Snowflakes and Holly

by Jae Dawson

  I rested my aching forehead against the cool bars and closed my eyes. “Trapped in a cage, fighting to be free,” I murmured, my pulse pounding with each surfacing word. “You’re my silvered poison and my gilded key.”

  “Poor baby. Can’t find anything to rhyme with prosecutor?” a sarcastic female voice cooed. “Scooter? Tutor?”

  My eyes flew open. “Kenzie?” Was my PR rep really standing there? I squeezed both arms through the bars, pressing myself against the grime-coated steel. “My favorite fangirl,” I mock-flirted. “Stalking me? It’s my bad boy allure, isn’t it?” I finished with a wink, beckoning her to come closer with a single finger as I bit my lower lip.

  She wrinkled her tiny nose. “Ew, no way you’re hugging me through those gross bars. I’d probably get hepatitis. You should get your face away from there.” She whipped out her iPhone and started tapping with her perfectly manicured hand. “I’m making a note to get you a facial.”

  I barked out a choked laugh. “I hardly think the state of my skin is our biggest concern right now.”

  “Cade, honey, your looks are your currency. Your skin is always a concern.”

  “I thought my musical talent was my currency.”

  She pressed her glossy pink lips together in a smirk. “That’s cute.”

  My body sagged against the bars. Kenzie was everything I hated about the music scene and Hollywood—bleached blonde hair, fake boobs, stiletto Louboutins, and an oversized Birkin bag that could house a small family. It wasn’t that I hated her—she was a product of her environment, like everyone. And she was damn good at her job, and why I was relieved she was here. I just hated that the band needed someone like her. That I did. All I wanted to do was make music. Make art. And have that be enough.

  Her green eyes raked over me, slowly, the look calculating yet strangely sympathetic. “Cade, darling, when I fantasized about you in handcuffs, this wasn’t what I had in mind.”

  I let out another bark of laughter, which quickly tapered into a groan. Then a sigh. My roiling head would be the death of me.

  Kenzie tilted her head, one eyebrow arched, her lips tipped up in a way that weakened most men to grovel at her feet. She had always flirted with me and I always flirted back, but jokingly. I had a rule: don’t hook up with people who worked with the band. It would make the inevitable crash and burn that much harder, not to mention a political nightmare.

  The cool metal felt good on my forehead. But the momentary relief only made the pounding worse when I moved. “Do you have any ibuprofen in that Mary Poppins bag of yours?”

  “I’ve got one better.” She reached in and pulled out a bottle of green juice and a bag of intravenous fluids.

  My eyes widened.

  “Kenzie’s hangover cure. Special delivery.” She grinned, flashing freakishly white teeth.

  “You have a lot of special skills, but I’m not letting you stick a needle in my arm.”

  “Gross. I have a person for that.” Kenzie turned and hollered, “Can we get Mr. Owens out of this cell and into a room to talk to his lawyer?”

  “You got me a lawyer?” I asked.

  Kenzie rolled her eyes, already scrolling through something on her phone. “Oh ye of little faith.”

  Kenzie had cajoled the grumpy police officer with practiced efficiency—her signature mix of flirting and drill-sergeant command.

  Now I sat in a comfortable room with a cup of coffee and Kenzie’s green juice in front of me, while a kindly old nurse worked on inserting an IV into my arm.

  “You were in an accident.” Kenzie rounded the table and flounced into a chair opposite me. “They should have taken you to the hospital, not this germ-ridden crime against humanity.”

  The door opened before I could respond and a trim, older man with a weathered face and short salt-and-pepper hair entered the room. I knew him. His son, Finn, and I went to high school together. Finn and I hadn’t run in the same circle, but we’d been friendly.

  “Mackenna Rogers?” He closed the door, then shook her hand. “I’m Tristan Sanderson. We spoke on the phone.”

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice.” Kenzie batted her long eyelashes. “This is Cade.”

  “Mr. Owens.” The older man nodded my way. “I haven’t seen you in years.”

