The Snow Globe

by Sheila Roberts

  The Grace Olsen House was dressed up for the holidays with swags in the windows and an artificial tree in the reception area, but these festive efforts couldn’t overcome the pungent smell of urine and cleaning solution that crept along its vinyl floors. A few visitors strolled the halls, pushing old ladies in wheelchairs, but for the most part, residents lay on beds in their rooms alone or sat slumped in chairs here and there like vacant-eyed sentinels guarding the past.

  One woman with wispy white hair and faded blue eyes to match her faded dress held out a clawed hand to Allison as she passed and croaked, “Help me.”

  Mrs. Manning. She’d been calling for help ever since Allison started visiting here.

  Allison stopped and took a cookie from the platter. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Manning,” she said, and slipped the cookie into the woman’s hand.

  Mrs. Manning took a bite of the cookie and looked past Allison, possibly at the Ghost of Christmas Past. “You can’t leave yet. The bird’s not done.”

  Allison gave her arm a pat and kept going. She turned down the hall and went to a different wing. There was still vinyl on the floor here, and the same pungent smell followed her, but the rooms were bigger. They all looked out on the lawn and held a bed, a dresser, and a chair.

  She ducked into room number 112, knocking on the door as she entered. A plump, little woman in a pink bathrobe sat in a chair by the bed, a book in her lap. She looked up curiously at the sight of Allison. Someone had brushed her hair today. Maybe her daughter had been in.

  “Hi, Mrs. Baker,” said Allison, coming into the room.

  Her grandmother’s old friend smiled at her tentatively. “Hello. Are you my daughter?”

  Okay, not one of Mrs. Baker’s good days. “No, I’m Allison. You and my grandma were best friends.”

  Mrs. Baker smiled. “Oh, were we? Who was your grandmother?”

  Allison blinked back tears. This had been a stupid idea. “How about a cookie?”

  “I love cookies,” said Mrs. Baker, helping herself to one with a trembling hand. “You know, I won a baking contest once. I won a pink Sunbeam Mixmaster.” She suddenly looked confused. “Do you still have it, Babs?”

  “Yes,” lied Allison. “I still do, and I love it.”

  Mrs. Baker smiled and took a bite of her cookie. “These are delicious.” She stared at Allison, her brows knit. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Babs.”

  Mrs. Baker smiled and shut her eyes. “It’s nice to have company.”

  “Yes, it is,” agreed Allison.

  Some church group was caroling their way down the hall now, singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

  It was a little too late for that, but who knew? Maybe the new year would be happy. One could always hope.

  Eighteen

  The new year brought new adventures. Kiley got engaged and Suzanne got pregnant. The year started well for Allison, too, who received a good review at work and a small raise. She never got what she saw in the snow globe, though.

  “You know what I want to do,” Kiley said as the three friends sat in Allison’s kitchen, sipping tea and sampling Allison’s new scone recipe. “I want to go see Mrs. Ackerman.”

  “Mrs. who?” asked Suzanne.

  “Mrs. Ackerman, the woman who owned the snow globe before I bought it at the antique shop. I want to thank her and tell her everything that’s happened. I think she’d like to hear that her family heirloom helped us.”

  Most of us, thought Allison, being careful to keep her expression neutral. She’d voiced her doubts once to Suzanne and had immediately regretted it. Suzanne now had all the zeal of a reformed cynic and she’d been quick to defend the powers of the snow globe. “You have to give it time,” she’d insisted.

  January was over now. As far as Allison was concerned, time had run out.

  “Not a bad idea,” Suzanne was saying. “If you want, I’ll go with you.”

  They both looked at Allison.

  That was what she wanted, to spend an afternoon listening to her two friends gush about the powers of the snow globe while she sat there like a holiday dud with no story to tell. “I don’t think I can get away,” she began.

  “Oh, come on,” pleaded Kiley. “We’ll go on a weekend.”

  “It’ll be fun,” added Suzanne. She turned to Kiley. “See if you can track Mrs. Ackerman down and ask her if we can come this Saturday.”

  And just like that they were off and planning, assuming that Allison would come along. She frowned into her teacup. No way was she going.

  Saturday was gray and blowy, and Allison looked like a thundercloud as the little ferry to Fawn Island dipped and rolled its way across a choppy Puget Sound. “I’m going to be sick,” she predicted, crossing her arms over her down vest and scowling out the window at the sea of whitecaps.

  “Stop pouting,” Suzanne scolded. “I’m surviving and I feel like crap.”

  You could have fooled Allison. Suzanne looked totally put together in trouser jeans and a great jacket with a faux fur collar. And she was positively glowing. If that was what morning sickness looked like, where did a girl sign up?

  “Anyway, you know you didn’t want to be left behind,” Suz added.

  “Yes, I did,” snapped Allison. She had no Christmas miracle to report, no good news. All she had was the snow globe, which had obviously run out of steam. Maybe Mrs. Ackerman would like it back.

