Snowflake Stories 2:
Four MORE FREE Holiday Tales from the Town of Snowflake
By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake
Copyright © 2011 by Rusty Fischer
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Cover credit: Artem Gorohov – Fotolia
Author’s Note:
The following is a “sneak preview” of a work in progress; any editing errors, typos or grammatical mistakes are all the fault of the author and will be cleaned-up prior to publication.
Enjoy!
Table of Contents
Introduction: Welcome (Back) to Snowflake!
Chapter 1: Santas & Snowflakes
Chapter 2: Now Showing in Snowflake
Chapter 3: Snooping Around in Snowflake
Chapter 4: Something Borrowed, Something Snowflake
About the Author: Rusty Fischer
Introduction:
Welcome (Back) to Snowflake!
Merry Christmas!
And welcome to Snowflake.
Snowflake, South Carolina that is.
No matter what time of year it is in your neck of the woods, it’s always Christmas in Snowflake!
That’s because Snowflake is the fictional town I cooked up for my first contemporary holiday romance, A Town Called Snowflake (Musa Publishing, 2011).
It’s a kind of Hallmark town, with gingerbread inspired cottages and a Norman Rockwell Main Street where stores like Snowflake Sweets and Treats, the Books ‘N Beans and Simply Snowflake feature prominently.
This book contains four short stories, all very different, all taking place in Snowflake.
First up is Santas & Snowflakes, in which a woman with a real “Santa-Phobia” gets over her fears on behalf of some very deserving kids.
In Now Showing in Snowflake, a Christmas Eve shift at the Snowflake Cinemas turns into a real blockbuster for one lonely movie theater usher.
In Snooping Around in Snowflake, a nosy private eye gets more than she bargained for when a suspicious wife suspects her husband of foul play.
Finally, in Something Borrowed, Something Snowflake, a surprise Christmas Eve wedding turns the Snowflake Senior Center into Romance Central.
I hope you enjoy these stories, and not just because they’re all FREE!
Merry Christmas wherever you live, and whatever time of year it is.
And remember, it’s always Christmas in Snowflake!
Chapter 1:
Santas & Snowflakes
I’m reaching for my elf costume when Mr. Bridges, my manager, clears his throat within striking distance.
I say “striking distance” because every time he creeps up on me like that, I want to jab my elbow into his Adam’s apple, hear it crunch and then watch him writhe in agony on the floor!
(Wow, Lily; where did that come from all of a sudden?!?)
I know, I know, it’s supposed to be the “most wonderful time of the year” but, dangit, every time Mr. Bridges skulks around it’s always to deliver bad news.
“Lily?” he asks in his extra super dignified managerial voice he uses when there are others in the Snowflake Galleria employee locker room.
“Mr. Bridges?” I reply. “Something I can help you with. I was just going to squeeze into my size small green elf tights so, unless you want an eyeful and perhaps get snapped when they finally burst at the seams, I suggest you—”
“Yes, well, about that…” he interrupts, using that honey slow, southern voice he always adopts when trying to deliver bad news in a positive way. “It appears Blake is running a little late tonight so, he asked if you wouldn’t mind stepping in for him.”
“Oh no,” I snap, fear turning my insides into pretzels of worry and self-doubt. “Mr. Bridges, please, please don’t ask me to do that!”
How could Blake do this to me?
He knows I get stage fright, he knows I hate sitting in “the big chair,” knows I’m afraid I’m going to say the wrong thing at the wrong time and destroy some little kid’s Christmas.
Blake knows, in short, I have… drum roll, please… Santa Phobia!
Mr. Bridges isn’t very patient or understanding.
“Lily, when you signed on as one of Santa’s Helpers, you understood that at some point you might have to fill in for the big guy himself, now if you’ll just—”
“But I don’t know how to play Santa, Mr. Bridges,” I whine, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
“Of course you do, Lily; you’ve watched Blake do so six nights a week since the day after Thanksgiving! In fact, come to think of it, I can’t think of anyone better suited for the roll.”
I look around the half-empty break room at the six pairs of eyes currently shifting in their chairs to avoid the getting louder and louder holiday confrontation.
“Mr. Bridges, there are five guys in this room who are all better suited to play a man named Kris Kringle than little old me!”
Mr. Bridges quickly surveys the sampling of janitors, custodians and electricians all currently hustling to finish their sack lunches and beat a hasty retreat before they’re called into the big red suit.
“None of these men are even close to being as prepared as you are, Lily,” Mr. Bridges leans in and whispers conspiratorially, as if giving me a backhanded compliment will suddenly convince me to conquer my Santa Phobia.
Mr. Bridges is tall and lean and sharp, and his breath smells like the opposite of candy canes.
“But I’m a girl,” I hiss back, playing my trump card.
Because if it’s one thing Mr. Bridges is, he’s a traditionalist; men are always Santa, women are always elves.
Period, end of story, and it’s been that way ever since I’ve been coming to the Snowflake Galleria since I was a little girl.
Bridges frowns, like he’s just now considering that fact, then looks me up and down.
“Yes, dear, but with a little padding and that big, white beard, only a few of the kids will ever notice.”
We argue for a little while longer, but the minute I hear the words “early termination for obstinate insubordination” exit his mouth, I meekly comply and trade in the green tights for the red velvet pants.
Now, Blake is about 6-feet-tall and they’ve been tailored specifically for him, so it takes some doing to not only slide them on but roll them up enough at the top so I don’t fall fake beard over Santa cap the first time I try to take two steps.
I’d just roll them up at the bottom if these were Blake’s jeans – and don’t I wish – but since there is a fluffy white cuff at the bottom of each pants leg, only the top will do.
The suspenders that keep them up take tightening, too, and Mr. Bridges isn’t just a graceless manager but also a graceless technician; he tugs and pulls and yanks and knots until at last I can breathe again.
Of course, that’s before I don the faded pink undershirt, the three pillows it takes to fill out the front of the pants and the giant red Santa jacket featuring six brass buttons it takes me, Mr. Bridges and two electricians to finally secure.