  “How’s Finn doing?” I offered my left hand to shake, as the nurse was just finishing up with the right arm. “And no formalities. Just Cade.”

  “Call me Tristan, then. Finn is doing well. He owns the local CrossFit gym. And he just bought a new place outside of town.”

  “Nice.”

  Tristan nodded thoughtfully. “So, Cade, I’ll be acting as your defense lawyer, if you’re all right with that.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “Almost done, Nancy?”

  I twisted slightly in my seat when I realized that Tristan spoke to the nurse. They must know each other. Of course, they did. Hartwood Falls was a small town. Everyone knew everyone.

  “Yes, I’m done.” She moved toward the door. “Call me back in to remove the IV when it’s finished.”

  “That would be perfect,” Tristan said. “Ms. Rogers, I’ll also have to ask you to step out. What Cade and I discuss won’t be considered privileged otherwise.”

  “Cade has no secrets from me,” Kenzie protested. “I need to know what’s going on.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, and he can inform you of what’s been decided after we talk. But it’s critical to protect Cade and my discussions from being discoverable by the other side.”

  Kenzie pursed her lips together before marching into the hallway and closing the door behind her with unnecessary, choreographed force. Dramatic entrances and exits, always.

  Tristan waited for a moment, then considered me with a smile. “She’s delightful.”

  “Cupcakes and kittens.”

  He quietly chuckled. “All right Cade,” the older man began, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not going to lie, you’re in a bit of trouble here. You were driving while your blood-alcohol was over the legal limit.”

  I swallowed thickly.

  “However, I’m fairly good friends with our County Prosecutor, Daniel Meyer. We went to law school together. I gave him a call to discuss your case. Given that this was your first offense, and the fact that you weren’t actually on the road, and the extenuating circumstances—”

  “What extenuating circumstances?” I asked.

  “Well, your Grandmother’s recent death, and your . . . status—”

  “You mean because I’m a celebrity,” I retorted flatly.

  “Your fame makes this matter more delicate for everyone. Hartwood Falls doesn’t need the attention for something unfortunate like this anymore than you do. So, Mr. Meyer is willing to forego charging you, provided you pay to repair the damage you caused and donate to the County Parks Department. This is a good an offer as you’re going to get, Cade. There will be no conviction on your record.”

  My brows shot up despite the swelling around my eyes. “So, I just have to like . . . pay a bribe and this all goes away?”

  Tristan waved his hands. “No, no, that’s not what this is. Paying a fine or restitution is a common method of resolving misdemeanor situations. This is good news, Cade. You can put this behind you. Move on with your life.”

  My eyes fluttered closed, my stomach churning faster. This was the blessing and the curse of being famous. I hated all this fuss, hated how people fawned over me, hated how I received special treatment just for breathing in the same space with others. I had driven while drunk. If that dark-haired woman hadn’t grabbed for my keys, this could have been worse. I could have hurt someone. I shouldn’t just . . . get away with breaking the law. Or be able to wipe away a criminal charge because I’m famous and able to throw money at the problem. I was so goddamned sick of all that.

  I opened my eyes to find Tristan studying me, the corners of his mouth dipped in a patient frown.

  My head was finally starti
ng to clear. Everything was starting to become clear.

  “What would the punishment be, if I were charged?”

  “If you were charged? I don’t understand, I just said—”

  “What would the punishment be?”

  “For your situation, after the conversation I had with Daniel . . . since you have no criminal history . . . probation, most likely. Community service. Alcohol and drug counseling.”

  “Would the community service be here? In Hartwood Falls?”

  “Yes, ordinarily. What am I missing, Cade?”

  A dingy, smoothed out chip in the metal table I leaned on snagged my attention. From handcuffs? Or something else. For the first time since being in jail, I shuddered. This wasn’t me. I wasn’t this person. And yet, here I was. For being an irresponsible, drunken prick, like the driver who had killed my parents fifteen years ago.

  Part of me knew I was a fool for even considering this. I should take the sweet deal and move on with my life, no matter how disgusted it made me feel. But there was something stopping me. A tug of conscience. No matter how far I traveled down a dark road, a little voice always called me back.

