Angels in the Snow

by Melody Carlson

  Claire nodded. “Thank you for helping us. My name is Claire. I live in a cabin—”

  “Has she come to?” This came from a male voice, and he sounded worried. Claire turned to see a man now entering the room. His blond hair looked disheveled and his beard in need of a trim. “Are you okay?” He came over and knelt in front of Claire, peering into her eyes as if to discern her mental stability as much as her physical well-being.

  “I think I’m fine,” she answered, feeling like the village idiot. “I—uh—got lost in the snow.”

  “I can understand that,” he said, standing to peer out the window. “It’s turned into a real blizzard out there.”

  “I’m sorry to trouble you—”

  “Good grief, you’re no trouble. You and your dog looked like you were about to freeze out there.”

  “I’m so glad we stumbled onto your house.”

  “I’ll say. You must’ve had a guardian angel watching over you.”

  She looked at him closely. “An angel?”

  He laughed. “Well, who knows? But how are you feeling now? It doesn’t look like you’re suffering from frostbite. Fortunately you were well bundled up. But I suspect you worked up a sweat trying to find your way through the snow, and you were getting pretty chilled.”

  She nodded, noticing now that her heavy wool jacket had been replaced by a thick polar-fleece blanket. “Yes, we were running—I got scared—”

  “I was afraid you might have hypothermia. You were shivering pretty badly. I called 911, and they told me just to get you warm and that it would take them at least two hours to get anyone out here, due to the weather.”

  “Oh, I don’t need anyone—”

  “Right, I’ll let them know.”

  “I’m actually starting to feel warmer now.” She looked up into his eyes, noticing that they were a mixture of blue and gray and perhaps a mossy green. Interesting really. “I should probably get going.”

  He laughed. “Not in this weather, you don’t.”

  She looked out at the snow still swirling in menacing circles. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “We’ll give you a ride home as soon as you’ve had a chance to get thoroughly warm and when the weather abates some.”

  “Thanks.” She looked over at the girl who was still peering at her curiously. “Thanks for everything.”

  “It was your dog that got Anna’s attention.” He nodded to the girl. “He was scratching and barking. Pretty smart dog, that one.”

  Michael opened his eyes and looked up now, his tail thumping on the floor.

  She reached down to pat his head. “Good boy, Michael.”

  “Michael?” said the girl. “Is that his name?”

  “Yes,” Claire answered her then looked back at the man. “And as I was just telling your—uh, your daughter?”

  He nodded. “That’s right.”

  “That my name is Claire Andrews, and I live in a cabin over on Ridge Road.”

  “I’m Garret Henderson—”

  “Oh, are your parents the Hendersons—” she interrupted, then laughed. “I mean do they own this place? My friend mentioned an older couple named—”

  “Yes, Marge and Carl. They stay here during the warmer months. But usually this place is abandoned in winter.”

  Anna nodded. “You’re lucky we were here.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “What I can’t figure out is what you were doing this far from home.” Garret scratched his already messy hair. “And in weather like this.”

  “I know. I must seem like a crazy woman to be out in this.” She frowned. “Actually, it’s kind of a long story.”

  “And you should probably rest.” Garret stepped back. “And I need to call those 911 folks back and let them know we don’t need an ambulance or anything.”

  “Right.” Claire leaned her head back into the comfortable chair and closed her eyes. She felt so silly about her quest now—trekking off in the middle of a snowstorm to find her lost angels. Good grief, had she been mad? And, of course, Jeannie had been right. Two perfectly normal human beings. No feathers or angel dust anywhere.

  “More tea?” offered Anna.

  Claire opened her eyes to see Anna with her hand out, ready to take the nearly empty mug. The girl had a lovely oval-shaped face with clear blue eyes. Her hair, slightly darker than her father’s, was about the color of polished oak. “Thank you,” said Claire, “more tea would be nice.”

  When Anna returned, Claire asked her how old she was.

  “I’ll be eleven next month,” she said proudly.

  Claire nodded. “That was about my guess.”