“I feel like a Macy’s balloon in this thing,” I mutter somewhere about the third button.
“Only around the middle,” says one of the electricians helpfully. “And the rear.”
His nametag says “Ralph” and that’s appropriate, because after five straight weeks of dieting to fit into my New Year’s Eve cocktail dress, that’s what his ill-timed comment makes me want to do!
At last we’re ready for the finishing touches.
As I fiddle with the plain glass bifocals with the cheap gold finish, Mr. Bridges and his team of deputy electricians struggle to clasp the big black belt with the shiny brass buckle around my distended belly.
When at last it’s in place and the electricians have scuttled away, giggling like schoolgirls and eager to spread the word about the “new Santa in town,” Mr. Bridges unceremoniously shoves me down onto the wooden locker room bench behind me.
Thankfully Santa’s red satin pants come lined with extra shocks in back for long hours of seasonal sitting, or I’d be picking splinters out of my offended tailbone as we speak.
“Hey!” I protest, nearly losing my fake glasses; Mr. Bridges merely holds up a pair of giant, gleaming black boots in reply.
He slides them on but I can feel my toes rattling around about halfway up the giant boot fronts.
He takes them back off and stuffs a few balls of newspaper from the cluttered break room table in the goes until I can walk without tripping over my own feet.
After that, well, there’s nothing left but a grand exit through the long tunnel leading toward Santa’s Snowflake Village, aka the rickety gingerbread house front and fake snow monstrosity that dominates the Snowflake Galleria food court from just after Thanksgiving through New Year’s Day every year.
The boots squeak on the clean tiles of the hallways and I get a taste of celebrity as every cute female cashier, assistant manager and sales clerk I pass gives me bedroom eyes.
“Is it always like this?” I ask Mr. Bridges, fake bearded cheeks flushing with jealousy.
“Oh indeed,” he says cluelessly. “Blake has quite the following. I dare say he’s the most popular Santa we’ve had in years. You’ve got quite the boots to fill, Lily; figuratively speaking and literally.”
Yes, Mr. Bridges is one of those people; specifically, one of those people who uses the term “figuratively speaking and literally” every two sentences.
No wonder Blake always gets so cocky this time of year, strutting around tiny little Snowflake, South Carolina like the cock of the walk, grinning from ear to ear.
Of course, it’s not like he’s any kind of slouch outside of the Santa suit, either.
It’s just that something about seeing Santa and knowing there’s a big, strapping hunk sitting underneath all that red satin and fake hair is a turn-on.
For some women, that is; not me, of course.
After all, I’m merely one of Santa’s (humble) Helpers!
It’s strictly forbidden for the elves to toss and turn every night, dreaming of what’s under Santa’s deliciously difficult brass buttons.
I can hear the canned Christmas carols as we approach the final barrier between the back of the mall and the front, and I unconsciously begin to slow down.
“Lily,” Mr. Bridges says furiously. “We’re already late to Santa’s Snowflake Village. Now, quit dragging Blake’s boots!”
Something… happens… to Mr. Bridges before we burst through the double doors leading to Santa’s Snowflake Village.
For all his talk of being late, he takes a pause, then a deep breath, then mutters some kind of mantra, like actors do while staring into their dressing room mirrors, then he stands two inches taller, puts one hand on each of the doors and swings them open dramatically.
Fixing a leaden smile to his rubber face, Bridges leads me forth into the maddening throngs.
My breathing is already heavy as the crowd begins to notice the giant red figure with the bugling belly and clomping boots whose suddenly stumbled into their midst.
“Hey,” I hear one kid scream. “It’s Santa!”
Then another bursts, “SANTA CLAUS!!!”
They make a mad dash for us, sneakers on waxed linoleum, as Bridges runs interference, muttering over his shoulder the whole while, “Keep that smile going, Lily; this may be the only Santa these kids get to see this year.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I murmur, earning myself a quick reproach from Bridges.
“Silence,” he snaps. “Santa only speaks when spoken to!”
Children start tugging and pulling, despite my own personal bodyguard’s best efforts.
I smile through the nausea I’m feeling, and blink behind the suddenly foggy eyeglasses.
I wave on instinct, hands muggy in their floppy white gloves as I try not to step on any of the children’s eager, dancing feet.
Santa’s Snowflake Village looms a few yards away, a purposeful oasis of calm (for now, anyway) just outside the already bustling food court.
It has little gingerbread storefronts that are empty in back, and a giant electric train called the Snowflake Express that runs all around the village.
Fake snow mounds abound, piled high with shimmering red and green foil-wrapped packages as even faker snowmen wave dusty, plastic stick arms.
The Christmas music is doubly loud here because it sits equidistant between four of the mall’s biggest speakers, all trained directly at our faces every night!
(So help me if I hear the barking dogs’ version of “12 Days of Christmas” one more time I might just switch careers from Santa’s Helper to animal control!)
There is a purple velvet rope and my stand-in for the night, Roberta Johnson from House wares (looking fab in a slapped together elf costume), greets me with a demure smile as she unclasps it for Mr. Bridges and me.
“Break a leg,” she whispers, refastening the rope and sliding her arm into the handle of the red and green basket she’ll use to hand out miniature candy canes all night.
“If only that would get me out of this,” I murmur weakly.
Roberta gives me a sympathetic smile that is heavy with relief that it’s her out there and me in here.
The giant, red velvet throne sits empty and waiting.
Mr. Bridges leads me to it, milking his moment in the spotlight for every last second as kids begin lining up in throngs on the other side of Roberta’s VIP line.
I can hear them whispering, gurgling and suddenly I feel like retching.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been afraid of Santa.
Not just going to see him, which has always been terrifying in its own right, but… just… anything having to do with him.
The decorations in my house are all snowmen and angels and candy canes and snowflakes, never Santa.
I’ve even gone so far as to toss out the Santa cookie cutter that comes in the set of six I inevitably have to buy each season because I’ve lost one or two throughout the year.
I don’t give my friends Santa gift bags and they know not to send me Santa greeting cards.
