The Snow Angel

by Glenn Beck

  Maybe, if I stayed, he’d remember.

  I fell in love with Cyrus at my senior prom.

  It was an accident, something that I never intended to happen. But I was raw and reeling from a fight with my dad, and I suppose that even if it had nothing to do with love, I would have fallen one way or another that night. Sometimes, the only thing to do when you’re hurting is to let yourself go headlong.

  My dad had given me money to buy a prom dress, but when I came home with a gown that made me feel like a princess, he made me feel like a slut.

  “You can’t wear that,” Dad said when I came out of my bedroom in the pink, strapless sheath.

  “Why not?” I smiled, sure that he was on the verge of teasing me. Perhaps he would say that I looked too pretty, that I was bound to steal some poor guy’s heart. I knew that the blush of the dress was perfect for my skin, that it made my hair glow like fire.

  “Because it’s totally inappropriate.”

  “What?” My smile quirked a little. It wasn’t quite the response I expected.

  “It’s …” Dad fumbled for words, but I could see that he wasn’t amused.

  I smoothed the fitted waist with my palms, confused. “It’s not too tight, is it?”

  “It’s too tight, too low, too revealing …” Dad fanned his hands as if he could hardly stand the sight of me. “You can’t wear it.”

  “What?”

  “You are not going to wear that dress. I won’t allow it.”

  A wave of hurt washed over me, but before I could drown in it I felt a strong, unexpected undertow of fury. It was a lethal combination. “Excuse me?” I bit off the words even as I choked back tears. “It’s a beautiful dress.”

  “The dress is fine—”

  “So it’s me?”

  “No,” Dad sputtered. “It’s you and the dress. You in the dress.” He closed his eyes and shook his head as if to clear it, and when he looked at me again there was steel in his expression. “You may not wear the dress. That’s final.”

  “What am I supposed to wear?” I nearly shouted.

  “Find another dress.”

  “It’s too late to find another dress! Prom is less than a week away. I’m lucky I found this dress.”

  Dad thinned his mouth into a hard line and turned away from me. Apparently the conversation was over, but I was still left standing in a dress that I had believed only minutes before was the most gorgeous thing that I had ever had the good fortune to wear. When I had tried it on in the store, I didn’t even care that I was going to the prom solo. Who needed a date when I had a dress that made me look like a movie star?

  “Do you want me to stay home?” I cried. “Is that it? You want to ruin it for me?” Dad stiffened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. I tried harder. “Or maybe you can’t stand it that I actually look pretty. You always wished I was a boy, didn’t you? ‘It’s so hard being the single father of a daughter …’ At least, that’s what you tell your friends. Maybe you’d like it better if I wore a tux to the prom!”

  Dad shook his head sadly, but instead of arguing with me, he left the room. I teetered in the middle of the living room floor, my high heels sinking in the shag carpet, and felt a surge of defiance so powerful I was stunned at my own capacity for rebellion. All my life I had been a fairly compliant child. Easy to manage, if a little prone to random acts of disappearance. But suddenly it was as if all my years of quiet obedience had finally burst the seams of self-control. I was tingling, heartbroken, and downright livid.

  If Dad refused to let me wear the dress, I’d give him exactly what he wanted.

  I wore a suit to the prom. One of Max’s nicer suits, a mohair-wool blend in a gray so soft it was almost silver. There was a faint, pinstripe weave, and Elena helped me dart the back of the coat so that it cut sharply against my tiny waist and outlined my figure. We paired it with a slim-fitting lilac dress shirt, black heels, and Elena’s mother’s pearls. My self-confidence had never been very healthy, but as I spun a slow circle in front of my mirror, I had to admit that the effect was striking.

  Even Max thought so. He had been hesitant to lend me one of his suits, but when he realized the only statement I was trying to make was one of independence, he reluctantly agreed. When I was finally all ready to go, hair piled on my head and wisping down in face-framing curls, Max laughed and gave me an impulsive hug.