  “I’m really supposed to be in school right now, but I got special permission to be with my dad while he works on his book.”

  “His book?”

  “Yeah.” Anna smiled brightly. “My dad is an author.”

  “Cool.” Claire took a sip of tea. She wanted to ask about Anna’s mother but couldn’t quite put this question into words, at least not into words that didn’t sound rude or intrusive.

  “We’ve been here since school started in September. I’m doing home school until we go back and I can be in my class again.” She frowned.

  “And you’re not looking forward to that?”

  “Not really. I like it out here. And I think I learn more doing home school than I do at real school. My dad’s a good teacher.”

  “What kind of books does your dad write?”

  “Novels.” Anna’s eyes grew wide. “That means they’re fiction, which is the same as not being true. Oh, it’s not that my dad tells lies, but he makes his stories up, you know?”

  Claire smiled. “Yes, I know.”

  “Actually, he writes historical novels.”

  A light went on. “Does your dad go by the name of G. A. Henderson?”

  “Yeah. Garret Allen Henderson.” She nodded proudly. “That’s him.”

  “I’ve read some of his books. He’s good.”

  Anna’s face grew brighter than ever, and suddenly Claire wished she could paint her. She would be a perfect model for an angel. Not that Claire had needed models before, but the idea appealed to her now.

  “Well, I think I finally convinced them that you were okay,” said Garret, coming back into the room. “But they were pretty determined to send out an ambulance.”

  “I’m sorry to cause so much trouble.”

  “Oh, it’s okay. I think I needed a break anyway.”

  “Yeah, he has barely stopped working today,” complained Anna.

  “She told me that you’re an author,” said Claire. “I’ve actually read a few of your books—and liked them.”

  He smiled—kind of a crooked smile but sincere, and nice. “Thanks. I guess you’d have to say that though, wouldn’t you. You wouldn’t want to risk me throwing you back out in the freezing snow again.”

  She laughed. “No, really. I did like them. You’re very good.”

  He shook his head. “Well, I’m not so sure about that anymore. It’s taken me nearly two years to finish this last one, and even now, I’m . . .” He sighed deeply. “Well, just not too sure.”

  “I’ll bet it’s the best thing you’ve ever done.”

  He looked at her curiously. “Don’t know what makes you think so. But let’s hope you’re right.”

  “Well, I think we sometimes become the most critical of our work when it’s really the best.”

  “Are you a writer?”

  She smiled. “No. Actually I’m an artist.”

  “An artist?” Anna’s eyes grew wide. “A real artist?”

  “Oh, no.” Garret held his hands in mock alarm. “Now, you’ve gone and done it. You didn’t realize that Anna is absolutely enamored by artists. She’ll probably never let you go home now.”

  Claire laughed. “A girl after my own heart. Well, don’t worry, Anna, I used to be just like that too. That is, until I got to meet way too many artists. Although I must admit I still get giddy sometimes w
hen I meet someone I really admire.”

  “Yeah,” said Garret. “I’m like that too—with authors.”

  “What kind of art do you do?” Anna asked eagerly.

  “Maybe I should leave you girls on your own for a while,” said Garret. “Perhaps I can finish this chapter up before I take you home. I was just getting into the groove, you know, before you got here.”

  “Of course,” Claire waved her hand. “I absolutely understand. I’m the same way with my art.”

  For the next hour, Claire and Anna talked about art. And Anna shyly showed her own sketches and watercolors, which Claire actually thought were quite well done for a girl that age—and told her so. Then Claire helped Anna prepare a light lunch of soup and grilled cheese sandwiches.

  “I can cook almost anything,” said Anna as she set the plate of sandwiches on the table.

  “I believe it.” Claire nodded. “You look like you know your way around the kitchen.”

  “Do I smell something?” Garret poked his head out from what Claire suspected was both an office and bedroom, since the cabin hadn’t appeared large enough to have more than two bedrooms, plus the loft above.

  “Just in time,” said Anna. “We might’ve eaten them all up without you.” She grinned at him. “Since I know you didn’t want to be disturbed.”