Blake knows it, too; he’s always ribbing me about it on our frequent breaks by the pretzel stand where the perky blond coed behind the counter always gives him a free frozen lemonade because “he’s doing so much for the kids.”
Yeah, right; if the kids only knew how their precious “Santa Blake” curses their names every time one of them steps on his toes, bites his finger or tinkles on his lap, he might not get so many adoring stares – OR frozen lemonades.
Who am I kidding?
Blake is charming in or out of the Santa suit.
Me?
Not so much.
I’m about to crash and burn, live and in person, which actually might not be such a bad thing.
At least after that, no one will ever ask me to play Santa again.
The throne beckons, at last; there’s no avoiding it any longer.
The kids are squirming, Roberta’s giving me “get on with it” death glares from the sidelines and Mr. Bridges is doing everything but literally shoving me down into the plush red seat – and don’t think he wouldn’t if there weren’t about 400 impressionable witnesses watching carefully, either.
I take the seat only after bending my trembling knees to literally force myself to sit down, hands quivering as I grip the wide armrests tightly.
“Remember
the drill, Lily,” Mr. Bridges reminds me one last time before
deserting me until my first break – in an ungodly 2 ½ hours! “One
brief ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’ when they sit, ask their name, nod like you’re
listening, ask what they want, nod again like you’re listening, one
more ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’ as they leave and… lather, rinse, repeat, got
it?”
I nod nauseously, looking up with pained eyes he promptly
ignores.
He walks briskly away as I readjust myself to get comfortable and try to shove down the pillow-padding covering my lap enough so that it feels more natural.
I watch as he shares a conspiratorial laugh with Roberta, no doubt at my expense, before giving her the signal to unleash my first visitor of the night.
I swallow, wishing I’d brought along a bottled water like Blake always does.
My mouth is dry and stale as a little girl of about eight strides up confidently, looking adorable in a gingham jacket with a bright red scarf.
“Ho, Ho, Ho,” I say in my normal voice, suddenly realizing: I’m a girl!
I quickly bellow, louder this time and deeper, much, much deeper, “Ho, Ho, Ho.”
It sounds tight and strained and a little… scary.
She says, as if we’ve known each other all our lives, “You sound funny, Santa.”
“Sorry, little girl,” I grumble, giving my best Santa Blake impersonation. “What’s your name?”
“Sylvia Collins,” she says, still skeptical as I pat my knee in the universal Santa gesture for “plant your bottom here, oh nosy one.”
“You still sound funny,” she says inquisitively, looking up into my green eyes. “Almost like… a girl!”
I shake my head and grumble, “That’s silly; everyone knows Santa’s a boy!”
She looks at me funny and says, almost hopefully, “But he could be a girl, right?”
I cock my head and smile. “It’s Santa we’re talking about here, Sylvia, remember? Anything’s possible!”
That seems to put her mind at ease, at which point I kind of wish I’d left her feeling uncomfortable because now she feels free to list every toy she’s ever wanted, since birth, in alphabetical order.
“Which toy do you want most?” I ask, remembering this little trick from listening to Blake six nights a week for the last month.
“More than any other toy,” I add before Sylvia can debate any longer.
“The Molly Madison Organic Bread Bakery!” Sylvia practically shouts, giving me the segue I need to gently nudge her off my knee and onto the red velvet lined step in front of me.
“Sounds fun,” I say. “Ho, Ho, Ho!”
Sylvia looks disappointed until I finally wink at her; then she winks back – it takes a little effort – and runs off to join her Mom waiting on the other side of Santa’s Snowflake Village.
I watch as Sylvia stretches high on her polished black dress shoes – “Did she dress up to come see Santa?” I wonder idly – and whisper something in her mother’s ear.
Mom looks at me with a slightly quizzical expression, then… smiles… nodding in confirmation of something, to Sylvia’s obvious relief.
Her eyes are warm and almost… grateful.
Word spreads quickly along the kiddy grapevine, to the point where before I’ve even uttered my second “Ho” the kids are curious to find out if Santa really IS a girl.
The boys are skeptical, doubtful, almost… resentful.
That is, until I growl and tickle them and then they don’t care anymore; they just want their toys.
The girls, though, are taking this very, very seriously.
They want to know how this works; I tell them Santa’s an equal opportunity saint.
They want to know if the reindeer respect me; I tell them all except for that “Dancer jerk.”
They want to know why I’m wearing a suit, not a dress; I tell them I spilled hot chocolate on my dress.
It doesn’t take much to convince them; half the time they’ve spent so long grilling me that when Roberta shoots me her “that kid’s been on your lap too long” death glare of hers and I gently shoo them off, they disappear without even asking for anything.
There are so many kids; more, it seems, than usual – and a former Santa’s Helper like me should know!
The time for the first break comes and goes but the line is so long I know I’ll never get to all of them before the night is over if I stop now.
Mr. Bridges approaches and I hold him off with a hand; “I’m fine, Phil,” I say, forgetting my place.
His eyes get big, and then he smiles, nods and hands a bottle of water from his pocket to the next little girl in line.
She brings it to me gently, offering it up almost… reverently.
I say, “Thank you, little girl. What’s your name?”
“April,” she says, looking at the water bottle in my oversized white glove. “I feel bad.”
“Why honey?”
“Because in all these years I’ve been coming to see you, I’ve never thought to bring you anything!”
The gifts start coming shortly after.
One little girl brings a candy bar, another a gingerbread cookie – still warm – from the food court, one boy brings one of those giant, round all-day suckers!
I make a big show out of biting into everything they give me, if only to spit it out into the bottom layers of my beard and remove it between visitors.
(Hey, if I didn’t, I wouldn’t need padding next year!)
And still the kids come, and come and come and come.
Usually by our second break, which is fast approaching, the crowds die down, even this close to Christmas.
But from the look on Roberta’s frazzled face as the line continues stretching toward the food court and beyond, the crowd seems to be growing rather than thinning.
So is the pile of gifts by my side.
