Snow Angels

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

  “I made some new tree stands. A few years back they asked if I could develop a stand for these extra large trees. I just delivered a few more this morning.”

  “So you’re a welder too. That would make sense.”

  “If it’s metal I can shape it.”

  We both stood there nodding our heads in agreement.

  “So, um, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to keep you from your job,” he said.

  “No. I’m actually waiting for the delivery truck with my ornaments.”

  He scratched the back of his neck in a way that indicated he was thinking. “Okay, then, I’ve got to go. Got another job.”

  I panicked. The last time I had walked away. This time he was doing the walking. In my head I had a dozen witty things to say to make him stay, but I couldn’t force one of them from my mouth. “Okay, sure. I’ll see you later,” I mumbled. I turned to study the enormous tree. Baxter’s steps were so soft on the marble that there was no indication of when he left the room.

  Suddenly I heard him draw breath and I twisted around to see that he was standing in the doorway. He blurted out, “Are you married?”

  I bit my lip.

  “I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean to be so blunt, but well…anyway, are you? Married? I mean, I saw the ring the first day, but now you don’t have it on and well…?”

  It was my turn to stammer. “Well, um, technically yes, I am married.”

  “Technically in what way?”

  “Technically I haven’t seen him since August when he told me he wanted a divorce.”

  “Oh, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

  “Oh, no really. I’m practically over it.” That didn’t sound right. “I mean I’ve accepted it and I don’t really dwell on it. I’m moving on.”

  “I see.”

  “So I would be…you know…open to invitations…”

  “Well, good.” He ran fingers through his thick hair and his curls popped back into place like memory wire. “Okay. So I installed a wall sculpture for a new seafood restaurant in town and they’re having a soft opening on Friday night. Any chance you would go with me?”

  “A soft opening?”

  “Yeah, like a party for family and friends to make sure everything runs right before they open it up to the public.”

  “So a private party at a new restaurant?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. It’s called Ridgeview.”

  “That sounds like fun. I’d love to.”

  “Awesome. It’s business casual. Nothing extreme.”

  “Okay.”

  “Where can I pick you up?”

  “I have to work on Friday. Why don’t you just meet me at Season’s Greetings?”

  “Seven?”

  “Seven.”

  He smiled and my heart fluttered. His slight steps blended into the echoes that came from the Tapestry Gallery. People were approaching and a tour guide led an awestruck group into the library. Their eyes widened at all the books, the massive carved desk with reading lights, the masculine furniture, and gaping fireplace.

  My mobile rang and the guide gave me the evil eye. I noted the number as my delivery truck and mouthed, “Sorry,” to her on my way out. I had to force myself to walk calmly downstairs in case I should happen to run into Baxter Brown again.

  Chapter 10

  The Biltmore installation took the entire week and I never worked so hard. There was hefting and decorating and decision-making and disaster management. My adrenaline never left me and by the time Friday rolled around, I was ready for a little fun.

  I took my mother to spend the night with her old neighbor, Mrs. Smith, who welcomed her with open arms and a warm pot of tea. I’d spent the day agonizing over what exactly business casual meant and finally just decided to wear a black jersey dress I had left over from a wedding. It was your basic little black tea-length wraparound. I added the new scarf I’d bought my mother and my dangling pearl earrings.

  My hair had lost its lemon juice streaks. I’d picked up a package of hair color six months ago and never used it. This day I washed away my few stray grays. All my hair came out a soft, wavy brown that I twisted up in a smooth way I envisioned as classy. As I watched myself put on makeup I thought about what I was getting ready to do. I was, in essence, cheating on my husband. And I was doing it in a public way. Not that anybody Randy hung around with would be at this fancy restaurant party, but still, it was possible that this wasn’t the smartest thing I’d ever chosen to do. I certainly hadn’t told my mother I was going on a date.

  One reason I hadn’t shared that little bit of information is that I truly didn’t know a thing about Baxter Brown. He seemed like the most normal person in the world, but something told me that he was very special in some way. The air just seemed more clear when he was around.

  CeCe had agreed to move my work schedule around so I could take Friday off. I arrived there an hour before he was to pick me up, so he would think that I had been working all day. Baxter made the jingle bells dance at exactly seven. He wore a jacket with elbow patches that would have looked silly on anyone but a professor, and him. His lanky frame made the tweedy jacket work. We drove downtown in his green Prius. That changed my perception of him some.

  The night was cool and as we walked up a hill to the front door of Ridgeview restaurant, he put his arm around me and pulled me into him. It was an odd sensation, another man’s strong touch, his warmth against me. Inside we shed ourselves at the coat check. Baxter bumped knuckles with a number of men at the restaurant’s door, introducing me to everyone, all of whom I immediately forgot.

  “Our table’s in the back.” He pulled me through the crowd behind him. There was a relaxed, loose quality to his body language as he maneuvered the throng. He nodded a lot. People spoke to him, raised their glasses. He introduced me to everyone. It suddenly all started making sense. He was a local artist and many of the people were interested in his work. He’d told me he had three pieces in the restaurant.

