Snow Angels

by Fern Michaels; Marie Bostwick; Janna McMahan; Rosalind Noonan

“Oh, hey, are you listening to me?” CeCe said.

  “She’s watching that dude in the van,” Renee said. “He’s hot.”

  “I am not.”

  “Yes, you are,” Renee said.

  CeCe ceased to talk and we three stood silent as he returned to the van. The gallery owner, who had followed him out, propped the gallery door open and then came to help.

  “My, he is a nice-looking fellow,” CeCe said. “In a rugged sort of way.”

  “I like manly men,” Renee said. “Hey, Michelle, go on over there.”

  “What? No way. I’m still married.”

  “So?” CeCe said. “I agree with Renee. What that missing husband of yours doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “I’m not going over there.”

  The guy came back out and unloaded again. I wondered if he was the artist. The sculptures were wall hangings and garden art. They were metal branches with spiky pinecones, sprays of leaves, and vines.

  We moved to the swing on the porch and watched him. He never looked our way. Once his van was unloaded the gallery owner handed him what appeared to be a check. They shook hands and then he got into the van and drove away.

  “So,” CeCe said. “If I didn’t have to leave for Atlanta right now I’d take a little break and stroll on over to that gallery and find out who that artist is.”

  “He might just be the delivery guy,” Renee observed. “Which would be fine, because, you know, I dig the FedEx guy.”

  “Well, it would be good to know,” CeCe said. “Because after all, Michelle, it’s important we use local artists.”

  Both of them looked at me like cats with mouthfuls of feathers.

  “I’m not going over there. I don’t want to know who he is.”

  “Whatever,” Renee said and rolled her eyes.

  But by midafternoon I found my thoughts drifting across the street. When we had a slowdown in traffic I told Renee that I was going to step out for a while. She gave me a knowing grin as she waited on a customer.

  The art gallery was called Handmade and inside was a perfect hushed world. The smell was heavenly—leather and spices and evergreen. Textiles and quilts hung the walls. Hundreds of forms of pottery were mixed in with hand-hewed cutlery, blown glass, and woven pillows. There was so much beautiful jewelry that it made me gasp. And there, among the most unusual furniture I had ever seen were some of the sculptures the mystery man had carried into the gallery.

  I ran my hand over the coppery surface of one of the sculptures and felt the smoothness of the metal.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” The man who had helped carry in the sculptures appeared. “He’s our most popular sculptor.”

  “It’s wonderful,” I said. I wanted to touch the shiny leaves again, but suddenly, I felt as if I shouldn’t.

  “I’m Gray. The gallery manager. I’ve seen you across the way. I think we’re neighbors now.” He offered his hand, so soft. He was tall, slender, and immaculate. Gray was most definitely gay.

  “Oh, hi. I’m Michelle. I’m the new assistant manager over at Season’s Greetings.” I asked casually, “Who is this artist?”

  “Baxter Brown. His work sells really well, especially during the holidays. He’ll bring us more work every couple of weeks until Christmas.”

  “It’s really lovely.”

  “Um, yes,” Gray said.

  A sales assistant touched Gray on the arm and he leaned over so she could whisper in his ear. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I have to attend to something. It was nice to meet you.”

  I looked around for a while and bought myself a beautiful pair of pearl earrings. I bought my mother a new scarf woven with glistening fibers in pink that would match her soft complexion. I was on my way out, enjoying the adrenaline rush of a nice purchase when I saw Season’s Greetings was packed. I dashed across the road. As I clattered through the entrance I saw relief wash over Renee.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said as I slid behind the counter.

  “Well?” Renee said as she rang up a customer.

  “Well what?”

  “Did you find out who he is?”

  “That wasn’t why I went over there.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, if you must know, I did find out his name. It’s Baxter and the gallery manager said his work is some of the most popular the gallery carries.”

  “This is bad,” she said as she wrapped a delicate glittery ornament in tissue.

  “What’s bad?” I asked as I handed her a box.