Soon it’s teetering over and threatening to topple, a giant mass of bubble gum packs and girl-sized barrettes and tiny Christmas ornaments and fuzzy white snowmen socks.
At one point I look up to see a tiny girl bringing me a Mrs. Santa Barbie doll!
I go to flick my eyes at Roberta, to give her a little girl-to-girl “Wtf” face, but instead I see a giant looming in front of the velvet ropes; Blake!
He looks positively, but adorably, ridiculous in an elf costume, possibly even Roberta’s old costume, since she’s suddenly nowhere to be seen; the green tights hugging his long, hairy legs, the shade darker green shorts too short, the green jacket too tight, the pointy green hat with the jaunty red feather resting high atop his fluffy blonde curls.
I snort and the little boy on my lap thinks it’s about something he’s said, which is fine because he’s been reeling off all these complicated monster movie toys for the last three minutes and I have NO idea what he’s talking about.
I give him the old, “But which super monster alien invader toy would you want the most?” line and he’s still debating it when I gently shoo him off to his mother and Blake saunters over, limping slightly while little jingle bells jingle at the tips of his pointy red toes.
“Blake,” I gush, never so happy to see him in my life. “You made it. What happened to your leg?”
“I sprained my ankle playing softball,” he says in that southern twang of his I love so much. “Darndest thing. I’ll be fine tomorrow, but tonight… hey, Lily, I really appreciate you stepping in for me. I know how much you hate all this.”
He has a knowing grin as I stammer, “N-n-no, I never said I hate all this, it was just a little… uncomfortable… at first.”
“Uncomfortable, huh?” he asks, nodding. “But you’re okay to finish out the shift?”
I have to force myself to temper my enthusiasm and say, softly, “If I have to.”
“No, no,” he assures me, already limping away. “I’ll just go tell the kids the first-ever female Santa Claus to come to Snowflake is bailing and we can switch outfits and…”
I look at the smiling faces milling about anxiously on the other side of the velvet rope, each eagerly clutching gifts, smiling, antsy on shuffling feet.
“I’m
already in it,” I bluff. “Besides, why rob myself of the chance
to see you squeezed into those tights for the rest of the
night?”
Blake winks and my heart grows another size too big.
“Where’d Roberta go?” I wonder out loud.
He shrugs and says, “She bolted the minute I showed up. I’m kinda glad, though; this way I get you all to myself!”
While I’m busy trying to see through my suddenly foggy glasses – compliments from hunky man elves do that to me – Blake Elf unleashes the next little girl, who’s so eager to see me that she trips and stumbles on the steps at my feet.
I stand, breaking about three dozen protocol for Santa, and help her up.
She smiles gratefully, offering up a tiny snowflake lapel pin from the dollar store on the other side of the food court.
It’s bent now and she looks sad but I hoist her onto my knee and tell her, “This way I’ll always remember who gave it to me.”
She smiles and tells me her name, and that she wants to be Santa when she grows up, too!
It’s a long, but also a quick night after that.
The lines swell to bursting just around dinner time, then swell once more an hour before closing.
I’m fed and watered all night, and only leave for five minutes to use the nearest restroom, Blake Elf and Mr. Bridges running interference while a smattering of girls try to follow me in.
After that it’s a mad dash to closing time, with announcements running every five minutes.
There are still dozens of little girls in line, and Mr. Bridges confers with mall security – aided by the loud, shrilling voices of dozens of those little girls’ mothers – to remain open until they’ve all been seen.
Finally the line is down to one more little girl, who wanders up in mismatched socks and a stuffed bunny under her arm.
She looks about seven years old, and sleepy.
I say, “Ho, Ho, Ho” in my best Santa voice and she frowns.
I wink and say it again, this time in my real voice.
“I’m Pearl,” she says when I ask her name.
“What can I bring you this year, Pearl?”
“I knew it,” she gushes, ignoring me and climbing onto my lap without any assistance. “When my Mom came home and said there was a lady Santa at the mall, I couldn’t believe it. She even agreed to drive me here, even though it’s way past my bedtime.”
“I’m glad she did, Pearl. Now, what can Santa bring you?”
She looks at me and says, “Oh, I already told the man Santa last week. I just wanted to come and say ‘hi’ to the girl Santa!”
I grin and sniffle and help her off my knee.
Her mother is wearing a trench coat over a robe over pajama bottoms, conferring with Blake Elf as I stand to escort Pearl over to the other side of the velvet ropes personally.
“She just had to come and see you,” says Pearl’s mother, turning around and smiling from a familiar face.
“Roberta?” I gush, reaching out and hugging my former Santa’s Helper.
(So that’s where she went!)
“I would have never let her stay up this late,” Roberta explains, patting little Pearl’s head. “But… this is history in the making, right?”
“Mommy?” Pearl asks as they begin sauntering away. “How does Girl Santa know your name?”
And I hear Roberta
whisper, “Because Girl Santas listen better than Boy Santas!”
I
wave them goodbye and turn, seeing the waiting pen at Santa’s
Snowflake Village empty for the first time all night.
Blake limps up behind me, curled toes still jingling as his crooked smile puts the Christmas lights surrounding us to shame.
“Bravo, Mrs. Santa,” he says, touching my shoulder gently.
I flinch with intense pleasure and say, “Yeah, well, just don’t ever do that again!”
He
turns me around to face him and says, “Really? Never again?
Ever?”
I
snicker and say, “Okay, well, maybe I’ll do a repeat performance
next
year. But we’ve got to advertise better. I’d like all the little
girls in Snowflake to be able to come next time, not just…”
Blake smiles and slings an arm around me as we walk toward the employee entrance that will take us to our lockers.
Halfway down the hall, listening as Blake hums his favorite Christmas song, I notice something.
“Your limp seems to come and go,” I mention knowingly. “And it’s plainly come and gone!”
I slug him in the non-padded stomach, feeling the familiar curves of his six-pack abs.
“Hey,” he grins, finally doffing his ridiculous elf cap and giving me his famous smile. “Someone had to get you over this ridiculous Santa Phobia of yours, Lily. Who better than… your husband?”