  We arrived at a round red booth in the corner. On the white tablecloth sat a small table tent sign that read RESERVED. Behind the bank seats hung a massive sculpture of a large fish with scales so defined and individually hammered that they glistened. The detail was intense.

  “You did that?”

  “You like it?” His smile contained assurance. He was pleased with his work.

  “My God. That’s fabulous.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Really. It’s so pretty. I mean, I don’t know the right words to describe art, but really it is just so pretty. I love it.”

  He motioned for me to slide onto the banquette.

  “This is our table?”

  “Yeah. What do you like to drink?”

  Beer seemed inappropriate so I ordered a cosmo. I’d had a couple of those before and they were like drinking candy. The waiter had no more than left our table when Gray arrived. He slid into the booth beside Baxter.

  “People are loving your work. I think I’ve made two sales already. You’re going to have to get that blowtorch and hammer going this weekend,” Gray said. To me he said, “Glad you could join us, Michelle.”

  I looked up to see the young curator from Biltmore walking toward our table. “Hey, Gray. Hey, Baxter,” she said. “Scoot over.”

  The guys went to move in my direction and she said, “No. I mean Michelle. You scoot. Can I sit by you?”

  I slid farther into the booth next to Baxter.

  “So,” Miriam said. “You two know each other?”

  Baxter nodded. “Michelle, I take it you met my little sister today.” He motioned toward her.

  I smiled. Sister. How unlike him she appeared.

  “She was all excited about getting to work in the library today,” Miriam said to her compact mirror as she checked her lipstick. “What are you, a bibliophile?” She smiled, sparkly and white, lips scarlet.

  “English major.”

  “Art history,” she said. “Another hope
less romantic.”

  Baxter laughed at that. “Anybody who thinks they can make a living from any kind of art is a hopeless romantic if you ask me.”

  “Oh pooh,” she said. “Michelle, your trees are perfect. You did a terrific job.”

  “That’s a compliment coming from Miss Perfection herself,” Baxter said with a little edge. Their eyes met and I could see they were friends.

  The party grew in intensity. I’d never been to such a loud event that didn’t involve a keg and a field. Just when the party was beginning to wear thin for me, Baxter leaned over and said, “I’ve had enough. How about you? Ready to go?”

  “You read my mind.”

  He wasted no time in making his exit.

  “Oh, no. Where are you going so early?” Miriam asked as she sloshed a green drink out of a martini glass.

  He shrugged. “Love you. See you later.”

  They pecked each others’ cheeks. We left, Baxter shaking hands and patting backs along the way. It had turned cold and once again he encircled me with one arm as we walked. Inside the car he cranked up the heat.

  “You know a lot of people,” I said.

  “You think? It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody.”

  “I was surprised that Miriam’s your sister.”

  “There’s a bunch of us Browns. Hang around Asheville long enough and you’ll meet everybody eventually. Our parents moved us here in high school. What about you?”

  “Born and raised in Black Knob.”

  Back at the store’s parking lot he walked me to my car.

  “It was amazing,” I said. “I haven’t had that much fun in a long time.”

  “You’re a cheap date.”

  “I try.”

  His expression turned thoughtful.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry you wouldn’t let me drive you home.”

  “Next time.”

  “Okay. Next time.”

  I let him hang for a moment. “It was a strange first date. Finding out that you’re some local artist rock star.”

  “Look. You don’t know me well yet.”

  Yet.

  “That thing tonight. That’s not me. I’m a very private person. I live in my studio out in the woods and I work all the time and I listen to classic rock really loud and do guy things.”

  “Have you ever been married?” Cosmos ruin decorum.

  “Uh. Yeah. Almost.” He grimaced. “Almost, but no. I still regret missing out on that, but things happen. You know.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  He put his hand on my car door as though to open it and then he stood there, close. A moment for me to consider him. I held my breath as he slowly spread his fingers up the back of my neck, into my hair. He pulled me into him and my mind went somewhere else as he pressed his lips to mine.

  Heat spread from my heart down my arms to my fingertips. I could think of nothing but his warm, soft lips. I realized my dream state only when he pulled away.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he whispered.

  “Okay,” I said weakly.

  My wet lips tingled with cold.

  He opened my door. “Better get in before you freeze.”

  I did as I was told, but I wasn’t in danger of freezing.

  I was burning with desire.

  Chapter 11

  As the Christmas season picked up I saw my new love interest at least once a week. It seemed like everyone called him Bax and soon it was falling easily from my own tongue. We were both absolutely slammed with holiday work and were so exhausted most nights that we didn’t have official dates. He’d drop off his work at Handmade and we’d grab lunch or if it was afternoon we’d grab an early dinner. It was on one of these later occasions that Bax met my mother.

  “Should I call you Miss Edwina?” he asked, a note of mischief about him.