  They all sat down at the table, then Garret and Anna bowed their heads to pray. Claire followed suit, both pleased and surprised by the gesture. After Garret said a quick but earnest sounding prayer, they all began to eat.

  “Claire told me that she’s been painting pictures of angels lately,” Anna informed her father.

  “I’d invite Anna to see them,” explained Claire, “but they were just picked up yesterday for an art show this coming weekend.”

  “Where’s the show?” asked Garret as he dipped his spoon into his soup.

  “A gallery called The Blue Moon. It’s in San Francisco.”

  “Hey, I know where that is,” said Garret. “That’s a pretty swanky joint.”

  “Henri LaFollete is the owner—and a friend of mine.”

  “Lucky you.”

  Claire considered his words without responding. “I told Anna I wished that I could paint her.”

  “Could she, Daddy?”

  He frowned slightly. “I guess so; I mean, if she really wants to.”

  “Yes, I’d love to.” Suddenly Claire remembered how her time in the mountains seemed to be coming to an end this week, how she’d been considering returning to the city for good on Thursday. “I guess I should say if I come back, that is.”

  “If you come back?” Anna frowned. “You mean you’re leaving? I just barely get to meet my first real live artist and now you’re leaving me? Already?”

  “Hey, Anna, you don’t want to make our guest feel—”

  “Oh, it’s okay. I can understand how she feels.” Claire turned to Anna. “I’m not completely sure about leaving. I’ve still got some things to work out. For one thing, I’m not allowed to keep a dog in my apartment in the city. And I can’t bear to part with Michael—”

  “We could take care of him for you,” said Anna eagerly. “I’d love to have a dog for a while. I’d take him for walks and brush him and everything.”

  Claire glanced uncomfortably at Garret who seemed to be remaining fairly silent just now. “Oh, I couldn’t impose,” she said. “First of all, I land on your doorstep in the midst of a blizzard, and then to leave my dog while I’m gone—”

  “Oh, please,” begged Anna the way only a ten-year-old can. “Can we take care of Michael? Please, Daddy?”

  Garret cleared his throat and daubed his mouth with a napkin. “You’ll have to let me think about this, Anna.”

  “But, Daddy—”

  He stood. “Please, Anna. We’ll discuss it later.”

  Later that evening, Claire wondered if she hadn’t simply imagined the events of the day. And that strange but unforgettable encounter with Garret and Anna—perhaps she’d simply dreamed it. She busied herself with packing up her art supplies. Then, just as she closed the big wooden case, she wondered if she was really ready to leave yet. She looked over to where Michael was sleeping soundly by the fire—surely exhausted from his freezing trek through the woods today—proof that perhaps it was real after all. She knew she could take him to San Francisco with her, leave him with Jeannie, and begin searching for a new place that allowed dogs. But she couldn’t erase the sound of Anna’s voice, pleading to keep the dog for her. Surely the girl was a bit lonely, staying out here with only her father for company. And while Garret seemed a nice man, on first acquaintance anyway, he did appear slightly moody. What had started out for her as a magical visit had eventually deteriorated into what felt like a hastily ended intrusion (of course, she’d been the intruder).

  She’d almost considered inviting them into her cabin, to give Anna a close-up look at the life of a “real artist.” Not that it was anything terribly interesting, but the girl had seemed so completely fascinated by it all. But after the way Garret had suddenly turned quite chilly toward her, all she could think of was escaping him and his unreadable scrutiny. If that’s what it really was. And she couldn’t even be sure of that. It was quite possible that she was just overreacting to everything, due to life in general plus her isolation of late. Perhaps she’d simply misplaced or forgotten all her previous social skills.

