When Snowflakes Never Cease (Crossroads Collection)

by Amanda Tru

  Carter’s eye caught the glint of the keys. His hand swiftly came up and enclosed her hand, dangling the flashing beacons in the space between them.

  “Hold on a second. Are you telling me that the gutsy Geneva Hutchins could use a little help?”

  “Not at all,” she replied easily. “I just think it's only fair that the one who got us in this predicament should also get us out.”

  Carter paused. As if he knew precisely what his nearness did to her, he leaned close to her ear, his breath sending tickles all the way down the left side of her body. “Of course,” he whispered. “But only because you need my help.”

  “I don’t!” Geneva fumed, making a snatch for the keys he just removed from her reach. “Never mind! I’ll do it myself!”

  “Too late!” Carter called, dancing away from her reach and sprinting back around to the safety of the driver’s seat.

  Geneva returned to the passenger seat but openly sulked while Carter managed to use the road’s imaginary shoulders in an expert ten-point turn, eventually maneuvering them back in the opposite direction. Geneva felt sure she’d lost her chance and imagined that Carter must be gloating, though he kept silent and not a muscle twitched in his stoic face.

  The tires finally found the asphalt once again, and Carter braked to a stop.

  To her surprise, he handed her over the keys one more time. “Your turn,” he said simply, though Geneva clearly heard that the challenge in his voice remained intact, exactly as before his “help.”

  This time, they successfully switched seats. Geneva started the navigation on her phone, set it down in the center console beside her, and confidently pressed the gas pedal.

  It took a while to retrace their path back to the town they’d seen earlier. Instead of skirting around the town and heading into the wilderness of wide rolling hills devoid of habitation like before, they now went through it and out the other side.

  When they left the city center, Geneva didn’t think twice but busily scanned the charming Kentucky town called Charula.

  When they started to leave behind the buildings on the outskirts of town, she felt just a hint of nervousness, but still confidently followed the phone’s instructions.

  When they drove down a deserted, but paved, road and the phone kept calling out their destination as approaching closer and closer, Geneva felt slightly ill.

  When her phone cheerily called out, “You have arrived,” Geneva immediately stopped the car and turned to look at the road’s sole residence.

  And that was when she didn’t know whether to weep or laugh hysterically.

  “Does your phone specify which grave we are looking for?” Carter asked, his tone completely deadpan.

  A cemetery. Geneva’s phone had directed them to the local cemetery.

  “Fine! I give!” Geneva said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “My directions apparently got us as equally lost as your GPS! I have no idea where we are or where we’re supposed to find Jimmy Drew!”

  “No, no. You totally win this one, Gen,” Carter said, ducking his head and raising his hands in surrender. “Your directions are far superior. I just took us to the middle of nowhere. You took us to an actual place. With people! I mean, they’re dead, but still. They’re people.”

  Geneva groaned. “You’ll never let me live this down.”

  “I’ll never breathe a word about it. This is the type of thing you take to your grave!”

  “Ugh! No. Just no. Make it stop!” Figuring her only chance to stop Carter’s teasing was a change of scenery, Geneva turned the car into the cemetery so she could turn around and head back to town. Maybe someone there could make sense out of her seriously challenged address.

  However, instead of immediately backing up, she paused. Suddenly, she put the car into park and opened her car door to get out.

  “What’s wrong? Do you want me to give it another try? Maybe see if I’m gifted with a sixth sense to talk to dead people?” Carter asked.

  Geneva leaned her head back in and said brightly, “No, I see a man over there. A live one.” She pointed to a man in overalls and a grass-green stocking cap trudging through the cemetery. “I know this will seem completely foreign to you and that you’d strongly object based on your manhood, but I’m stopping to ask for directions.”

  Without waiting for a response, Geneva shut the car door and hurried to approach the man. When she got closer, she saw he held a long broom and a Christmas wreath in his hands.

  With sudden inspiration, Geneva guessed, “Hi! Are you the caretaker for the cemetery?”

  “Have been for the last twenty years.” the man nodded firmly. “Name is Sam Rambo.”