“For now,” I say, patting his firm rear as we change into our civilian duds. “Try that trick again, and I might just be ‘Miss Claus’ by next year!”
Chapter 2:
Now Showing in Snowflake
“I warned you this was a bad idea,” frowns Mr. Kerns, rubbing his long, pale hand nervously over his scruffy bald head. “I even showed you the numbers from the last three Christmas Eves, remember? No one comes out to see movies on Christmas Eve, Sasha; no one!”
He’s pacing, too, back and forth between the ticket window and the cheesy game room. That is, if you call Galaga, Centipede and air hockey a “game room.”
“People
will
come, Mr. Kerns,” I insist stridently, as I’ve been doing for the
last two hours straight. “At least the kids will… I think.”
“I
don’t know why you keep saying that,” he says, pointing broadly
to the empty parking lot and wide, even emptier sidewalk in front of
the Snowflake Cinema’s double doors. “Despite all the evidence to
the contrary!”
Mr. Kerns is short and, well… plump.
He wears baggy gray slacks, every night.
That and a snug red dress shirt with a gray tie, every night.
He wears a gray sweater vest over the red shirt and gray tie, every night.
His shoes are black sneakers with the heels worn down on the right sides and he’s wearing them down even more tonight as he paces, to and fro, back and forth, on and on.
“Here’s how it works, Mr. Kerns,” I say, again, for like the 100th time. “Everybody eats dinner, trims the tree, has a glass of champagne or makes hot cocoa, whatever. Then, around 8 or 9, all the kids in town wonder what they’re going to do for the rest of the night, where they’re going to go to meet up. Should they sit around with the family playing Yahtzee? I don’t think so. So, what do they do? Come out and see a movie! It’s the perfect Christmas Eve solution!”
Mr. Kerns turns to me, eyes wide with distress and whines, “But why did I let you convince me to switch out all the top-run movies with… with…”
It’s like he can’t bring himself to say the words or something!
“With… Christmas movies?!?!”
Yeah, see; that’s where I screwed up.
Big.
Time.
Everything was going so well.
It was all going to plan.
A couple cars full of kids have actually pulled up, stepped out, squinted up at the marquee, read titles like Patches the Christmas Elf or Silent Fright Night 3, shook their heads, shot me dirty looks as I lingered, hopefully, by the ticket stand and then gotten back in the car and peeled off toward parts unknown.
The Snowflake Sweet Shop, probably; that’s the only other place open at this godforsaken hour on Christmas Eve.
“Let’s just pack it up,” sighs Mr. Kerns, actually loosening his tie before clocking out for the night.
(What is it, Christmas Eve or something?!?!)
“But… but… look,” I say, spotting a familiar red sports car sliding into a (handicapped) space out front. “Here comes someone now.”
“Someone?” he asks, barely looking back toward the front door. “Listen, you’re an assistant manager now, Sasha. Though I might be demoting you after looking at tonight’s receipts tomorrow morning. You can handle one customer and, when he finishes watching the last 40-minutes of Randolph the Gassy Reindeer, well, you can give him a complimentary candy cane and shoo him out on your own, can’t you?”
“Are you s-s-sure?” I ask, a little worried about the “demotion” comment, although I’m 90% certain – make that 80% certain, okay more like 75% – Kerns was joking.
“You do it all the time, Sasha,” he sighs, grabbing his blue blazer from just inside the employee break room door and walking back toward me on his wobbly sneakers. “Why should tonight be any different?”
“Well, what if I’m right and we get swamped, Mr. Kerns?”
“It’s nearly 11,” he points out, eyeing one of my classmates as he saunters toward the front doors on those crooked sneakers of his. “How busy do you think it’s going to get? Besides, it’s Christmas Eve; I’ve got a family waiting on me at home and, well…”
He lets his voice trail off, but I can finish his sentence for him: “And, well… you don’t. Not really…”
“Merry Christmas,” I murmur as he rushes out into the night, barely holding the door open for none other than Dart McKee, star swimmer for Snowflake High School.
“Bah humbug,” murmurs Dart to Mr. Kerns’ back.
I chuckle, but I’m so nervous it comes out as a snort.
Dart barely looks up as he steps toward the old-timey ticket widow, the kind with the hole in the glass and the little dip underneath where you’re supposed to slide the money.
But then, everything at the Snowflake Cinema is old-timey; from the ticket window to the old-fashioned popcorn popper to the outdated candy to the rickety seats and the giant burgundy curtains used to “sound” proof the side walls in each of our six “spacious” theaters.
“Welcome
to Snowflake Cinemas,” I coo as Dart finally looks up. “How can I
help you?”
Dart’s brown eyes narrow, then grow soft with
recognition.
Then he avoids my eyes completely and says, “Oh, uh, thanks.”
Sheesh, I know we don’t exactly hang with the same crowds, you know (not that I have a crowd or anything), but… it’s Christmas!
Couldn’t he at least fake like he thinks I’m human?
“Can I help you with something?” I ask, still using my fake Snowflake Cinemas voice, as if Mr. Kerns was still around and dock my pay for sounding like an actual teenager.
He’s got his wallet half out of his back pocket, half in and I watch as he shoves it back down and begins to turn.
“Naw,” he says quietly, gently. “I… I… changed my mind.”
“What?” I squawk, before I can stop myself. “But… you came all this way. Don’t back out now!”
He’s half turning, all 6’ 2” of his fine self, 160-pounds of swimmer muscle poured into hot chocolate colored chords, tan leather sneakers with a swish down each side and an off-white fisherman’s sweater with a collar that covers half his throat and keeps scratching the dirty blonde Christmas break stubble that covers his dimpled chin.
His crooked smile only curves halfway up his hollow cheeks as he arches one dark, inquisitive eyebrow.
“But… I’ve never come to the movies alone before.”
“You’re… alone?” I mock gasp.
He nods his head all serious like, turning away all over again.
“I’m kidding. I mean, it’s not a crime, you know? People do it all the time.”
