Snowflakes and Silver Linings

by Cara Colter

  “They did let you touch it!”

  “You’re trying to start an argument because you don’t want me to delve into the rift between you and your brothers.”

  He looked at her long and hard. “We have to discuss the terms of that truce.”

  “We called off the truce.”

  “Can we just bake cookies then?”

  “Ah,” she said, knowing it was time to back off. “If I’m not mistaken, you are begging to bake cookies.”

  “You know something, Casey? You are way too smart for your own good.”

  “I know,” she said, and despite the fact no truce had been agreed on, they settled into the task at hand like two people who had figured out there might be some advantages to being a team.

  “Where would you place gingerbread men on the hokey scale?” he asked her.

  She glanced up at him. Did his eyes linger on her lips before she looked swiftly away? “Somewhere between snowmen and Christmas trees,” she said.

  “How come so many cookies?”

  “We’re going to give them out as guest gifts at the vow renewal. So we’re making some gingerbread grooms and some gingerbread brides. And we thought we’d make a few extras, to donate to the Barrow’s Cove Food Bank. To help fill the Christmas hampers.”

  “Whose idea was that?” he asked.

  Casey shrugged uncomfortably.

  “Yours,” he said. Casey was a woman his father would have approved of.

  Turner felt the oddest tug of emotion at this humble effort to make the world a better place, one cookie at a time.

  It was like her hand on his cheek, and her eyes, soft, on his face.

  Small things.

  Almost inconsequential.

  It occurred to him such gestures of small kindnesses were probably far more powerful in bringing about real change than all the men who marched off to war, set on making all that was wrong in the world right.

  Casey picked that moment to glance up at him.

  That night all those years ago, he had thought her dark eyes saw him in a way no one else ever had.

  And despite many predeployment nights since then, it occurred to him he had never experienced that again.

  “How many cookies?” he asked.

  “We thought half a dozen cookies per hamper, and then two for each guest, so...” she closed her eyes for a moment “...about four hundred cookies.”

  “Wow,” Emily said, overhearing, and looking at her friend with affection and awe. “How do you do that? Math in your head. And so fast!”

  Casey shrugged uncomfortably. “Born geek,” she muttered, and shot Turner a look.

  But he didn’t see a geek. He saw a woman who was brilliant. And beautiful. And trying hard not to be vulnerable.

  Could he be a good man, without causing more harm than good? Did he have a choice? He was here. She was here.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked gruffly.

  “Those ones on the counter are ready for decorating. Why don’t you and Tessa start icing them?”

  “That sounds a little too delicate for me.” There were a lot of things in this room that were way too delicate for a man who had killed people for a living. “How about if I start on the dishes?”

  But neither of these females was interested in the agenda that would be safest for him.

  “No,” Tessa said imperiously. “You help me.”

  “Tessa,” Rick said sternly. “Quit being so bossy.”

  The little girl’s face crumpled. Her eyes clenched shut.

  “Geez, don’t do that!” Turner said. “I’ll help you.”

  The grimace dissolved into a smile.

  “Sorry,” Rick said. “She has a little issue with being in control.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I want you to help, too,” Tessa said, tugging on Casey’s sleeve.

  With the little girl on a stool between them, they took cooled cookies off the pans and laid out row after row of gingerbread men and women.

  Andrea popped several full bags of icing in front of them, and one of candy-coated chocolate buttons. “Casey, why don’t you and Turner do the faces? Tess can do the buttons.”

  “No eating the buttons,” Turner warned Tessa, and she giggled.

  “You’re silly,” she decided.

  “Watch who you’re calling silly,” he groused, and was rewarded when both she and Casey giggled. “You must call me Master Icer.”

  He squeezed some icing out of a bag onto the head of a gingerbread man.

  “He looks like a monster,” Tessa howled, disparaging of Turner’s artistic skill.

  “Well,” he said, “it really doesn’t matter. You know why?”

  She shook her head.

  “Because this is the test cookie. I’m eating it.”

  He broke the cookie into three pieces, then contemplated them solemnly. “I’m the biggest and the master icer, so I get the biggest piece.” He popped the whole chunk into his mouth, then handed Tessa a piece and Casey another.

  “You’re going to ruin our dinner,” Casey protested.

  “Oh, boy. Haven’t you heard of happy hour? It’s time for cookies somewhere, isn’t it, princess?”

  “Yeah,” Tessa said, beaming at him for recognizing her as a princess. “Yum.”

  “You know what it tastes like?”

  “What?”

  “Like we should have another one.”

  Tessa broke into a fit of giggles.

  “Master Icer?” Casey said a trace sardonically, “We have four hundred cookies to decorate, so you’re going to have to pick up the pace a bit.”

  He ate faster.

  Even Casey laughed, taking in Tessa’s delight. “See?” she said. “Kids and dogs.”

  He realized he felt happy to make her laugh. Happy for this simple moment of changing the world in a simple way, one cookie at a time, one smile at a time, one laugh at a time.