  “Oh, good! I was hoping you could help us! My name is Geneva Hutchins. We are looking for someone who lives, or at least once lived, in this town. We have an address, but as strange as it is, our GPS directed us here as our destination.”

  The old man sniffed disdainfully and turned away from her. “Don’t trust those newfangled tech-no-gee thingys that think they’re smarter than a real person. If you head on back to Charula, you can stop at the gas station or the pharmacy. Either one will sell you a map. In my day, no one got lost if they had a map.”

  Sam trudged his way to the back fence and began hanging the wreath in position at a designated interval from its wreath neighbor. Geneva now looked back down the fence line and saw a long parade of evenly-spaced Christmas wreaths.

  She hesitated, fearing she’d somehow offended him with the mention of her GPS. Though she didn’t know how to smooth the waters, she still followed and watched him work, searching for a way to get into his good graces and retrieve any information that might help. If he’d worked here for twenty years, he was likely very familiar with the town’s residents and might know the real address for Allie’s dad.

  After watching him securely attach the wreath at the perfect angle, Geneva stepped back to look at it and announced, “I like it! I don’t know any other cemeteries that decorate for Christmas. I think it’s nice. And you space the wreaths so evenly without even using anything to measure.”

  “You do this for twenty years, you remember where they go,” the old man said gruffly. “Don’t know why other cemeteries don’t decorate. Seems like the dearly departed deserve Christmas, too. After all, a right good number of them are up there enjoying the benefits of what Christmas brought us.”

  What a deep thought!

  Impressed, Geneva gazed at the rough man with new eyes, taking in the worn overalls, the mud-caked work boots, and the threadbare green coat that had probably served him long before his employment here at the cemetery. Then she took in the rough, creased face, the bright green stocking cap with a John Deere label, and a pair of intelligent blue eyes that refused to look at her.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever thought of it that way, but you’re absolutely right,” she said genuinely, liking the man in spite of his standoffishness. “Many are in heaven right now because of the sacrifice Jesus made to pay for our entrance. Decorating a cemetery for Christmas seems a wonderful way to celebrate the eternal part of what came to us on Christmas.”

  Sam turned and looked her in the eye for the first time, his crystal blue gaze openly sizing her up. Geneva held steady, studying him in return. Now that she saw him up close, she noticed a toothpick sticking out from the corner of his mouth as if he had just finished a good meal and wanted to extend its enjoyment just a little longer. Every once in a while, the little wooden twig would bob back and forth as he idly chewed it.

  “What’s the brush for?” Geneva finally asked, nodding toward the long handle perched against the fence where Sam had laid it while attaching the wreath.

  “Brushing off the headstones,” Sam replied. “Someone needs to keep them presentable. We don’t get as many visitors this time of year, but that don’t mean the headstones stay neat and tidy all by themselves.”

  Geneva’s heart warmed even more. He may be rough on the exterior, but this man who cleaned the
headstones and decorated for those who would never see it on this earth possessed a remarkable thoughtfulness and intelligence Geneva didn’t often encounter.

  Apparently tiring of waiting in the car, Carter puffed up beside her. “Does he know Jimmy Drew?” he asked, getting right to the point.

  “Jimmy Drew? That’s who yer lookin’ fer?” The toothpick in the man’s mouth tipped, looking as if about to take a nosedive to the ground. At the last second, his teeth clamped down on it hard, and he offered, “Well, I know right where Jimmy is.”

  With a wave of his hand that they should follow, Sam took off, his shuffling gait surprisingly quick as it marched past the rows of headstones. Carter shot Geneva a quizzical look as if wondering about who she’d gotten them involved with.

  Though confused, Geneva followed Sam, glancing around and wondering if there was a house within walking distance of the cemetery or if Sam was leading them back to the front to give them better directions.

  Sam suddenly veered to the left, walking down one of the rows and stopping abruptly.

  “Right yonder,” Sam announced, looking down and pointing to a headstone directly in front of him.

  Geneva thought the man had lost it until her gaze swerved to the headstone, and she read the name.