“No, I know they do,” he says quickly, as if he thinks I’m making fun of him because he didn’t get my joke – or maybe just because he’s alone. “It’s just, kind of… sad… you know?”
“Sad? I’ll give you sad; try working at the movies alone. On Christmas Eve. Choking on stale popcorn fumes. Now that’s sad.”
“You’re… alone?” he asks, finally taking his eyes off his buttery leather shoes and peering inside the deserted lobby.
“That was my manager who almost ran you over just now,” I explain, leaning forward on the ticket counter until my face is closest to the little air-hole window thingy.
“Well, yeah, but… you’re getting paid to be here alone,” he points out, finally looking back at me with his dark chocolate eyes. “That’s the opposite of sad.”
“Really?” I ask, getting back up and spreading my eyes wide to reveal the marvel, the wonder, the splendor that is… the Snowflake Cinemas! “Really?”
He kind of chuckles, but there’s a lot of work left to do if I’m ever going to lure him all the way inside.
After all, he’s still as close to his car as he is to the ticket window.
That means I’ve got about a 50-50 chance of this being the night of my dreams… or just another sad shift at Snowflake Cinemas.
“Think!” I say to myself. “Here is your chance to spend Christmas Eve with Dart McKee; THE Dart McKee! Don’t! Blow! It!”
“Popcorn’s free after 11!” I shout, suddenly inspired. “All you can eat!”
“Really?” he asks, inching one step closer to me.
“And soda’s… soda’s… half-price all Christmas Eve!”
He smirks, looks down at his shoes, fiddles with his feet, looks left, sees nobody, looks right, sees even more of nobody, and finally… shrugs.
“Deal!” he says, nearly tripping over his feet to get back to the ticket window and snatch up all these last-minute deals. “I’ll grab one for… hmmmm… well, let’s see. How’s Satan’s Snow Day?”
“Only all kinds of awesome,” I grin, printing him up a ticket before he can back out and choose something lame like Mrs. Claus Goes On Holiday!
I rip it in half as he hands over the six bucks admission fee, and follow him around to stand behind the concession counter.
I can’t beat him there if I go all the way through the side door and walk through, so I do what we all do when no customers are around: slide over the counter on our fannies.
“Nice,” he smirks, fumbling the last few bills out of his wallet. “I’m sure the Health Department loves that move.”
“Why, are you working undercover or something?”
He smiles quietly, brown eyes still a little sad.
“What can I get you?” I ask, eager to keep the conversation flowing.
Dart’s so lively in school, always bounding down the halls in his tight letterman’s sweater and even tighter jeans, sneakers always squeaking on the hallway tiles as he shoves his pals around from locker to locker with one arm always, always around his main squeeze: Tonia Lockhart.
He says, “Well, that popcorn to start, and a soda of course, and… holy smokes, are those… Doo Dads? Seriously… and… Slow Pokes? Gheez, I haven’t had those since my Dad used to take me here as a kid…”
“Coming right up,” I smile, easing two packs of each out of the tray under the smudged (smudged from my butt, that is!) concession stand glass.
“But… I only have enough for the…” he stammers, too shamed to finish his sentence as he shoves them back across the counter instead.
His fingers look wrinkly, like maybe he’s spent half of Christmas Eve swimming in the inside pool at school.
“Relax,” I say, sliding them back over his way. “Merry Christmas!”
“Really?”
“Yeah,
sure. Why not?”
I put the cap on his soda and slide it across
as well, then bag up a super-extra-double-large popcorn, just because
I can.
“Wow!” he says, eyes wide enough to practically touch those dark brown curls of his. “All that’s FREE?”
“Well,” I mock, twirling a lock of my long, red hair nervously around one finger as I lean in conspiratorially, “don’t feel too special. I just have to throw the extra away at the end of the night, anyway.”
He blushes, a little, or maybe my glasses are fogging up from being so close to him, as he looks past me to the overflowing 1962 popcorn fryer.
“Expecting a big crowd tonight?”
“Bigger than this,” I say and, when he frowns, I quickly add, “I mean, not that I’m, I mean… we’re… not glad you didn’t show up! It’s just, well, I kind of convinced my boss that there would be this mad rush of people coming out to see movies after being cooped up with their families all day and…”
“But… all you’re showing is Christmas movies,” he complains.
“Yeah, well, that was my idea, too!”
“But they’re, like, really lame Christmas movies.”
I blush and confess, “Well, I didn’t think kids would be actually watching the movies, you know?”
“You’re not very good at this, are you?” he asks.
“I guess not. Why, what’d you come here to see anyway?”
“The new Space Shots movie.”
I want to groan, but don’t; I thought Dart had better taste than that.
“Too bad my boss already left,” I say. “I could put it back on for you.”
“Naw,” he says, looking down at his ticket. “Satan’s Snow Day sounds… cool?”
“It is,” I say, having never seen it, but with a title like that, how can you miss?
He kind of lingers by the concession stand, his soda, popcorn and snacks still littering the counter I really should be cleaning.
“I feel kind of bad your idea didn’t work out,” he says, and all the while he’s staring at me with those puppy dog brown eyes I’m thinking, “Is one of his jock friends filming this or something?”
“You and me both,” I say just because, hey, I’ve always wanted to.
“I
should call all my friends,” he says, still leaning against the
customer side of the counter. “That would impress your boss,
huh?”
“It would,” I say, wondering why I’m not more
excited about his bright idea of his.
“But… it’s kinda late,” he hems.
“Real late,” I say, the idea of having Dart to myself for the rest of the evening suddenly a billion times more important than, you know, my actual job.
“Plus, I mean… you’re not really showing anything good and they’d all hate me if I got them out of the house for nothing.”
Now it’s my turn to look all offended.
“Just kidding, Sasha,” he says, avoiding my eyes again. “I thought you could take a joke.”
I’d come back with something snappy but I’m too busy being flabbergasted by the fact that.
Dart.
McKee.
Knows.
My.
Frickin’.
Name!
“You probably don’t have all that many friends anyway,” I crack, if only to prove to myself I can still speak.
