gold gilded sign…

  Florist Green

  “Wow,” I say, awestruck. “That’s stunning.”

  He glances at the window and nods. “The Green’s always have nice window displays. Ever has a great eye.”

  “Ever? As in ‘Exhausting Ever’?”

  He laughs. “The very one. Her family owns this floral shop.”

  “Wait a minute… your ex-girlfriend’s name is Ever Green?”

  “Yes.”

  “For real? Evergreen?”

  “Yes.”

  I burst out into a laugh. “That’s hysterical.”

  Tilting his head to the side, he frowns. “Why? It’s her name.”

  “Evergreen. You know, like the tree. Like the Streisand song. A florist whose name is Ever Green.”

  He stares at me blankly.

  “Forget I said anything.” I give up on this strange little town. “Let’s take that walk.”

  I button my coat all the way to the top as the arctic air chills me to my core. Staring back at Nick’s car, I already long for the warmth I just vacated.

  “Next door is Zuzu’s Pet Shop, it’s been around for as long as I can remember. The Post Office is after that, then Boughs Bakery, who happens to make the world’s best fruitcake. It won tons of blue ribbons. Honestly, it’s legendary. We could stop in and try a sample. It’ll change your life.”

  A fruitcake is going to change my life? I don’t think so.

  I place my hand on my stomach. “Thanks, but I’m still full from breakfast. I couldn’t possibly fit another bite.”

  “Don’t you like fruitcake?” he asks.

  “Sure. What’s not to like?” Other than everything. It’s probably the most disgusting dessert ever created with those funky candied fruits and weird spices. And the fact that it can last for something like a billion years leaves my pallet heaving.

  “My aunt has her own secret recipe. I’ll let her know you’re a fruitcake fan. I’m sure she’d be happy to bake one for you before the end of your stay.”

  “I don’t want her to go through any trouble.” Please… No.

  “Are you kidding me? She and the Bough’s have a friendly little rivalry. She’d love an excuse to bake one and show them up.”

  “Super.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I continue to walk. After a few steps, I glance to my side, only to find my tour guide missing in action. I turn around to search for Nick, who’s lagging four steps behind me. “Why are you back there?” I ask.

  “Why are you rushing?”

  “I’m not rushing. This is my natural speed. Why are you so slow?”

  When you live in Manhattan, there’s an ingrained sense of urgency to get where you’re going quickly. City life is hectic, you’ve got to move. I’ll zigzag through any crowded sidewalk and have been known to plow down a pedestrian or two to shave a minute off my commute time.

  “I’m walking like a normal person,” he says as he catches up to me.

  “Your pace is far from normal. Here are the results of a three-way race in this town—In first place, a thousand-year-old tortoise. Coming in a close second, a comatose sloth. And trailing waaaay behind is you. Snowman, you are sauntering. That’s not walking.”

  “Snowman?” He laughs. “Very clever. Never heard that one before.”

  I chuckle, knowing he’s being sarcastic.

  “Maybe, Miss Sloane, you should slow down and appreciate your surroundings. You might learn something about the world you’re walking through and didn’t bother to see.”

  “Okay. We’ll play it your way.” I pinch my index finger and thumb together, raise them to my mouth and puff out a quick breath.

  “What was
that?” he asks, amused.

  “That was the imaginary match I blew out. I’m no longer lighting a fire under your ass to speed you up.”

  He shakes his head and laughs. I can’t help but laugh with him as we continue touring Main Street.

  We s-t-r-o-l-l past the bakery. This deathly slow pace is driving me insane because my thoughts are ten feet in front of us. The aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls permeates the air, even outside. If he told me the bakery had cinnamon rolls, I would have been first in line. It’s basic science—No matter how full you are, there’s always room for that spiral of baked gooey cinnamon deliciousness.

  But I already said I was too full for fruitcake, so missed opportunity.

  “This is Joseph’s Barber Shop,” he tells me as we reach the next storefront.

  “The red, white, and blue striped pole in the window kind of gave that away,” I say sarcastically.