  James Drew.

  Geneva gasped, the full force of surprise, horror, and grief hitting her at once.

  Too late! We are too late! How will I tell Allie?

  She felt Carter’s hand at her back. “It’s not him, Gen,” he said confidently.

  Instead of relief, she felt irritated. “What do you mean? His name is right there in plain sight!”

  Carter’s eyes lit with humor. “Yes, but if this was our Jimmy Drew, Allie wouldn’t exist.”

  Confused and even angrier, Geneva jerked away from him and turned back to the grave.

  The date.

  She shut her eyes and breathed, immense relief and ridiculous embarrassment flooding over her. Carter was right. This man had died twelve years ago. Also, the date he was born would put him at over eighty years old and make him a more likely candidate for Allie’s great-grandfather than her father.

  Thoughtfully, Geneva looked back to Sam and announced formally. “I don’t think this is the Jimmy Drew we are looking for, Mr. Rambo, but maybe you know if he’s related. We are looking for a Jimmy Drew who is in his thirties and possibly grew up around here. Are any of this man’s relatives still around?”

  Sam nodded, the toothpick in the corner of his mouth bouncing around in circles. “I reckon I know just who you mean. Young Jimmy is old Jimmy’s grandson. Grew up right here in Charula. Ain’t here now. Don’t think he’s so much as visited fer over a year, though you can ask Arlene to know fer sure.”

  “Arlene?” Geneva prompted.

  Again, Sam’s head bobbed up and down in affirmation. “Old Jimmy’s widda. Good woman, but she don’t get around much since Jimmy passed. They raised young Jimmy, but he high-tailed it and kept scarce since high school.”

  “Do you have an address for Arlene?” Geneva asked, taking out her phone to write it down in her notes.

  “Don’t need one. Take this road back into town. Take a left on Main Street. Take a right as soon as you pass the fire station. Go three blocks, and take another left just past the old school they converted to a library. Arlene’s place is third on the left. White house with green shutters.”

  Geneva tried to write out the directions best she could, but her cold thumbs typing on her phone couldn’t quite keep up.

  Sam’s voice grew soft as he kept speaking. “Arlene has a swing on her porch. Gives a fine view of her flower garden. That woman sure has a green thumb. Whenever you go by her house, a blanket of rainbow flowers lay right in front of that swing. Just like a picture.” Sam’s voice tailed off.

  Geneva stopped typing on her phone and looked up. Something about Sam’s tone drew her curiosity.

  At her attention, Sam blinked, and the corners of his mouth curved up in amusement. “‘Course you can’t see none of that this time of year.”

  “Did you get all that?” Geneva asked Carter nervously. She knew from experience that Carter tended to have a better memory for verbal things than she did. She did better writing things down.

  Carter nodded. “More or less.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rambo,” Geneva said warmly. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “Just Sam. Mr. Rambo was my daddy’s name.”

  They began walking back to their car with Sam trudging along beside them.

  “That Arlene sure is a good woman,” he said, repeating his earlier statement. “Losing Jimmy must have broke her heart. She don’t come out but for groceries and church. I asked her if she wanted to have some pie with me once, but she never so much as answered. Probably too heart-broke.”

  “Maybe you should ask her again,” Geneva said, wanting to be helpful.

  “Nah. I asked her too soon after Jimmy passed. “Ruined my chances fer sure.”

  “How long ago did you ask her?”

  Sam’s brow furrowed, and the toothpick tipped up in thought. “Maybe five or six years ago, I reckon.”

  “Five or six years! But Jimmy passed twelve years ago!”

  Sam hung his head. “Too soon. I know. Should have waited.”

  Geneva turned to him. “No, Sam, that’s not what I mean at all. If you’d like to ask Arlene for pie, you should do it and keep doing it until she gives you an answer. If she’s not interested in pie, she can tell you that. You obviously care about her, and she needs to know that. Not every woman gets to have someone like and care for her. If she’s the good woman you think, she should be thrilled to eat pie with a good man like yourself.”