  “It’ll be fun,” Kiley promised. She crossed her booted legs and admired the engagement bling on her left hand.

  “For you two,” Allison said bitterly. All she was bringing into the new year was five extra pounds she’d gained after a post-Christmas cookie binge.

  Suzanne shook her head. “You’re becoming a real Scrooge.”

  “Who knows?” Kiley quickly put in. “This woman may have some great antiques. And you love antiques.”

  Allison loved her grandmother’s antiques. There was a difference.

  “Arriving Fawn Island,” a voice announced over the loudspeaker. “All passengers must disembark. All car passengers please return to the car deck at this time.”

  “That’s us,” said Kiley cheerfully. “Let’s go.”

  Suzanne hobbled off toward the exit, Kiley falling in next to her and allowing Allison to follow. This was a dumb idea. She wished she hadn’t come. What was she going to say to Mrs. Ackerman, anyway? Hi. I’m Allison and your snow globe hates me.

  She settled in the backseat of Kiley’s car, thinking how appropriate it was that she was there like a third wheel. The two blessed ones sat up front, casually chatting, a road of promise stretching out before them. All she had back here in the loser’s section was a good case of grumpiness.

  They drove off the boat and through the quaint downtown, then, following the directions Kiley had written, turned onto a residential street, passing Cape Cod and Craftsman-style homes snugged in among fir trees and well-tended gardens with picket fences. Toward the edge of town, they came to a large, gray Victorian set high on the bluff overlooking the water.

  “This is it,” said Suzanne, and Allison’s stomach clenched.

  The paint was faded, but the yard was well tended, the flower beds weeded, and the rosebushes trimmed and waiting for spring. “This place would fetch a pretty penny,” Suzanne mused as they went up the front walk.

  They weren’t even to the door yet when it opened, framing an elderly woman in a black dress and a European-style red wool jacket with gold braiding and buttons. She was short and stout, and wore glasses, and her white hair was elegantly styled.

  “Welcome, ladies!” she called. “I’m Rosamunde Ackerman.”

  Allison hung back during the flurry of greetings, tonguetied, clutching the snow globe for dear life.

  “And this is Allison,” Kiley added.

  Mrs. Ackerman held out a hand. “Welcome, dear.”

  “Thanks,” Allison managed. She took Mrs. Ackerman’s extended hand. It was plump and dotted with age spots like Grandm
a’s had been. Allison swallowed down a bittersweet lump in her throat.

  “I’m so delighted to have a chance to meet you all,” said Mrs. Ackerman, ushering them into a living room thick with old furniture decked out in antimacassars. Everything smelled faintly of mothballs and lavender. In one corner of the room, an old brass birdcage housed a blue parakeet that hopped from perch to perch in excitement. Allison had seen that birdcage before. She’d seen this all. Her heart began to beat in time with the flitting bird.

  “You just make yourselves at home,” said Mrs. Ackerman. “I’ll bring the tea.”

  “Let me help you,” offered Allison.

  The woman smiled at her. “Why, thank you.”

  In the kitchen, Allison took in the old Formica table like the one she owned now, the one that had been her grandmother’s, the white shelf displaying Quimper plates and an antique brass teapot, the vintage mixer on the counter, and felt contentment settle in her chest. “This is lovely.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid it’s all out of date,” said Mrs. Ackerman with a sad smile. “Just like me.”

  “You don’t have a daughter who’s into antiques?” asked Allison.

  “I don’t have a daughter,” said Mrs. Ackerman. “And I’m sad to say I lost my son in Vietnam.” Her eyes took on a faraway look and Allison suspected she was envisioning happier times when her son was alive. She returned to the present with a little shake of her head and motioned to a china pot sitting on the counter next to the old stove. “I put the kettle on already. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind pouring the water into the teapot.”

  “Not at all,” Allison said with a smile.

  They worked companionably, assembling cookies on a plate, fixing the teapot and teacups on a serving tray. Soon all was ready. Mrs. Ackerman took the plate of cookies out to the living room and Allison followed with the tray.

  “Your house is lovely,” said Suzanne.

  “Yes, but it’s a lot of house for one woman to rattle around in.”

  Suzanne perked up. “Have you ever thought of selling?”

  “Maybe someday, but I’m not ready to leave behind my memories just yet,” the old woman said with a smile that tugged at Allison’s heartstrings. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I have my church and my wonderful neighbors.” Her voice trailed off.

  And no husband and no children, thought Allison sadly.

  “But let’s not talk about me,” Mrs. Ackerman said briskly. “Tell me about the snow globe.” She reached for the teapot with a shaky hand.

  “Let me,” said Allison.

  She picked it up and poured tea while Kiley launched into her story. Mrs. Ackerman sat enthralled, never touching her cup.