  “Who says modesty is dead?” he said. “You look beautiful. Professional and poised. As if you are on your way to conquer the world!”

  I felt like I could conquer the world. The suit was a far cry from the pink dress, and though I still mourned that particular loss, I believed for a moment that I was on the verge of something exciting and new. I had broken through the barriers of my own self-perception, and the woman I had found was strong and self-possessed. Capable of anything.

  My confidence didn’t falter in the presence of my peers. I had been a wallflower all my life, but all at once I was the center of attention. All over the decorated banquet hall, people talked about me behind their hands, and not in a bad way. The girls seemed to approve of my unorthodox ensemble, and more than a few guys shot me an admiring wink.

  One boy in particular appeared transfixed. Cyrus Price, the football superstar and most popular boy in school, had graduated the year before but everyone knew that his girlfriend would be crowned Prom Queen. So he had come home from college for the weekend just to accompany his small-town sweetheart to a rather pathetic high school prom. All I had to do was glance at him to know that he was bored to tears and regretting his decision to leave behind his exciting college life for this provincial pageantry. But as I peeked, the handsome Cyrus caught my eye and something in his countenance shifted.

  His look burned me. I felt myself flush and I quickly turned away, directing my attention to the couples on the dance floor so that I could calm my racing heart. But a few minutes later when I gathered the courage to sneak a second glance, Cyrus was still watching me. He smiled a little, the corners of his mouth lifting in what could only be considered invitation.

  I didn’t dare to look at him again.

  The evening was almost over when I felt a hand trail lightly across my shoulders. I shivered and looked up, sure it was one of my friends. But Cyrus stood over me, the bow tie of his tux rakishly crooked and a knowing smirk on his face. “May I have this dance?” he asked, offering me his arm.

  I opened and closed my mouth a few times, uncertain if he was being serious or if he was merely playing me. “Where’s Stephanie?” I finally managed. Surely his girlfriend was hovering in the wings.

  “She left,” he said simply.

  “But …”

  “Come on.” He grinned, revealing a dimple in his cheek. It was agonizingly boyish and endearing. “Don’t leave a guy hanging.”

  Still, I stalled. I didn’t know what to do or how to respond, so I cast around, hoping someone would save me or reveal that this was all a big joke. But before anyone came to my rescue, Cyrus leaned down with his hands planted firmly on the table behind me. He ducked his head close to mine. His warm breath stirred the tendrils of hair that fell against my neck and made me shiver. “Please,” he whispered. Just that: please.

  When he took me by the hands, I let myself be pulled out of the chair and onto the dance floor. Cyrus seemed to find my reluctance beguiling, because he smirked as he curled one arm protectively around me and pressed me close. My chin just fit against the curve of his shoulder, and since we were tucked so close I had no choice but to rest my cheek against his neck. Cyrus smelled of aftershave and spice, a warm, earthy scent that made me feel dizzy. Drugged.

  “You’re amazing,” he exhaled into my ear.

  “Do you even know my name?” My voice was high, almost squeaky.

  “Rachel Clark. Your mother was a drunk and your father is a loser, but you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  My mother was a drunk? My father a loser? Maybe I should have prickled at Cyrus’s casual d
ismissal of my family, but the truth was, I hardly heard those insults. The most handsome, popular boy in Everton had called me amazing. Beautiful. I heard that one word, and I tumbled head over heels. No matter that I was the goat herder’s daughter in Cyrus Price’s personal fairytale. He saw that I was a woman, not some little girl who had been hurt by her mother, bossed by her father, and more or less forgotten by the rest of the world. It was like he handed me a new life, and I happily stepped out of the past and into a present that felt very much like a brand-new beginning.

  I was too innocent to realize that history has a way of repeating itself.