  “Speaking of pie, can you recommend somewhere we can get a bite to eat?” Carter asked, seeming to completely miss the touching moment.

  He was hungry, and understandably so. They’d grabbed sandwiches at a place near the hotel and ate them on the road, but that was hours ago. However, if Arlene was close, Geneva wanted to see her first, before it got too late in the day. Even now, the sun headed briskly toward its western departure, reminding Geneva of the short winter days and the fact that Allie probably didn’t have many of them left.

  “Betsy’s Diner has the best home cookin’ in town. It’s right on Main Street before you get to the river. I go there every Saturday night for pie.” His eyes twinkled, and his voice lowered. “Sometimes I go there other nights for pie, too, but Saturday nights are my favorite. It’s lemon meringue night.”

  “Lemon meringue?” Geneva asked. “I pictured you more as an apple pie man.”

  “Oh, Betsy makes a mighty fine apple pie as well. On Mondays, I’m an apple pie man, fer sure!”

  They reached their car, and Geneva once again expressed their thanks and bid Sam goodbye. She willingly got into the passenger seat and tossed Carter the keys to drive. Somehow, the whole experience at the cemetery drained her of energy.

  Carter turned the sedan around and pulled away from the cemetery. Geneva’s gaze caught on the multitude of gray stones and the lone figure of Sam walking back to finish his work hanging Christmas wreaths on the back fence.

  Her throat felt raw as she wondered how long they had until Allie’s small form occupied a grave in a similar cemetery. As much as she tried to dispel the morbid thought, she couldn’t stop the shiver down her spine and the panic rising like the tide.

  No, Lord, no! You have to save her! You have to!

  Then she looked at the neat rows of festive wreaths along the fence, and a strange quiet came to her spirit. She marveled at how this particular cemetery would be a much gloomier place if not for those wreaths. As Sam had articulated so eloquently, they symbolized hope. Death was not the end. Even if they laid Allie down in a grave, she wouldn’t remain there. Because of Christmas Day, Allie’s future stayed secure with her Savior. Though everything in Geneva still rebelled at the idea of Allie leaving the world, Christmas wreaths lining the back fence remin
ded her of a different sort of hope.

  Thank you for Sam, Lord. Geneva prayed silently, feeling thankful for a random stranger who would never realize the impact of his wreaths and simple words.

  Sam seemed more than just someone you casually bump into and forget five minutes later. The picture of the overall-clad man hanging Christmas wreaths along a fence in a cemetery wedged into Geneva’s memory and served as a sort of challenge to her. She wondered how many cemeteries in her own life needed decorating and how many gravestones required cleaning. She realized she tended to look at everything outside of her job on a very superficial level.

  Even in her job, her approach was always by the book. But what if she saw the world like Sam did—from a different, unique perspective. What if she cared in ways that never occurred to others? What if she shared her faith in a way that someone could stumble across the wrong address for a cemetery in the middle of nowhere and be forever changed by a chance encounter with her?

  “I found your love life advice to Sam quite interesting,” Carter offered, his voice drawing her back to the car and the road as they drove back to town.

  “Just because I flunk at love doesn’t mean I don’t know how it’s supposed to work,” Geneva replied. “Like I said, not every woman gets to have someone like and care for her.”

  “You realize Arlene probably feels the same way?” Carter pointed out. “She doesn’t know Sam cares. To her, I’m sure it feels like nobody likes and cares for her.”

  Geneva quickly shot back, “At least she knows he doesn’t dislike her.”

  Carter stayed silent while his lips pursed and his hands clenched on the wheel once again. Feeling the tension emanating from his white-knuckled grip, Geneva knew he realized exactly to what she referred.

  “Geneva, I really can do without the thinly-veiled barbs,” he finally said directly, his voice stern. “If you have something to say to me, say it.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize my barbs were veiled. I’ll do better next time,” Geneva lashed back. Pointedly, she turned her legs toward the window and away from him. “At the moment, I don’t have anything more to say to you. I think you said it all four years ago. You didn’t like me then and you don’t now. End of story.”