  “It’s not just haircuts. If you have one of those nail emergencies while you’re here, his wife does manicures.”

  “Nothing will chip these babies.” I wiggle my fingers in his face. “Harder than steel.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he replies with amusement.

  I take a quick peek in the front window, it’s a throwback to the barbershops of the old days. Three old-fashioned barber chairs face three large mirrors. In front of each station is a tall glass jar filled with blue antiseptic liquid and combs. Each station is also loaded with a shit-ton of hair gels, waxes, and pomades.

  A man with slicked-back jet-black hair weighed down with what must be an entire bottle of hair gel looks up from the cash register and smiles. He holds up a hand, gesturing for us to wait as he approaches the front door. The jingle of a few small bells sounds when the door swings open.

  “Nick!” the man exclaims. I get a closer look at his stiffened hair. The hair product has produced a wet, yet not really wet, glossy glaze with every comb line clearly defined.

  I wonder if comb-lines are like tree-rings. I can count them and guess his age.

  “Hey, Joseph. Good to see you,” Nick tells the Gel-Crispy barber. “This is Summer. She’s thinking of moving here.”

  I’ve been diligently keeping track of my lies and half-truths. I never said that.

  I hold out my hand to shake his, and Joseph pulls me into a hug. This town is awfully touchy-feely. He must be a relative of Carol’s.

  “It’s always nice to meet a friend of Nick’s,” Joseph says.

  “Oh, we’re not friends,” I correct, as I wiggle out of his grip. “I mean, we just met. He’s just being hospitable and showing me around.”

  “We’re not? After all we’ve been through? Car swallowing ditches and failed kidnappings,” Nick teases, holding his hands to his heart. “You wound me.”

  Lumberjerk.

  “Okay, we’re best buds. Better?” I ask.

  “Much,” he says, redirecting his attention to the Gel-Meister, exchanging pleasantries as I tune out and study the guy’s glossy, slick, crunchy hair. I’m fighting the urge to ball my hand into a fist and knock on it. It looks hard as a rock. Hurricane-force winds couldn’t move that helmet.

  Another man, with identical Gel-Crispy hair, joins us.

  “Summer, this is Mr. Tyde,” Nick introduces. “The best Snow Glober in the state.”

  “Please, call me Yul,” he says, extending his hand to me.

  “Nice to meet you, Yul,” I say as we shake hands. “I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with what a Snow Glober does.”

  “Like a cobbler repairs shoes, I repair snow globes,” Yul says matter-of-factly—like it’s a normal, ordinary job.

  “Really? And that’s all you do?” I ask.

  How can these people afford to eat?

  “Goodness, yes. I’m backlogged for weeks. High demand in these parts. Lots of broken globes that need fixing.”

  “That’s fascinating.” Apparently, this place is overflowing with clumsy people.

  A deep line forms between Nick’s brows. “Why is it fascinating? Where do you go with your broken snow globes?” he asks.

  “Ahh… the garbage pail.” Like normal people.

  “That’s insane,” Nick scoffs.

  “I guess there’s no market for snow cobblers in New York,” I tell them.

  “Snow Globers,” Yul corrects.

  “Huh?”

  “The term is Snow Glober. Not snow cobbler,” Nick explains. “A snow cobbler is a pie you put on ice.”

  Kill me now.

  “Ah, got it.” I fake a smile. “You learn something new every day.”

  Are they pumping nitrous oxide in the air? I swear they’re all high. There’s no other rational explanation. Maybe the Boughs bake a little something special in those mystical fruitcakes.

  Thankfully, we finish our conversation. Joe whisks Yul into the barbershop for a cut, and I suppose a pomade greasing, as Nick and I continue our tour.

  Leisurely meandering up the sidewalk, we peek inside each festively decorated storefront window we pass. It’s like walking through a mini version of midtown Manhattan at Christmas time. The elevated level of decorating could easily rival any retail store in Rockefeller Center. Twinkling lights in pure white and brilliant colors, thick green garlands, large wrapped packages in foiled silvers and golds, tall wooden nutcrackers, and glitter-tipped silk florals fill each space. It’s all so well done. I’m blown away at the whimsical, homey, and, in an understated way, enchanting displays.