  It occurred to him that, for a few minutes, anyway, he had left his baggage behind. And he had fit into this wholesome world just fine.

  And liked being here, too.

  Turner wondered if that meant he had just moved closer to making the decision he’d come here to ponder.

  He and Casey began to put piped, white icing faces on the cookies. Tongue caught between her teeth in concentration, she did the girls, making exaggerated eyelashes and lips for them, while he did the boys. Tessa did buttons.

  They all stared at the first completed row of cookies with just a little bit of awe. They looked terrific!

  “What would you give this on the hokey scale?” he muttered to Casey.

  “Would the hokey scale be out of ten?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “How about an eleven?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “One hundred and two,” Tessa crowed, determined not to be left out of the conversation.

  And then they laughed. It was a small thing, that shared laugh, and yet it felt surprisingly good. Much like Turner had felt yesterday, when they’d built the snowmen. He allowed himself to sink into it.

  Sink into the simple pleasure of sharing this warm, fragrant kitchen with friends on a snowy day, trying to make Christmas just a little better for someone else.

  He glanced at Casey’s shining face.

  And was pretty sure he didn’t mean the food bank clients, either.

  * * *

  Casey looked at Turner’s dark head bent close to Tessa’s as he put an icing smile on a gingerbread groom. The little girl waited with the “special” buttons, silver for the vow-renewal cookies.

  Despite claiming discomfort, he seemed very at ease with the child. He would be a natural as a daddy, and Case
y wondered why he wasn’t.

  And then told herself, and sternly, too, that was none of her business.

  The last two days—building snowmen, everyone pitching in to cook dinners and clean up after, going out in search of a perfect tree—were what she had always hoped for around Christmas as a child. She had dreamed of the kind of days she read about in books and saw in movies, days filled with laughter and fun and a sense of connection with other people.

  This was the life she wanted for her own child. It was no surprise to her that she would feel it here. The only times she had ever come close to feeling this way before had always been here, at the Gingerbread Inn.

  And in spite of her family, not because of them. The Gingerbread Girls had always given her this gift—creating a sense of the family she wanted and did not have.

  She could see Turner had had it, too.

  And lost it somehow.

  In the very spirit of the Christmas she wanted to believe in for her own child, Casey was determined to help him get it back. Whether he wanted her help or not.

  She slid a look at him. He radiated self-certainty and self-reliance. He would not want any help from her.

  And that was not going to stop her.

  Tonight, she was going to get on her computer and track his brothers down. She looked at his face, open now as he leaned over cookies with Tessa.

  Casey had the feeling she might be going where angels feared to tread.

  Hours later, she closed her computer and rubbed her eyes. She had found both Turner’s brothers on Facebook and sent them a message. I am a friend of Turner’s. I need to talk to you. She had hesitated just a second, and then added, URGENT.

  She had felt so sure she was doing the right thing, but now, uncertainty hit her. She wasn’t even able to repair her own relationship with her mother. What made Casey think she knew what was best for him?

  She reminded herself it was only a message. She hadn’t actually done anything yet.

  She glanced at her bedside clock. Ten at night. She didn’t feel tired. She went to her window and looked out, wondering if she might see Turner skating. It was a beautiful night, with a full moon painting the amazing snow-filled world in luminescent shades of silver.

  If he was out there, would she join him?

  She was aware, as she went to the window, that she was hoping he would be.

  What she saw was him heading along the shore of the lake, the dog beside him. Casey hesitated only a moment before grabbing her coat and racing out the door after him.

  He sensed her coming and turned, waited for her.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just for a walk.” After the slightest hesitation, he added, “Do you want to come?”

  “Yes.”

  The silence was companionable, the dog racing ahead and then back. A snowmobile had been by, making a nice, hard-packed trail that was comfortable for two people to walk on side by side.

  They passed cabins boarded up for the winter, crossed a little footbridge that spanned a small creek, fast running and deep enough to be not quite frozen despite the frigid nights. They stopped in the middle of the bridge, gazed down at the water, listened to it tinkle over shards of ice.

  Casey had never walked at night in the snow. It was a quiet she had never experienced before. When she slipped slightly, Turner took her hand, and even after she had found her footing, he didn’t let go.

  Harper was sniffing around the foundation of one of the cabins. Suddenly, she broke the silence of the night and began to bark.

  “Hey, that’s enough,” Turner said.

  But the dog was now racing back and forth, barking frantically, trying to dig her way under the lattice.

  Turner let go of Casey’s hand and went to retrieve the dog. But just as he got close, a raccoon shot from under the cabin, the dog hot on its heels.

  In seconds they were both on the lake, and then the worst possible thing happened.

  The ice, thin there at the mouth of the creek, gave an ominous crack. While the raccoon skittered away, Harper screeched to a halt, stared with doggie consternation at the spiderweb of cracks shooting out around her feet. And then the ice broke and the beautiful dog plunged into the water.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CASEY DIDN’T EVEN THINK. She ran toward the dog, which was paddling frantically in the icy water. Harper was trying to heave herself up onto the ice, but succeeded only in breaking it more. Casey could see the panic on the poor creature’s face.