  “Now that you know his name you won’t be able to stop thinking about him.”

  Chapter 8

  Renee was right. I did have a hard time shaking thoughts of Baxter Brown. Who was he really? Was he one of those elusive artists who lived in the mountains and only came down to deliver his goods? Was he married with a house full of children, barefoot little imps who climbed trees and made their own artwork from their father’s scraps of metal? Or was he a member of one of the hippie communes that flourished in the mountains, one of the tambourine-and-guitar crew that had little use for modern conveniences like television and health insurance?

  CeCe, Renee, and I spent slow times coming up with these and dozens more scenarios to explain our mystery sculptor. I had never thought about anyone I didn’t know as much as I thought about Baxter Brown. I wasn’t exactly sure what drew me to him, but I thought it had something to do with the way he moved. He had a smoothness almost like an animal. He was strong and sure and masculine and I’d dreamed about him, although I had not admitted that to my coworkers.

  We all kept a wary eye out for the arrival of the beat-up van, but I was the one who happened to be outside, stringing lights in one of our fir trees, when the vehicle slid into a space in front of Handmade. I stepped behind the tree so he wouldn’t see me. Like before he got out and began to unload his art. I was frozen there, sprays of evergreen tickling my nose as I watched him through the limbs.

  He went inside and I realized I’d been holding my breath.

  “Good God.” I jumped at CeCe’s smoky voice. “How do you expect him to ever notice you if you hide behind a tree?”

  “I don’t expect him to notice me. I can’t go flirting with him. I’m still married.”

  “That, my dear, seems like a technicality at this point. How long has it been since you’ve seen your husband?” she whispered loudly behind me.

  “Months. But if I want a clean divorce I can’t be seen carousing.”

  “Who said anything about carousing? You could just start out by talking to him.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, you’re pathetic.”

  Nothing like this had ever happened to me at the mulch company. I never had crazy friends before and I knew that if Baxter came out and CeCe was still there that she would march over to his van and introduce herself. Then she would make a big deal out of introducing me, which would then spoil the moment. Surely he would know that we had been spying on him.

  “Okay. I’ll talk to him, but you have to go back inside.”

  “You’re going to do it?” She raised a thin, painted eyebrow at me.

  “Yes. I’ll do it. Now just go inside.”

  She nodded with satisfaction and returned to the cottage. I was left with a sinking feeling I hadn’t had since elementary school when we used to have friends pass notes to boys with little boxes that read: I like you. Do you like me? Check yes or no.

  Waiting for that checkmark was agony.

  Just like now.

  The gallery door opened and Gray came out with Baxter, a complication I hadn’t expected. I went to stringing lights again, stuffing them in randomly as I watched Baxter out of the corner of my eye.

  Then something miraculous happened. Gray called my name.

  “Michelle? Michelle, come on over here. I’d like you to meet someone.”

  I turned as though startled at my name. It wasn’t much of an acting job since I was truly discombobulated. I walked over to where they stoo
d at the gaping backdoors of the van.

  “Baxter, I’d like you to meet my new neighbor across the street. This is Michelle. She’s the assistant manager over at Season’s Greetings.”

  “Hi. I’m Baxter.” He extended his calloused hand and his grip radiated heat.

  “Nice to meet you.” As we shook hands I heard a merry little tinkle and realized with horror that I was wearing a pair of our jingle bell earrings.

  “Michelle is quite the admirer of your work,” Gray said.

  “Is that so?” His goatee pulled into a smile. Laugh lines surrounded hazel eyes like the fallen leaves of December.

  Silence.

  Gray interjected. “Yes. Well, Baxter, why don’t I run inside and get you your check. I won’t be a minute.” As he turned to go Gray gave me a look that said everything. I could have kissed him.

  “I do like your work,” I said.

  “Really, which pieces?”

  “Oh, the coppery ones with all the leaves. And the pinecone pieces too. They’re lovely.”