  She realized now that she’d been pacing back and forth, completely unsettled by all this. And perhaps, if she were to be truly honest with herself, she could face the real reason for her unrest. Maybe the most disturbing part of her day was that she never did find Scott and Jeremy at the end of the trail. And she never stumbled across angels either. Well, at least not that she could remember. But then, who knew what may have accompanied her through the snowy woods, guiding her to safety. Still, it didn’t matter. For, somehow, she knew that the events of the day were meant to force her to let go—to accept that Scott and Jeremy were gone now. And she would not see them again until it was time for her to leave this earth permanently too. She considered how close she may have been to actually joining them today and shuddered. Surprisingly, she was relieved to be alive. She wrapped her arms around herself and prayed a silent thank-you prayer. For the first time in nearly eighteen months, she realized she really did want to live after all.

  That night she slept dreamlessly. Or if she had dreamed, she hadn’t been disturbed by the content. She awoke feeling refreshed and renewed. But still she needed to decide what to do. Pack everything up and leave for good or plan on returning after the show? On one hand, it felt as if her work here was done. She’d made her painting breakthrough—as well as her emotional and even spiritual one too. Really, she was ready to go. Then why didn’t she feel ready? With Christmas just around the corner, she knew the smart thing would be to go home. Why would she want to spend the holidays here, all alone—in such complete isolation?

  She wondered what Anna and Garret would do during Christmas. Was there a wife and mother somewhere? If so, where? But why was she troubling herself with all these questions that had absolutely nothing to do with her?

  “What do you think, Michael?” she asked as they walked outside. “You want to go for a really long ride today?”

  His tail began to wag, and as crazy as it seemed, she let that be her sign—at the same time chiding herself for allowing the least necessary piece of canine anatomy to be the deciding factor of her fate. But it was better than flipping a coin. Still, by the time she got the cabin completely cleared out and the back of her Jeep packed, she felt unsure. And it bothered her that Anna would be expecting to hear from her again about caring for the dog.

  Finally she decided to go back inside and write Anna a quick note that she could leave with Lucy (who also handled what little mail came to the local post office boxes). Apologizing for her change in plans, Claire wrote that she’d decided it was time for her to leave for good, and she had no choice but to take Michael along with her
. She also encouraged Anna to continue pursuing her art dreams and thanked her and her father once again for rescuing her. Then she signed her name and sealed the envelope. She didn’t bother to put a return address on it since it wasn’t being mailed from the city, and there was little chance that Lucy wouldn’t get it into the right box. Then she took one last look around the cabin, making sure everything was in its place, and much cleaner and nicer than when she’d first arrived. She locked the door and slipped the key back into the secret hiding place and, telling herself that she was doing the right thing, left.

  But she felt a lump growing in her throat as she navigated the Jeep through the accumulation of snow—the roads had only been plowed once and that had been a couple weeks earlier. By the time she reached the store, she had recovered.

  “Can you put this in the Henderson post office box?” she asked.

  “Sure.” Lucy examined the name on the front. “Oh, so you’ve met young Anna, have you? Isn’t she the sweetest little thing?”

  Claire nodded. “Yes. And she aspires to be an artist too.”

  “Well, isn’t that perfect. Maybe you can give her some lessons—”

  “Actually, I’m leaving now, Lucy.”

  “Leaving?” Lucy frowned. “You mean for good?”

  “Yes. I think I’ve accomplished what I set out to do here.”

  Lucy leaned forward as if examining Claire. “And what was that, exactly?”

  Claire smiled. “I needed to get back to my art. I’d been sort of blocked, if you know what I mean.”

  “Blocked? A good artist like you?” Lucy shook her head. “What in tarnation could block someone with your kind of talent?”

  Claire had never divulged any of her history to this old woman before, but considering how Lucy had been such a good friend, not to mention working out the deal with her dog, she didn’t mind telling her a bit more now. “Actually, I lost my husband and son about a year and a half ago and—”

  “Oh, dear!” Lucy reached over and grabbed her hand in hers. “You don’t have to explain another thing, honey. I know exactly what you mean. Why, when I lost my Walter, about ten years back, I was a perfect mess. Good grief, it took me several years to pull myself together. I let the store just go to wrack and ruin—Walter would’ve been furious with me.” She laughed. “Maybe he was.”