  CHAPTER 14

  RACHEL

  November 10–November 24

  The weather turned suddenly. What had been a mild, beautiful fall was transformed in one stormy night to a vicious winter. An inch of ice reworked the world in layers of glittering glass, and I found my thoughts shifting more than ever to Max. He was no invalid, but I hated the thought of him walking the few short blocks from his home to the shop. He could slip and break a hip, or worse. And though I knew he was a perfectly capable driver, that didn’t comfort me much. The roads were treacherous, and I had long ago learned how deadly car crashes could be.

  Two weeks into my self-inflicted exile from Eden Custom Tailoring, I broke down and gave Max a quick call. It was the middle of the afternoon and I was idle and bored. The house shone from my frustrated attention and dinners had been elaborate all week. When I finally gave in and picked up the phone, there was a triple-layered carrot cake freshly frosted and dusted with shredded coconut on the counter, and an apricot-marinated pork loin roasting in the oven. I felt so stale and useless I was entertaining ideas of churning my own butter or baking a month’s worth of bread from scratch. Something, anything to keep my hands busy.

  I decided that, for a few minutes at least, I could keep myself occupied by checking in with my favorite tailor. I dialed quickly and tapped the counter with restless fingers as I waited for Max to pick up.

  “Eden Custom Tailoring,” he answered on the fourth ring. His voice sounded thin to me, anxious.

  “Hey, you.” I wished I could reach through the line and give him a hug. “How are you doing?”

  “How are you doing?” Max turned the question around on me with all the concern of a loving parent. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

  “I’m fine,” I assured him. “Totally and completely fine. Bored. But Cyrus doesn’t suspect a thing and I’d like to keep it that way. Give me a few more days …”

  “Don’t come back,” Max said. “I’ll get the suits done. And if I don’t, it won’t be the end of the world.”

  “You’ll have to pay back the down payment that they gave you.” I knew how Max conducted business, and I couldn’t stand the thought of him writing out a check for ten thousand dollars to cover the amount he had already received. I suspected most of that money was already gone, spent on fabrics and overhead. “I’ll be there on Monday,” I insisted. “We’ll get this job finished.”

  “Please, Rachel. Don’t. I shouldn’t have asked you in the first place. It was wrong of me.”

  As much as I hated to admit it to myself, a part of me longed to jump at Max’s absolution. He was giving me a gracious way to bow out and go back to a life that was, if not happy, at least predictable. I knew my place in Cyrus’s world. I knew how to avoid his pitfalls, and if ever I slipped up it was easily remedied by the sort of punishment I had come to expect. The kind of penance I could handle. Defying Cyrus opened up all sorts of new and frightening possibilities. It changed everything, and I wasn’t sure if I welcomed that change.

  But as I thought about the last six weeks of my life—the development in my relationship with Lily, the deeper friendship that I had forged with Sarah, and the opportunities that had seemed to unfurl with each day I spent existing in a place where I had grown in confidence and grace—I realized that I didn’t want to go back to the way things had been. No, I couldn’t go back to the way things had been.

  “You know what, Max?” I clutched the telephone tighter, terrified and thrilled at the passion that was billowing up inside of me. “I’ll be at your shop tomorrow morning. No matter what.”

  “But, Rachel—”

  “No buts. This has gone on long enough. Cyrus can’t keep me from you.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I think I’m finally done, Max.” My skin prickled at the thought. “Not done with Cyrus necessarily, just done with this dynamic. I want my life back. At least, I want one square inch of my life back—I want to be able to spend time with you.”

  The silence on the other end of the line made me second-guess myself. But before I could press Max for some support, he asked me another question. “Do you think Cyrus will just give it to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said that you want your life back. Do you think Cyrus will just give it to you? After all this time?”

  “I was strong once,” I said. “Remember the night of my senior prom? Remember how I moved out after graduation when my dad told me I couldn’t see Cyrus anymore and live under his roof? I knew what I wanted and I went after it. I want to be that person again.”

  “Sweetheart,” Max said, his tone soft but firm, “head-strong is not the same as strong. In both of those instances you were angry and you wanted to prove a point. What are you proving now?”

  “That I am my own woman,” I spat out. “That I shouldn’t have to be scared of anyone. Least of all the man who swore to love and protect me.”