  It reminds me of my childhood and the magic of Christmas that filled my heart with joy. A joy I’ve long forgotten. A magic I haven’t felt in a very long time.

  The day my mother died was the day Christmas died for my dad and me. Sure, we decorated the tree, opened presents, and went through all the holiday motions, but it was never the same. The magic left with her. I don’t know why this place evokes those old feelings, but I have to push them down. I can’t open that old wound, and I sure as hell can’t become attached to a place I hardly know.

  I’m here for a job, for a purpose. Not to get wrapped up in once upon a time agos.

  “Earth to Summer,” Nick says, interrupting my melancholy thoughts.

  I blink a couple of times and return to the present. Stay focused, Summer.

  “Sorry, I was trying to remember if I brought my wallet with me.” White lies aren’t true lies.

  “Couldn’t you just look inside your handbag?”

  “I… yes, of course.” I unzip the opening and peek inside. “Yup, there it is.”

  We continue to walk up the block and cross the street as Nick boasts about every shop, who owns it, and how long it’s been in business. It’s kind of sweet to see how much pride he has in this little town.

  Church services must have just let out because the sidewalks are suddenly filled with Arid Fallians… or whatever they call themselves. Every single person who passes us is dressed in what’s apparently the Arid Falls dress code of flannel coats and gaudy sweaters. Each and every person, without exception, has stopped to say good morning to us. They’re all so damn friendly and smiley. I display a polite smile, one I’ve perfected at dull board meetings, and feign interest in their Sunday morning small talk.

  As we’re sauntering at sloth-like speed and admiring the holiday window displays, I come to a halt when someone catches my eye.

  “Hey, Nick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That woman over there in the sweater dress and boots,” I point across the street to a pretty blonde with two hands full of bags filled with wrapped gifts.

  “What about her?”

  “Does she look familiar?”

  “Yes, because I know her.”

  “Is she an actress on television?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t mean now, like maybe twenty or so years ago. She looks like someone I saw in old sitcom reruns.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “That woman is the spi
tting image of… oh, what’s her name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. She was on a show with two sisters, one was a twin but not a twin, I think.”

  “Are you okay? You’re not making any sense. Her name is Candy. She’s lived here for years.”

  “I’m going to take a stab at this. Maybe twenty-five years?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What about her?” I point to the long-haired brunette walking with the blonde. “Does her name start with D-a-n-i-c?”

  “No.”

  “Really? Geez, I could have sworn she was…”

  “Her name is Winnie.”

  “You know what… forget it. Let’s keep going.”

  In addition to the doppelgangers, who I’m convinced may be the real deals, most of the women I’ve met have long, shiny locks, with frizz-free perfectly loose curls to match their flawless complexions. And the men—chiseled jawlines, muscular, tall. I know beauty is in the eye of the beholder and all that jazz, but this place is overflowing with above-average looks.

  Is there some unique mineral in the water here? Because if there is, I want to bottle and sell it.

  Note to self—Once deals are signed, have the water retested. Could bring in big bucks.

  “Good morning, Nick,” a man in a black and green plaid coat extends his hand out, and they shake. This is the eighth man he’s shaking hands with, and every single one has the same slicked-back gel-crispy hair. I peek at Nick with his tousled brown hair, the kind you know is soft to the touch and wonder how he didn’t get sucked into the gel craze.

  After a two-minute exchange of pleasantries, Gel dude number eight continues to his destination. Boughs bakery. To purchase a fruitcake.

  On purpose.

  We continue our stroll until we stop in front of a quaint bookstore’s window display. An animated Santa gently rocks back and forth on a wooden rocking chair with an opened book resting on his lap. He’s seated next to a tall tower of books fanned out to look like a Christmas tree with tiny white fairy lights in the center of the window display. Thick green garland with multicolored lights frame the parameter of the window. I peek up at the sign: