The Snow Angel

by Glenn Beck

  Years later, when one of Cyrus’s chic friends mixed me a martini from the liquor cabinet in her posh kitchen, just the scent of vermouth and my mother’s signature gin was enough to make me queasy. I swore off alcohol altogether. To me it smelled of bitter words and anger and death. It smelled like my mother.

  But before I knew what a martini was, before I could articulate the hurt and frustration that I felt at the mere mention of Bev’s name, I was just a kid without a mom, and Max and Elena Wever saw the depth of my need and reached out.

  Back then, Eden Custom Tailoring didn’t even exist. Max and Elena were simply “the tailors” to the community of Everton, and they mended slacks and sewed custom suit jackets in their garage turned sewing shop. They lived next door to the split-level where I grew up, and though I knew who they were and what they did, I had never set foot in their workspace or even said hello to them until the day that Max stopped me on the sidewalk.

  It was a hot, hazy afternoon in July, and my neighbor was dressed in black pants and a crisp, long-sleeved dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up to his elbows. I was sweating in a tank top and cut-off jean shorts, and too miserable from the heat and the fever of my own bewilderment at life to pay him any attention.

  “Do you have good eyes?” Max asked me out of the blue as I walked past his driveway.

  I turned and considered the man who was my neighbor. He was bent and grizzled, a stooping giant with hands like bear paws and tufts of wiry hair poking from his ears like forgotten bits of cotton. I wasn’t afraid of him, but we had never talked before, and as soon as he inquired after my optical health I was convinced that there was good reason we avoided each other: He obviously had dementia. Most people regarded me with thinly veiled pity and apologized immediately about the loss of my mother. Max skipped right over these trivialities.

  “My eyes are fine,” I told him. Then I spun on my heel and kept walking—I decided it was best not to encourage him. But his next question stopped me in my tracks.

  “Would you like a job?”

  A job? In the month after my mother’s death my life had consisted of little more than parrying people’s unwelcome condolences and trying to weed out the sincere offers of help from the ones that were born of avarice and gossip. It seemed everyone wanted to know what had gone on in the Clark house, and there was no lack of scandalmongers willing and eager to rifle through our home in an effort to ascertain the truth. But Mr. Wever’s question was singular, unexpected. I couldn’t have ignored him if I wanted to.

  “What kind of a job?” I asked warily.

  “My wife and I are tailors,” he told me in his thick Dutch accent. “We mend clothes. Make new ones.”

  As if I didn’t know.

  “We could use someone to sew buttonholes, press fabrics, run errands …”

  “I’d be a gofer?”

  Mr. Wever looked confused.

  “An errand girl,” I clarified, not entirely put off by the thought. Anything sounded better than wandering the streets of Everton with nothing to do and nowhere to go, the tragedy of my mother’s demise following me like the proverbial ball and chain.

  “Yes,” Mr. Wever said slowly. “An errand girl, I suppose. But maybe more than that. If you have good eyes.” He took a shuffling step toward me, and I lifted my chin as if offering up my eyes for inspection. They were blue and bottomless, too big if I chose to believe my late mother’s persistent criticism. And maybe my baby blues were a smidgen buggy, but I never understood why Bev felt the need to critique. They were her eyes, after all. I was the spitting image of my mother from the tips of my delicate fingers to the roots of my unruly ginger hair.

  “How much?” I asked.

  Mr. Wever hooked a finger around the wire frame of the glasses that were perched on his nose and tugged them down so he could regard me through the lower lens of his bifocals. His gaze was direct, and maybe just a little amused. “Three dollars an hour,” he said. “The hours will change. Sometimes we will have a lot of work for you. Sometimes not.”

  Three dollars was less than minimum wage, but the hours sounded suitably vague and variable. “Okay,” I said, shrugging. “I’ll be your errand girl.”

  Mr. Wever nodded once and gave me an earnest, tight-lipped smile. When he took a step toward me, I thought that he was going to rattle off a collection of do’s and don’ts, an indomitable checklist for working in his hallowed shop. But instead, he extended his hand and waited patiently for me to reciprocate. Our handshake was solemn, and as my fingers disappeared into his giant palm, I realized that we were sealing a covenant.