  “Oh, Rachel.” I could picture Max shaking his head. “You are your own woman, and Cyrus should cherish you the way you’ve always deserved. I want Cyrus to come to that realization almost as much as you do. But I don’t think that this is the way to go about it. I’m scared of what will happen if you stand up to him now. I don’t think he’ll take it as well as you seem to believe he will.”

  I paused for a moment, trying to envision the conversation I would have with my husband. No matter how I tried to cast it, it wasn’t pretty. I hated to admit it, but Max was right. The chains of my life had finally chafed me raw, but confronting Cyrus out of the blue had trouble written all over it. “What am I going to do?” I cried, all of my resolve dissolving in unexpected tears. “I don’t want to do this anymore!”

  “I know, honey. I don’t want you to do this anymore. But we’ll find another way through it. We’ll think about it. Make a plan.”

  “Okay.” I swallowed around the lump in my throat. “Whatever happens, I’m coming back to Eden. I’m going to help you finish the order. And that’s final.”

  Max didn’t try to argue. “Just be careful.”

  “I will. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  We hung up without saying good-bye.

  Miraculously, my final two weeks at Eden Custom Tailoring passed without a hitch. Because I didn’t know what else to do, I took up the routine that I had abandoned when Cyrus came home from California, and I found that it still fit like a glove. In the mornings, Max and I worked alone. And every afternoon Sarah joined us for an hour or two at least. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, except for the dark cloud of Lily’s vehement disapproval.

  It broke my heart to ban her from Max’s shop, but I didn’t feel like I had much of a choice. I couldn’t stand the thought of Cyrus finding out about my newfound independence—especially now that I was starting to believe freedom, even a small piece of freedom, was something I was willing to fight for. Fortunately, Lily’s obvious frustration could be chalked up to preteen angst. She pouted and shot me the occasional brooding look, but I supposed that sort of behavior was par for the course with most eleven-year-old girls. It stung me, but I knew that we’d come out okay on the other side.

  Before I knew it, November had all but disappeared, and Max and I found ourselves carefully packing the last suit between sheets of tissue paper. We had been so busy finishing the job that we hadn’t thought much past the complet
ion of the very last stitch. All at once our hands were empty, our sewing machines silent. The shop filled with a quiet so thick it was almost tangible.

  “We did it,” I said, rippling the stillness with my whisper. As Max slid the top onto the cardboard box, a shocked little laugh escaped my lips. Not only had we finished the order in time, we had kept the secret from Cyrus. It was too good to be true. “I can’t believe that we did it.”

  “I can.” Max caught my eye. Pride was unmistakable in his gaze.

  I held up my hand for a high-five, but Max ignored my palm and pulled me into a warm embrace. Only a moment before I had been so happy I thought I would burst, but in the circle of Max’s arms I suddenly realized that a chapter in our lives was over. This brief interlude, this reprieve from my everyday life, had come to an end. The suits were packaged and ready to go, and Max was officially retired. Eden Custom Tailoring was closing its doors, and my reason for spending time with the man I loved as dearly as a father no longer existed.

  “What now?” I whispered against the wool of his thick sweater. He smelled of linen and paper, clean and new like the life that I had pretended to lead while I was protected by the walls of his shop. “I don’t want this to be over.”

  “Me neither,” Max admitted. “It has been so good to have you in my life again. I’ve missed you so much.”

  “I can’t say good-bye like before.” I had started to tremble, and Max gripped me by the shoulders and eased me away so he could regard me from arm’s length.

  “I want to show you something,” he said. “But you have to promise you won’t be angry.”

  My brow furrowed, but I nodded slowly because Max looked so desperate, so earnest.

  He turned to the desk along one wall of the workroom and opened the middle drawer. Lifting out a box of envelopes and some office paraphernalia, he dug to the very bottom of the drawer and emerged with a single photograph.

  “Here,” Max said rather unceremoniously, handing me the picture. “It’s yours.”