  “Thanks. Those are a lot of work. I can’t make nearly as many of them as I would like. They’re complicated and take time.”

  “Oh.”

  We stood there, it was awkward for a while.

  “So, you work over at the Christmas shop?”

  “Yeah, I’m new.”

  “Oh.”

  “Just learning the ropes.” God, that sounded dumb.

  He nodded and then slammed the doors on the van.

  “Well, I, um,” I stammered. “I’d better get back. It was really nice to meet you.”

  “Yeah. Me too. Nice to meet you,” he said.

  As I walked back to the cottage my head said, Dummy. How dumb could I sound? I pushed against the giant door wreath and made the jingle bells dance when I slammed the door behind me.

  “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What did he say?” Renee was on me as soon as I came through the door.

  “Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “What? You have to tell us. What did you say to each other?” CeCe was now in my face too.

  “Nothing. We didn’t say anything much. Really. Just hi. How ya doin’? Nice day. Yadda. Yadda.”

  Both women looked dejected.

  “That was definitely a bad idea,” I said. “If you need me I’ll be in the break room looking for a knife to slit my wrists.”

  Chapter 9

  As the holiday season moved into full swing things got crazy.

  The jangling phone and flow of customers kept us in a constant state of flux. We’d take orders for finished trees that customers selected from our Web site. They would call in, order the tree and give us their address so we could deliver and install the evergreen. It never occurred to me that people would pay a thousand dollars or more for a tree. Randy always cut our tree from the woods behind our house. He’d lop off a few limbs to make it balance and we’d spend the day unwrapping our ornaments from wads of newspaper. We used the same decorations each year and there was comfort in that. In my life, a Christmas tree had never been anything but free.

  But people with money apparently don’t like to do things that take up their valuable time. We frequently worked with property management companies to get inside second homes and vacation rentals to install trees and decorate these houses and condos before the wealthy arrived with their families. It was a treat to see how different places could be. There were those that screamed decorator. These houses were devoid of personal touches and seemed simply to be a showplace, like a display from the floor of any furniture shop. Other places were filled with original art, family photographs, and unusual items collected from travels. These were the houses I liked the best.

  I thought working at Season’s Greetings was just going to be selling ornaments and garland. How wrong I was.

  “Michelle,” CeCe said. “We have a truck delivering to Biltmore. I need you to meet that delivery on the grounds, reconcile the inventory manifest, and oversee the installation.”

  “For Christmas at Biltmore?” I was stunned.

  “Right. There’s a loading dock on the lower level around back where they bring in all the supplies. Ask at the gate and they’ll direct you to the service road. Once you check the inventory you’ll need to find Miriam from the curatorial department. She’s in charge of the trees at Biltmore this year.”

  “How many trees are we doing for them?”

  “They have more than a hundred trees in all, but we’re just responsible for three. Here’s the instructions and photos. The theme this year has something to do with all the countries the Vanderbilts visited. No fake trees, only live trees that they should already have up. You just have to follow the directions and get them decorated.” She removed color images from one of her files and handed them to me. “It’s pretty straightforward. Just jump through any hoop they give you. They’re our best customer. Anything Biltmore wants, Biltmore gets.”

  The papers shook in my hand. My feelings must have been apparent because CeCe said, “Go on. You’ll do great. They have a crew of people to help with the installation. They’re all professionals and they take instruction well. Don’t worry, honey. You’ll do fine. Here’s Miriam’s cell number.”

  I programmed the mobile number into my phone with trembling fingers.

  A few hours later I got a call that the delivery truck was on its way, so I drove across the road to the main gate at Biltmore House.

  “I’m with Season’s Greetings. Here to decorate,” I told the fellow in the gatehouse.

  He checked his chart and smiled. “You know where the loading dock is?”

  Sunlight filtered through the woodlands, making lacy patterns on the country lane that led to the main house. The drive up to the estate is three miles through forests of azaleas, oaks, and evergreen. Glimpses of rills and ponds came in and out of view along the way. Natives all knew that original Biltmore property formed the nucleus of the Pisgah National Forest.