  “Elena and I look forward to seeing you tomorrow morning at eight,” he said.

  Since Bev’s death I had gotten used to loafing, but Mr. Wever didn’t really leave room for discussion on the matter of my starting time. I lifted a shoulder and he must have taken the gesture as assent because he nodded again and turned to go. “Thank you,” I called after him.

  He was shuffling up the driveway, and he only acknowledged my gratitude by waving his hand in the air as if he was swatting at a cloud of gnats.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Wever,” I added.

  “Max.”

  “What?”

  “Call me Max!” he shouted. And then he disappeared into the side door of his attached garage.

  I worked for Max and Elena for just over five years. At first, I swept the floor, wound spools of thread, and answered the telephone when they had straight pins sticking from between their lips. When Max discovered that I was a hard worker and a quick study, he taught me to starch and press the trousers so that the thick pleat would stand like a narrow ridge. It was fine work, but I didn’t truly fall in love with it until Elena made her first wedding dress, a hand-spun creation for a young woman in her church who couldn’t afford a store-bought gown.

  The tailor shop was forever transformed for me when Elena purchased an extravagant bolt of Italian Silk Mikado. It was insanely expensive, but the dress was going to be a gift, and Elena took gift-giving very seriously. The day that the fabric arrived from Milan, I stayed late after Max retired from the workroom. Elena and I carefully pushed aside the heavy wools, herringbones, and tweeds that would soon clothe the men of Everton and lifted the surprisingly heavy box onto the table. Then Elena brought out the silk, and we unrolled it across the surface of the wide worktable, stunned by the way that it gleamed and danced in the light.

  “I may never sew a pair of pants again.” Elena laughed.

  But of course she did.

  However, at least once or twice a year, Elena would leave the tailoring to her husband and indulge in her favorite hobby: dressmaking. As for me, I looked forward to those forays into the world of satin and lace with an almost frantic excitement. And yet, I couldn’t complain about sewing men’s suits. There was something uniquely warm and comforting about helping Max get the symmetry and alignment of the pinstripes on a custom suit jacket just perfect. It was fun and foreign. Decidedly masculine.

  My dad rarely wore a suit. And the one he hauled out for special occassions was a relic. His closet was filled with Wrangler jeans and whatever shirt he could buy for ten dollars or less at Bomgaars. I never really thought of my dad’s clothes until I started making suits with Max. All at once my dad’s workingman’s wardrobe seemed cheap and tasteless, the uniform of a man who always had dirt under his fingernails and a sunburn peeling the skin of his nose. I didn’t mean to be shallow, but I found myself wishing that my dad would take himself a bit more seriously.

  “‘Clothes make the man,’” Max would quote, eyeing me sidelong before he finished: “‘Naked people have little or no influence on society.’”

  “Mark Twain.” I’d laugh. “But it’s a silly quote.”

  “No, it’s a true quote.” He’d crinkle up his eyes, thinking. “How about: ‘If honor be your clothing, the suit will last a lifetime; but if clothing be your honor, it will soon be worn threadbare.’”

  “I’ve never heard that one b
efore.”

  “William Arnot. He was a preacher. Knew what he was talking about.”

  I pursed my lips. “It’s a nice saying, Max. But I think it undermines what we’re doing here. Aren’t we making clothing?”

  “It’s a balance, honey. That’s what I want you to understand. As much as people would like to believe otherwise, how we present ourselves on the outside reveals something about who we are on the inside. I don’t have to wear a three-piece suit to be a good person, but I would like everything about me—even my clothes—to reflect a certain uncompromising integrity.”

  “Is that why you make suits?”

  Max laughed. “I make suits because my father made suits. And his father before him. What do you think Wever means in Dutch? It’s all I know how to do. However, since I make suits, they’re going to be excellent in every way. The best possible quality.”

  “Because you are a man of uncompromising integrity.”

  “I hope so,” Max murmured with a wry smile. “I sure do try.”

  They both tried, Max and Elena, and I adored them. Though we never talked about it, for all intents and purposes, I was the daughter they never had. I always wondered if Max and Elena left a child in Dutch soil, or if they were simply never able to conceive. But I didn’t question their love for me, and for a few years at least I grew up grateful that my surrogate family accepted me, flaws, baggage, and all—especially when my real family didn’t. Especially because I didn’t really have a family. Before I was old enough to drive a car, I was more or less an orphan: Bev was dead and my father pretended I was. Or, at least, I felt like he did.

  “We are not ‘the tailor shop’ anymore,” Max said the day that Elena and I finished our tenth wedding dress. He surveyed the soft, lovely fabrics that seemed to bloom in unexpected bursts from every corner of his formerly masculine garage. Poplin and seersucker and linen existed side by side with gauzy material that pooled and flowed like melted ice.

  “Come now,” Elena protested. “We’ll always be ‘the tailor shop.’” She leaned against him and kissed his wrinkled cheek placatingly.

  “But we’re more. We’re …” Max’s forehead wrinkled as if he was confused by what his store had become. “We’re a dress shop, too.”

  Elena shook her head. “Not just any dress shop. A wedding dress shop.”

  “A bridal shop,” I offered.

  Max pretended to shiver and threw up his hands in defeat. “Women! I am surrounded!” He shook his head as he left the garage, but I caught the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

  “He’ll be just fine,” Elena assured me with a wink. “Wounded pride is rarely fatal. As for us, I think it’s time we gave this suit shop/tailor shop/bridal shop a name. A way for people to find us.”

  “Eden,” I said without pause.

  “Eden?”

  “You know,” I fumbled, “because it’s perfect. Happy and new. Filled with possibility …” I trailed off.

  Elena nodded slowly and I could practically see the wheels spinning behind her deep brown eyes. “Eden Custom Tailoring—so that there’s room for the odd dress or two amid the army of suits. I think it’ll work.”

  Of course it would work. Everyone needed a little reminder of something whole and full of promise. Everyone needed a bit of paradise.

  Especially people who sometimes felt like their lives were anything but.

  Eden Custom Tailoring became a cult phenomenon when the youth of Everton graduated from high school and fled their tiny hometown. As Everton natives populated LA, Chicago, New York, and beyond, sooner or later they found that special someone and remembered the old couple that sewed exclusive suits and wedding dresses back in their all-but-forgotten hometown. Calls started coming in for gowns of Duchess silk and Italian satin, and accompanying those extravagant orders came the imperious directive: “It must be perfect.” Which translated into: “We have no budget.”

  Max bought an old photography studio on Main Street, which he transformed into a charming shop with a custom fitting room and a five-sided mirror with a two-foot pedestal. It worked well when Max had to carefully measure the distinguished gentlemen of Everton, but the brides were the customers who appreciated the pedestal the most. The young women loved to preen and admire themselves from every possible angle. The lighting was dim and flattering since there were no windows in the shop, and though that fact had seemed like a liability when Max first purchased the building, it turned out to be a boon: Most brides were thrilled that their unique creation would remain a mystery until their stirring walk down the aisle.

  And brides-to-be weren’t the only ones who were happy that Eden Custom Tailoring was a dark, nondescript structure on a quiet corner in Everton. As I gripped the handle of the back door and cast a furtive glance over my shoulder to make sure that no one was watching my entrance, I silently blessed Max for forgoing a bright, public building with views of our historic downtown. If he had opted for accessibility and pizzazz, I would never have been able to say yes to his harried call for help.

  Satisfied that the shadowy alley behind Eden Custom Tailoring was empty, I quickly opened the steel door and slipped inside. The back room hadn’t changed much in the twelve years since I quit working for Max and Elena. It was still filled with boxes from exotic locales all over the world, and hanging from metal rods along two walls of the small space were dozens of hangers draped with fabrics in every shade and hue. A muted breath escaped my lips and I resisted the urge to take the nearest length of organza in my fingers. But rather than risk spoiling the fabric with the oils on my palm, I ran the back of my wrist against the lovely cloth and marveled at the way it felt like water against my skin.

  “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

  Max was standing in the doorway between the back room and the workshop, his crest of snowy hair almost touching the top of the frame. In spite of his height, he seemed diminished to me, smaller somehow since the last time I saw him up close. “I don’t know what to do with her fabric now that she’s gone …” he said, trailing off almost apologetically.

  I thought I could hold myself together, but at the sight of him I was undone. A sob cut loose from my throat, and before I could contain it there was a torrent of tears to match.

  “Oh, Rachel.” Max held out his hands to me and I came to him, careful not to bowl him over in my desperation to feel his arms around me. He tucked me close carefully. Wordlessly. There was nothing we could say.

  “I’m so sorry,” I finally managed after several minutes, my face pressed against his shoulder.

  “For what?”

  “For not coming sooner. I wanted to go to Elena’s funeral,” I gasped, horrified that I had let them put her in the ground without saying good-bye. I tried to explain, more for my own sake than his: “Cyrus had a work thing and—”

  “It’s okay,” Max said.

  But it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t even close to being okay. “I should have been there.”

  “You’re here now.”

  You’re here now. His words seemed to echo through the empty space that Elena’s death had hewn in my soul. But maybe the fissure had happened long before that. Maybe it began with Bev, and was deepened by the silence of my cowardly father. Maybe Cyrus carved it further still, creating a cavern that resounded with accusations, allegations that piled up against me: You’re weak. You’re ugly. You’re stupid and unlovable and worthless.

  Maybe Bev was right all those years ago and Cyrus’s continuation of her hurtful monologue was perfectly befitting for someone as cheap and useless as me. Maybe I was all the things they said I was. But standing in the warm circle of Max’s arms, I was something else, too.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’m here now.”

  It was a start.

  CHAPTER 2

  RACHEL

  October 1

  Lily appeared in the back room at Eden Custom Tailoring precisely at three-thirty, wearing a grin she tried hard to conceal and carrying a perfect
red maple leaf between her thumb and forefinger. “Wow,” she breathed, taking in the swaths of bolted cloth and the fresh, clean scent of the place.

  “Don’t touch anything,” I said. I buried my nose in the mug of coffee I was drinking and squeezed my tired eyes shut. “If you’d like I can give you some scraps later and teach you how to do a running stitch.”

  “Really?” Lily sounded ecstatic at the thought.

  “Sure, honey. You’ll just have to leave it here. We can’t risk taking any fabric home.” After a long, peaceful day in Max’s shop, those words seemed almost ridiculous to me. I shook my head to clear it. “How was your day?”

  Lily drooped her shoulders and let her backpack slide to the floor. She kicked it into an empty corner of the narrow room, never once taking her eyes off the bolts of fabric that hung all around her and hemmed her in. “Fine,” she said absently. “Oh.” She looked at the leaf in her hand, remembering. “I found this for you. It’s perfect, isn’t it?”

  I took the stem of the leaf between my fingers and twirled it in front of my face. The five spires were precisely serrated, each tiny tip sharp as if it had been die-cut with a brand new press. Best of all, the leaf was entirely uniform, the same deep, cardinal color from the firm spire of the stem to the delicate, papery edges. “It’s beautiful.” I smiled, loving my daughter for her ability to find treasure all around her.

  From the time she was old enough to toddle, Lily was always bringing me things: first dandelions that had been mashed in her chubby fist, then prickly pinecones and rocks shot through with quartz. I thought she’d grow out of it, but she had an eye for hidden things, and the gems she uncovered now were truly unique. I had her little gifts secreted all over the house. Flowers preserved between the pages of my favorite books, iridescent snail shells scattered in my jewelry box, round stones as smooth and polished as marbles in the pockets of my coat where I could slip my hand inside and touch them. Each offering seemed like a little piece of Lily.