  Suzanne went next. “Who knew breaking my ankle would turn out to be good for my health?” she joked in conclusion, and Mrs. Ackerman chuckled.

  Then the old woman turned to Allison. “And what about you, my dear?”

  “She saw something in it at my house,” said Suzanne, “but so far…”

  “I saw you,” Allison blurted. I saw this room and this teapot, and we were drinking tea, just like we are now. It almost looked like Grandma, but it was you. It was definitely you.”

  “I knew it would come through for you,” Suzanne crowed, pointing a finger at her.

  Then all three friends were talking at once, explaining how much Allison’s grandmother had meant to her and how she’d served as a counterbalance to Allison’s flaky family.

  Mrs. Ackerman stirred cream into her tea. “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I’ve always said there are two kinds of family. There’s the family of your flesh, and the one of your heart. One builds character, the other rewards it.” She smiled at Allison.

  Allison felt tears prickling her eyes. “If you’re my reward, Mrs. Ackerman, I’ll take it.”

  “Why, thank you, my dear,” said the old woman.

  They stayed another half hour, until it became clear that their hostess was getting tired. “We’d better go,” said Kiley.

  “First, we’ll clean up, though,” said Allison.

  “Oh, that’s not necessary,” protested Mrs. Ackerman, but she didn’t put up too much resistance when Kiley and Allison scooped up the tea things and took them to the kitchen to wash.

  They were about to leave when Allison held out the snow globe to the old woman. “Would you like to have this back? It’s obviously served its purpose for us.”

  Mrs. Ackerman smiled and shook her head. “As it has for me. No, you take it with you. I’m sure you’ll find something to do with it.” She hugged Allison. “And do come see me again.”

  As if she had to ask.

  An hour later the three friends were back on the ferryboat, sailing home over waters much less troubled than when they came. A sliver of sunlight slipped through the gray skies and seagulls soared alongside the ferry, providing a feathered escort.

  Allison studied the snow globe in her lap. “So, do you think this thing is like Aladdin’s lamp?”

  Suzanne shrugged. “I don’t know about that. I sure never would have wished to break my ankle.”

  “Yes, but look at what you got,” said Kiley with a smile.

  Suzanne shrugged. “So maybe it’s more a window meant to show you possibilities.”

  “I don’t know,” said Allison, running a hand over the treasure. “One thing I do know. We can’t keep it.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Kiley said.

  “Are you two insane?” Suzanne protested. “We need to hang on to it, pass it on to our kids. It’s an heirloom.”

  “I’d say it’s more than that,” said Kiley.

  “You can’t just give it away,” Suzanne said sternly. “Mrs. Ackerman would never approve.”

  “Actually, I think she would,” said Allison. “After all, she told us to put it to good use.”

  “So, what should we do with it?” asked Kiley.

  “You decide, Kiles,” said Allison. “You’re the one who found it.”

  Kiley chewed her lip thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Leave it here.”

  Suzanne stared at her in disbelief. “Here? For just anyone?”

  The three women looked around, taking in their fellow passengers. Over by the vending machines a harried mother was trying to corral a rambunctious preschooler and a toddler simultaneously. An elderly couple sat a few benches down, side by side in silence, staring out the window at the seagulls swooping over the waves. A sad-faced ferry worker slowly collected leftover newspapers for the recycling bin. A middle-aged woman hurried past, towing a beat-up carry-on suitcase.

  “No,” said Kiley. “For the right someone.”

  “Arriving Seattle,” said the voice over the loudspeaker. “All passengers must disembark. Car passengers please return to the car deck at this time.”

  Kiley stood. “The snow globe found us. I think we can trust that it will find its way to the next person who needs it.” She started for the car deck without so much as a backward glance.

  Suzanne heaved a long-suffering sigh and followed her.

  Allison took one last look around and then set the snow globe on the bench. Then, inspired, she fished a pad from her purse, tore off a piece of paper, and scrawled a note.

  This is for someone who needs a miracle.

  If that’s you, please take it.

  She smiled as she read what she’d written. Then she set the paper under the snow globe and hurried after her friends. It was going to be a great new year for someone.

  Also by Sheila Roberts

  Small Change

  Angel Lane

  Love in Bloom

  Bikini Season

  On Strike for Christmas

  Acknowledgments

  This was such a fun book to write! Of course it’s always fun when you get to work with great people. And I want to take a moment to thank some of them right now. Thanks to my buddy Ruth, for all the great insight and encouragement. Huge thanks to Susan Wiggs, Elsa Watson, and Anjali Banerjee, for k
eeping an eagle eye on my work in progress. Most of all, thanks to my fabulous agent, Paige Wheeler, and my amazing editor, Rose Hilliard, and all the super people at St. Martin’s Press, who worked so hard to help this story become a book. May you all see your dreams come true this Christmas!

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE SNOW GLOBE. Copyright © 2010 by Sheila Rabe. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  ISBN: 978-0-312-59448-0