  My mother rolled her eyes at him and then to me she said, “He’s cute.”

  Later, after we’d dropped her off at her friend’s house, Bax came home with me. It was one of the most natural things I’ve ever done. It was never discussed. We just went to my house and got directly into bed.

  We didn’t even try to act as if we wanted a glass of wine. We came in the front door and Bax looked around and said, “I never pictured you living here.”

  I willed him to turn around and grab me. And like he’d read my thoughts his attention shifted and when his hands were in my hair I lost all sense of time and place.

  I’d put out candles earlier. I had wine. The seduction was on. When we made it to the bedroom and clothes started to fall, I was amazed by how easily I shed my inhabitions too. I had wanted him for months and I was going to allow myself this pleasure without guilt or reservations or shame.

  His breath was hot against my neck and then down over me. His kisses soft, yet firm as if his lips were on the most delicate china. I shivered and thrill bumps covered me.

  “Ooh,” he whispered when he saw my skin’s reaction. He put his body all over mine in ways I’d never known. He was insistent and strong and focused on me. It felt amazing in all the right ways.

  The next morning, as I sipped my coffee, I leaned against the bathroom doorframe and watched Bax shave. After he left I went into the bathroom and found his razor on the sink and his shirt hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I decided to leave them there for when I came home that night.

  I also decided then that I was going to file for divorce.

  I waited until the next weekend to bring up the idea.

  We were on our way up the mountain behind Asheville to his house and studio. I’d helped him shop for his family’s New Year’s party, which they always held on the first Saturday after the holiday.

  Bax’s house rambled up the mountainside, three floors staggered, the bottom one a garage studio. He’d inherited the place from his grandparents twenty years ago and had been adding on to it all this time in what he called “my homage to Frank Lloyd Wright.” I loved his studio. There was a tang to the air, a metal influence that I loved—the propane and the solder smell of a man’s work.

  We got out of the car, each of us lugging hemp grocery sacks.

  “Let’s go in through the studio,” he said, indicating that the recent snow would make his outside slate walk slick. Inside the garage studio it wasn’t much warmer. Strewn about were all shapes of metal—copper, aluminum, steel, wrought iron.

  “It’s always so cold in here,” I complained. “Don’t you freeze working in the winter?”

  “Nah. I love it cold. When I get to working and have things fired up it gets hot in here.”

  “What are you working on now?”

  “I’ve been sketching ideas. Take a look at these.”

  He pulled a black portfolio from behind a cabinet and spread its contents on a drawing table. “What do you think?”

  The elaborate drawings showed ideas totally different than either his tree limbs or his fish. They were abstract and not something I had been that exposed to.

  “They’re wild I know,” he said.

  “But I like them. Would you ever do something as little as a tree ornament?”

  He stood a moment looking at his sketches, thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe. I’d have to see what I could come up with. You think there’s a market for that?” He slid his artwork back into the portfolio and picked up the grocery sacks. “Come on. Let’s go cook.”

  From the kitchen window above his sink a high ridge severed sky from land in a jagged line. During the few times that I had been to Bax’s before I’d gotten lost in that view. It was so beautiful that I frequently let my thoughts wander from my assigned cooking task.

  “Why don’t you just sit here, have a glass of wine, and look at my mountain?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No. Really. What’s on your mind tonight?”

  I shrugged. “I’m a little nervous about meeting your family.”

  “Don’t sweat it. They’re gonna love you.
What are you worried about?”

  “I’m not divorced yet. What if they ask me if I’ve ever been married?”

  “They won’t ask you that. Has Miriam asked you that?”

  “No. But I have decided to go ahead and file. Do you know any divorce lawyers?”

  He nodded. “We can find you somebody. Do you know where he is so he can be served papers?”

  “No.”

  “Does he have a best friend who would know where he is?”

  “Not if he doesn’t want to be found.”

  “So just where do you think he is?”

  “There are a couple of places he could be hanging out. I guess I could have him served at work.”

  “That’s a plan.”

  Bax dumped out gourmet eggplant dip into a bowl while I arranged soft, smelly cheeses on a tray. An hour later the table was filled with wine bottles, the air was filled with music, and the house was filled with Bax’s crazy family, the most liberal group of people I had ever met. Once the New Year’s party got into swing there were twelve of us in all. Bax’s parents and his mother’s mother, Grammy. Two brothers and their wives each brought a tween girl apiece, planned that way they said. Miriam brought a bug-eyed dog who appeared to be the most loved family member of all. It had taken awhile to get Grammy into the house and eventually Bax and one of his brothers had put the tiny woman in a chair and carried her inside as if she were as light as a feather.

  The conversations started immediately—politics, international and domestic—topped the agenda. They discussed the economy, the war in Iraq, the future of the country. Then it was wine and food, a long discussion on art and furniture design. I sat in awe as two different conversations raged at each end of the table, neither of which I would even chance to interject into.

  “Michelle?” I started at my name in a lull in the conversation.