  It sounded like Gran.

  And that presence knew just what I needed to do: face what I had done like a real man. Take the punishment. And spend those weeks here, with Gramps.

  The label would never let me stay here, not when there was music to be recorded, money to be made. But if I was forced to . . .

  Bix was going to shit his pants. But my bandmates would understand.

  I met Tristan’s eyes. “You have to keep everything we talk about confidential? You can’t tell Kenzie, or anyone else?”

  “I’m bound by attorney-client privilege. Our conversations are between us.”

  “Then, I want to be charged. I want to stay and face what I did.”

  Chapter Six

  Bella

  The cool breeze felt glorious on my flushed face. It was lunch break and I didn’t have a fifth period class. I cherished my thirty-minute escape on this nearby trail before choir, my last class of the day. Thanks to my twice-a-week modern dance class, this near-daily stroll through the woods didn’t even cause a jump in my heart rate. But I was worked up, and about far too many things. Definitely my bizarre run-in with Cade Owens two nights ago, which I was doing my best to put out of my mind. But mostly about the arts funding for the school. I liked my job. Loved it, actually. And I loved teaching here in Hartwood. I really didn’t want to move again, especially since Mamma had rooted her business here. But this town wasn’t big enough for two high schools—if arts at Hartwood High went—I’d have to go too.

  I would do almost anything at this point to save the various art programs at Hartwood High—forsake my opera instruction to deliberately sing off-key; dance in lederhosen before the entire town to terrible polka music; even drink the bitter dredges of the Final Cup every day for the rest of my pitiful life.

  Mr. Kelley could smell my increasing desperation too. He had summoned me for yet another after-school meeting to discuss another source of help for the fall production of Little Shop of Horrors. He better not throw another Jeremy at me.

  A weary sigh pushed through my pursed lips.

  Jeremy was a product of tragedy. He was still dependent on the state and his sister for another six months. I wanted him to emerge as an adult with the skills he needed to be successful and without a criminal record. Art was transformative, I knew this more than anyone.

  Still . . .

  I was already beginning to resent Tuesdays and Thursdays.

  My playlist shuffled through song after song, a mixed tape of showtunes and rock. The background music created a blank canvas for my mind to weed through possible solutions to appease the school board, since my martyr-worthy thesis sang to tone deaf ears.

  I hummed along mindlessly to the current song strumming through my earbuds. Then a smokey voice joined the melody, one that always made my insides quiver. Cold Fire, by Burning Umbrage, the number one hit single from their last album. And my favorite song, ever.

  No!

  I furiously fumbled with my phone to change the song. He didn’t deserve to take up any more space in my life. The guy was a self-absorbed bastard. I moved to Hartwood Falls from New York to escape an egotistical jerk like him. A man who also flaunted his celebrity status to excuse his actions. Yeah, pissing on a park trail in front of a woman then driving while intoxicated isn’t exactly the stuff of swoony dreams.

  Cade Owens and Burning Umbrage were now officially in the past.

  Che liberazione!

  Good riddance, indeed.

  I crossed myself then kissed the tip of my thumb before spitting on the dirt path. Mamma would be proud. Maybe I should visit her shop after school to purchase a protection ward too, just in case there really was something to it.

  But, before I could, I needed to survive the next two hours. And the alarm on my phone was a blaring reminder that I had twenty minutes until freshman and sophomore show choir.

  The walk back was a flurry of jumbled thoughts. But I made it back and busied myself with grading skit performances from second period until my students began pouring in and took their positions on the high risers. I then waltzed over to the corner piano and plunked out vocal scales for warmups. Listening to their voices made my heart swell. These students and this school were one of the best things that had ever happened to me. I would sing a different aria for the school board and, this time, they would listen. I just needed to figure out the key that would move them most.