  Thoughts of the national forest made me think about Randy and where he was hiding out in the woods and I was instantly unhappy.

  Damn you, Randy, I thought as I drove. How could he stay away so long? Something in me had thought he would have come back by now. But it was slowly becoming apparent that he might not return. I’d been telling myself each morning that sometimes you just have to let go.

  Like leaving the mulch factory for my new job. Letting go of that security had been hard, but instead of dealing with lumberjacks and loads of crunched-up bark, I was heading to Biltmore to decorate for Christmas. Quite a change. Quite an improvement.

  Around a curve, Biltmore came into view poised at the end of a manicured nineteenth-century lawn with reflecting pools and drippy angels. I followed a service entrance road through colorful landscaping around to the back of the house. At the loading dock I was met by Miriam, a petite, blond cheerleader sort of gal. She struck me as one of those overachiever sorority girls who lived for the next party or event. I was greeted while she scrolled her handheld for the proper information.

  “Your first tree is Books of the World. Library. Know where that is?”

  “Are you serious? I get to put a tree in the library?”

  “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

  It was apparent that some of the Biltmore glitter had fluttered under her feet in the past few days.

  “Sure. I love the library. It’s my favorite room in the house.”

  “Well.” She smiled. “Today’s your lucky day. I’m too busy to hover. Just do your thing and don’t pull out any books or the curator’ll have a fit. He uses white curatorial gloves for every volume. Call me if you need me.” She was off.

  I called the delivery truck and found that it was still an hour out, so I decided to take a look around. I went up and through the building, my instinctual memory of the house’s floor plan still useful. It was early and guests were just arriving. No holiday crowds to fight yet, only a few hundred people scattered around and most of those appeared to be d
ecorating or cleaning.

  I made my way from downstairs up to the grand entranceway. On my left the marble staircase spiraled out of sight. To my right, the Winter Garden was bathed in strips of light that fell through the vaulted glass ceiling. Where usually the incoming sun bathed palms and ficus, this day giant Christmas trees rose in spectacular sparkling gold.

  Past the Winter Garden and left was the Tapestry Gallery, a long hall filled with masculine furniture, walls covered in tapestries, and a large fireplace that was repeated in some form in every room in the house. I thought of the wonderful parties that had happened here. The cocktails and designer dresses and games out on the lawn. To my right I looked through arched doorways to the loggia and past to distant hills where bright patches of orange and red still hung on against a backdrop of skeletal gray. Verdant evergreen still punctuated spots.

  At the end of the Tapestry Gallery opened double doors to George Vanderbilt’s library where thousands of volumes filled two floors of mahogany bookcases scaled by the use of sliding library ladders on both levels. At the far end of the library, in an area roped off by stanchions, was a massive bare blue spruce. It was going to be an enormous job. Just getting the lights around the thing would be a chore, then there was the garland and the ornaments. I hesitated, then stepped over the rope.

  “Wow,” I whispered to myself.

  I was startled to hear the rustle of branches. A man backed out from behind the tree. “Yeah, it’s a big one all right.” I knew before I raised my eyes. My heart expanded.

  “Oh,” Baxter said. His hazel eyes snapped when he recognized me.

  I stood there, my words also lost.

  “Hello again,” he said. “Are you here to decorate?”

  I forced myself to find my voice. “This is apparently one of my trees.”

  “Well, yes.” He leaned back in order to illustrate how high the tree reached. “I hope you have help.”

  I laughed. “I’m supposed to have a crew.”

  “Well, then…”

  “Still, I’ve never done an enormous tree like this before. I imagine the ornaments will be super-sized to have any impact on it. I have no idea where to start. I mean I guess I start at the top and work my way down. The decorations are books. I mean the chart says the theme of this tree is books about traveling. That sounds interesting, don’t you think?” I suddenly realized I was rambling and stopped. “So, what are you doing here?”