“Oh yeah,” he snorts, reaching for the cell phone outlined in the front pocket of his dark chocolate pants. “Sorry if I’m not head of the ‘Official I’m Too Cool for Friends Club’ like you!”
“I have friends,” I argue, secretly happy when he gives up on digging the phone out of his blissfully snug pocket.
“Yeah, name one,” he challenges, in no hurry to rush and see the opening credits of Satan’s Snow Day. “Sorry, wait; name one who isn’t a teacher, counselor, principal or PE Coach!”
Crap!
“I hang out with that one girl in Home Ec class,” I argue.
“That One Girl?” he chuckles. “Really, Sasha? Is that what it says on her birth certificate?”
“Or how about that new kid from Wisconsin? I hung out with him for a whole day last week!”
“Yeah, because Counselor Wiggum asked you to show him around the school on his FIRST DAY.”
“Okay, so, if you’re rolling in friends, where’s your girlfriend Tonia tonight?”
He shrugs and says, “We kind of broke up.”
“What?” I say, perking up a smidge. “When? Why?”
He cocks his head and looks at me funny.
“What? You didn’t hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Or read about it? In the paper or anything?”
“Read about what?” I ask.
“Quit pulling my leg,” he frowns.
“Dart, I’ve been working nonstop since Christmas break started last week. This is usually our busy time, and until my Mom gets home from rehab, well, I’ve got to handle all the bills myself, so…”
I pause, hardly believing I’ve let that much slide.
He looks up, at least, past the giant tub of popcorn and matching, gurgling giant soda and says, “I’m sorry, Sasha; I didn’t know.”
“Why would you?” I kind of snap, not intending to; he flinches, a little, but not too much. “I mean, I kind of can’t even believe I said all that right now. Out loud. Too… you… of all people.”
He waits me out while I tell the sordid tale; at least, the edited version.
When I’m done, he says, “I never knew all that was going on at home, Sasha. You just always have it so together.”
“Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving. You think I’d be working in a dump like this if I didn’t have to pay the frickin’ rent on a double-wide at the Snowflake Motor Court?”
He winces; I guess I am a little shriek-y suddenly.
“Sorry,” I grumble. “I didn’t mean to hijack your big news.”
“Well, you’re about the only person who hasn’t heard it, so I suppose it still is news.”
“What’s news, Dart?”
He blinks, looks down, then up, and says, “We had practice, you know… first weekend of Christmas break? Coach was punishing us for losing that big meet last month. Anyway, I guess over Christmas break the janitors clean out whatever’s left in the lockers. Well, when I got to practice, coach was waiting for me outside; Coach and a couple cops!”
“What?”
“Yeah, I guess the custodian found half a dime bag or something in my gym shorts, called the cops, then called Coach. He was steamed.”
“Did they arrest you?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t see the mug shot, Sasha; it was on the front of the sports page! I mean, not to brag or anything. Hell yeah, they arrested me; cost my Dad like three grand just to bail me out, on top of he lost his job before Halloween and we haven’t made a house payment since Thanksgiving. He’s freaking out!”
“So, what’s gonna happen?”
“Nothing much,” he says, voice leaden with irony. “Only… I have to do about 6,000 hours of community service and am on probation for, like, ever. I can’t even associate with anyone on the swim team, or extracurricular activities. When Tonia found out, she flipped. Said she couldn’t have me ruining her chances of getting into State.”
“Ouch,” I say.
“Yeah, ouch is right. Three years we’ve been dating, and the first time I’m not 100% Mr. America she bails. She’s already dating Brash Masters.”
“Brash?”
I say, eyes rolling. “Doesn’t he have, like, an IQ of 38 or
something?”
“Yeah, well, he’s all-state in four sports and
counting, so… they kind of grade him on a curve, if you know what I
mean. Tonia calls him a ‘real asset’ to her ‘well-rounded
collegiate lifestyle,’ whatever that
means.”
“Cold,” I say, suddenly realizing I’ve been sipping on his soda and munching on his popcorn for the last 10 minutes. “Oh. My. God!”
I gasp and quickly pour him another bucket full of his own, plus a new soda.
“Dart, I had no idea, I’m so sorry. So, what, you figured a little movie time might clear your head?”
His eyes get big, his cheeks flushed. “Clear my head? My Dad kicked me out tonight. Right after my grandparents left, he took me out to the garage. He packed my bags and handed me a few twenty dollar bills. Said he’d booked me a room at the Snowflake Chalet through New Year’s. Wants me to clear my head and think about where I’d like to live once school starts up again.”
“Because you got busted for some weed?” I ask.
“It’s more the newspaper thing. That mug shot really shook him up. He’s in real estate, you know, needs to keep his image up. I think he’s just kind of distancing himself from me, you know?”
“Not really,” I murmur. (I mean, how do you “distance yourself” from your son, am I right?) “No.”
“Yeah, me either.”
“So, what are you going to do? I mean, once the hotel room runs out.”
“Sasha, I have no idea. I can’t live with any of the guys on the team, Tonia’s cut me loose, I have no other family in Snowflake, I mean…”
His voice trails off, his shoe squeaking on the tile floor of the lobby.
“My mom still has 76 days left in rehab,” I say. “That is, if she sticks with it this time. Her room is free, or the couch, or whatever…”
“I couldn’t, Sasha,” he says, face full-on crimson now. “Seriously, that’s… way over the line. I mean, you hardly know me.”
“Know you?” I want to say, but don’t; for obvious reasons. “I’ve been silently stalking you since you transferred here halfway through freshman year, you doof! I know everything about you! Except, you know, for the fact that you’re a total pothead!!!”
“I’m not proposing, dude,” I snort, slugging him playfully on the arm. “Get over yourself.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” he says, eyes so desperate I already know his answer before he does.
“Where are you going to go, Dart? It’s a big place; bigger than it looks on the outside. I keep it clean. You… you… can get a job here, help pay some of the bills.”
“Yeah?” he asks, the fact that his head’s not spinning around a pretty good indicator that his not completely disgusted by the idea; by either idea.