  For the second time this week, I trudged out of the staffroom and down the hallway toward the principal’s office. At his door, I adjusted my capri jeans, made sure my cap-sleeved blouse was tucked in properly, no loose laces on my mint green Chuck Taylors. My long hair was a wind-disheveled mess after my walk, but the rest of me looked as though I stepped out of the pages of a soft punk-styled 1950s catalogue. There wasn’t much I could do for my hair at this point. Hopefully, the rest of me was presentable enough for this meeting with a “very important person,” a meeting I had only learned of right before lunch.

  I reached for the handle—and paused. My teeth. I hadn’t checked my teeth yet. After the last soirée in Mr. Kelley’s office with Jeremy and his sister, I now worried that a single coffee ground forever haunted one of my teeth. Using the small glass panel on Mr. Kelley’s door, I bared my teeth, swiveling my head from one side to the other to inspect every angle—then paused again.

  Oh gawd.

  From his desk, Mr. Kelley watched me, his bushy eyebrows raised and his mouth twisted in a barely-contained smile. I registered all this while locked onto a pair of eyes I swore off seeing again.

  Slightly bruised eyes that seemed to laugh at me though a muscle in his jaw worked.

  Horror swelled in me. I wanted to hide behind the cringy poster that partially blocked the glass panel, that I thought had blocked me too. The one with two dogs running across a field with the equally cringy message: It’s not about how fast you get there, it’s how you run the race. If only cute animals and comic sans could really change lives.

  As it was, the only thing I was inspired to achieve was a record 800-yard dash to my car and an Indy500 pavement squeal to get the hell out of here. But that wasn’t going to happen. I was stuck.

  But I am nothing if not my mother’s daughter. So, I conjured the spirits of all the strong Italian women who had come before me, lifted my chin, then slid into Mr. Kelley’s office with all the grace and confidence I didn’t feel.

  “Ms. Pagano,” Mr. Kelley said, his lips still twitching. “You’ve already met Cade Owens, per the morning newspaper.”

  I offered a tight-lipped smile. I was mentioned in the newspaper? I could almost see Mamma’s told-you-so satisfied smile, the halo above her head declaring her Blessed of Mothers for saving her romance-challenged daughter.

  “Mr. Owens,” my principal continued, snapping me back to the present. “This is Bella Pagano, Hartw
ood High’s choir and theater teacher. The one who was at the scene of your accident.”

  “Hey . . . Bella.”

  “Ms. Pagano,” I corrected. No way would I give him opportunity to turn his charm on me. Cade Owens’s voice was poison to my system, killed me every time—a beautiful, sweet death. Hearing my name on his lips made the treacherous organ in my chest quicken. The way his sandy blond hair lazily swooped over an eye too.

  Ugh.

  He dipped his head in a curt nod.

  Well, now that we got those awkward formalities out of the way, I lowered into a chair and awaited my Cade Owens-sponsored doom. What had I done to piss off the Universe this time? My annoyance began cataloguing all the ways I could appease the dark fates hovering over my life. Light a fall-scented candle? Douse myself in essential oils before suffering through a hot yoga class? Walk across grass barefoot and ground myself? I shifted in my chair, leveling a wary gaze at Mr. Kelley.

  “Ms. Pagano,” Mr. Kelley said, “I come bearing a solution to increase interest in this fall’s production.” He waved his hands toward Cade Owens, clearly excited.

  Anger flared to life in me, simmering beneath my skin. Here it was. My judgement. “I don’t need a celebrity slouching in the back row distracting the kids. Or are you suggesting I can’t handle this on my own?”

  Mr. Kelley’s mouth fell open. He quickly clamped it close. Good. Let him feel uncomfortable. How could he insult me like this? And in front of him?

  Clearing his throat, Mr. Kelley shot Cade an apologetic look before his bushy-eyebrowed gaze swiveled back my way. “Of course not, Ms. Pagano.”

  “Then why is he The Chosen One to save the arts program I’ve spent years tending in the face of school board neglect?” I gestured toward Cade. “Just to be clear, I’m not a damsel in distress and I don’t need a savior. I need funding. If I had the money to better dazzle the audience, our performing arts department wouldn’t look so . . . dated.”