  “No! Casey! No!”

  She could hear a terrible urgency in Turner’s voice, could see him running toward her as if he intended to tackle her. But she felt the same urgency to get to Harper as he felt to get to her. She took advantage of the distance between them and put on a burst of speed.

  “Casey, don’t!”

  She was on the ice now. She could nearly reach Harper. Casey could feel the ice giving, as if it had a faint spring to it like a trampoline. She recognized, suddenly, that she hadn’t thought this through. But she was so close!

  Some snippet of knowledge about ice penetrated her adrenaline-infused state. She flopped onto her belly, crawled the remaining few feet, dispersing her weight over the fragile surface. The dog, relief in every wrinkle of her loving features, swam to her. Casey reached out for her paws.

  Harper flailed and the ice broke.

  It was a slow process, like a mirror shattering. First a spiderweb of cracks, then a groan as the ice settled.

  Casey tried to wriggle backward but it was too late. Frigid water raced up onto the sinking slab. Then the ice shelf gave way and she plunged into the lake.

  The shock of the cold hit her like a sledgehammer as the water closed over her. Somehow, she got her head clear and was able to turn and grab at the ledge of ice. Her breath was coming in great gasping gulps.

  Somehow, Turner’s voice penetrated her panic.

  Don’t come, she thought, the silent scream rising above the sheer panic that was enveloping her. It occurred to her he would come. That nothing would stop him. And that nobody knew where they were and that they were all going to die out here.

  “Listen to me.”

  His voice was like a life rope, and she turned her full attention toward it. “You have to steady your breath. You are hyperventilating. You are experiencing cold shock. You cannot die from it. Do you hear me?”

  Did she nod? She wasn’t sure.

  “That’s better,” he said, as she struggled to stop gasping for air, to draw in slower breaths. How could she be so cold and still respond to the praise in his voice?

  “Casey, you need to get your elbows up on the ice and see if you can pull yourself out of the water, even a bit. Use your legs. Kick as if you are swimming. Casey, do it! I know you can do it.”

  The firm calm in his voice reached her and she responded to it. Somehow, she found the strength to get one elbow up on the ice. It broke away.

  “Kick. Try again.”

  This time she was able to haul herself up. The ice, miraculously, held.

  “Breathe. Listen to me. Breathe in slowly as I count to three. One. Two. Three. Breathe out slowly as I count to three.”

  The dog had been swimming in frantic circles. Now she came up behind her.

  If Harper started to scramble up on her in a panic, it occurred to Casey’s shocked mind, they were both going to die.

  But Harper put her paws on Casey’s shoulders, wriggled up against her and gently clung. They both hung there on a precipice between life and death.

  But Casey knew Turner was not going to let them die.

  “Keep breathing,” he said. Hi
s voice was the life rope, calm, assured. “One. Two. Three. Don’t try to pull yourself out. Your clothes are going to be too heavy to get yourself out. Keep counting.”

  And then, to her dismay, instead of coming for her, he turned and ran away from the water’s edge.

  It seemed like forever before he returned. When he did, he had a ladder. He laid it on the ice, shoved it out to her. She grabbed for it, caught it, held on for dear life. But when she tried to pull herself up on it, she could see he had been right.

  Her saturated clothes were way too heavy and the strength had been sapped from her limbs by the excruciating cold.

  “I just want you to look at me. Nothing else.”

  Her eyes locked on his, and though she was so cold, and still partway in the water, it was as if the rescue was complete already.

  She knew, with a soul-deep kind of knowing, that in a matter of minutes this would all be over. He was going to save her. He did not have a single doubt, and that confidence ran the length of the ladder to her. It lifted her spirits to a place where she could hang on.

  He began to crawl along the ladder toward her. The ice creaked ominously as he crept forward. Once, it cracked loudly and he stopped. But having evaluated that the ladder was distributing his weight across a large surface of the ice, he moved forward again.

  Finally, he reached her. He grabbed her wrists and began to scoot backward.

  “Just keep watching my face,” he said. “Don’t look at anything else, don’t think about anything else. It’s just like skating.”

  Of course, it was the furthest thing from that magical experience she had had, skating with him, but somehow his invoking that memory was a good thing. He had her. He had her then, and he had her now.

  “Kick your legs,” he told her. “Kick as hard as you can.”

  She did exactly as he ordered. She watched his face. She was soothed by the calm in it, by the grim determination.

  A man less strong, she knew, would not have been able to do what he was doing. He was literally hauling her out of the water onto the ice. At first it broke away under her weight. She was afraid the ladder would go in, and him with it, but he just waited it out, scooted back, his hands bands of iron around her wrists. When he had her more out of the water than in, he yanked the dog off her shoulders and literally tossed Harper onto more stable ice.