“Mr. Kerns made me assistant manager last week and hasn’t hired my replacement, so… I could put in a good word.”
“You’d… do that for me?”
“Yeah, Dart; I would.”
“But… we’ve never said 10 words to each other at school.”
“Yeah?”
“So, I mean, don’t you hate me?”
“Uh, no. I mean, I may think you have rotten taste in chicks and really bad drug hiding skills but, other than that, I actually think you’re kind of… cool.”
“Me too,” he blurts.
“Yeah, most jocks do think they’re cool.”
“No, I mean… I think you’re cool, too.”
“Yeah, well, free popcorn and a warm bed will do that to a guy.”
He blushes again, and looks toward his theater.
“Hey, you wanna… watch the movie with me?”
“I can’t,” I say, too quickly, if only to hide the fact that I’ve been daring him to ask me for the last 15 minutes. “I’ve got to bag the popcorn, clean the soda machine nozzles, spray down the mats…”
“I can help you with that,” he offers, smiling for the first time all night. “After the movie’s over, I mean. Come on, Sasha. I don’t want to watch a movie alone and… and… it’s Christmas.”
“But what if somebody else shows up?” I ask lamely, looking out into the deserted parking lot.
“Hand me your keys,” he says.
I do, not even reluctantly.
He strides toward the front door on long, athletic legs, find the right key after about eight tries, locks the front door with finality and even turns the “Open” sign over to “Closed” in the ticket window.
“There,” he says, handing the keys back. “Now you have no more excuses!”
He’s right; I don’t.
I follow him, both our arms loaded down with movie snacks.
The theater is big and empty and I wait to see where he’ll sit; dead center, last row – my kind of scary movie watcher!
The movie is just about to start, but he kind of lazes his way back there.
He lets me sit first, and I’m waiting for him to do the whole extra seat between us deal like every other guy I’ve ever dated, but he plops himself right down next to me and even offers me his extra box of Slow Pokes!
He waits until we’re settled to ask, “Are you really serious, I mean, about… the couch?”
I
practically choke on a popcorn kernel and say, “Are you really
serious about helping me clean out the popcorn machine?”
“Yes.”
“Then… yes.”
“I don’t know what to say, Sasha.”
“How about not saying anything,” I joke. “You know, this is a movie theater.”
“But I don’t want to watch the movie anymore,” he says.
“Seriously?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, turning toward me.
“So… what do you want to do then?”
“Well, I just… if we get a jump on the cleanup, maybe I can swing by the Snowflake Chalet and get my deposit back, since I never actually stayed there, and I can give you the money for a start on my rent, and…”
Figures; I finally lure a guy over to my house, and he turns out to be a bigger prude than… than… Santa Claus!!!
Chapter 3:
Snooping Around in Snowflake
She shows up the Monday after Thanksgiving, 9:01 a.m., clutching moist tissues and dabbing dry eyes.
“Welcome to Snooping Around Snowflake,” I say, greeting her at my office door before showing her to the seat across from my cluttered desk. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
She smiles, edging crow’s feet from around both of her sad, blue eyes and says, “Please, call my Myrna.”
Her voice is gentle and kind; like her eyes.
She looks like she’s been up since Thanksgiving Eve, pondering whether or not to show up here today.
I slide down into my ergonomic desk chair and feel that extra tug at my heart that always means I’m getting ready to tackle a tough case.
Not tough for me to crack, mind you.
Just… tough for me to forget.
“Well,” she begins, voice cracking as she stares past me to the wall of movie posters behind me. “Wait… are those of… you?”
I blush and nod; many people think it’s vain of me to put those posters in such a high place of prominence but, for me, they’re one big ice breaker.
This is one time when they’ve really done their job.
“Guilty as charged,” I say in a practiced, mock-humble voice.
“I had no idea,” she marvels, inching up closer to my desk to get a better look. “I loved Murder Most Manhattan,” she gushes. “And Murder Most Melbourne; ooh, and Murder Most Manchester, too. Look how young you were!”
She looks at me then, almost startled at what she’s just said.
Before she can apologize I say, as I have 100 times before from this very desk chair, “Seems like a million years ago.”
“But… how did you end up here? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking?”
I smile and say, “We were filming my last installment of the Murder Most… installment here. You might have seen it? Murder Most Myrtle Beach? Anyway, I was tired of the Hollywood scene, my husband – who was also my producer – was having an affair with his assistant, it all seemed so cliché. I wanted somewhere the opposite of cliché. After the last day of shooting I packed a bag, rented a car and drove until it ran out of gas. I landed here, in Snowflake and, well… I’ve been here ever since.”
She sits back in her chair, done stargazing and says, “What an absolutely marvelous story.”
I nod and try to reel her back in. “You’re not here today to hear my story, Myrna; I’m here to hear yours.”
She nods, like a scolded schoolgirl, and takes a deep breath. “I think my husband is cheating on me.”
I nod and ask calmly, “Why is that, Myrna?”
Myrna frowns and says, “I knew you were going to ask that.”
She’s wearing black slacks in about a size 16; I know, because that’s my size, too.
She has on a black blouse underneath a seasonably red jacket, a bright holly pin affixed to its left lapel.
She is in her early 50s, with vibrant red hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Small, diamond pendant earrings are her only jewelry.
She doesn’t even wear a watch.
“I just… do I have to have proof?” she asks, catching me off guard.
“No,”
I chuckle, crossing my legs. “That’s my job. I’m just
interested in hearing why
you suspect your husband is having an affair.”
She shuts down,
afraid to give voice to the concerns she’s no doubt been living
with for weeks, maybe even months.
If not years.
I try a different strategy.
“How long have you been married?”
“Pierce and I have been married 32 years,” she says. “And I never, ever thought I’d be someplace like… this. I didn’t even know places like this existed.”
“Most people don’t, Myrna. That is, until they do.”
She nods, wearily, and as the morning sunlight filters in through my office window it spotlights the dark bags beneath her restless eyes.
“In all that time,” she goes on, “I’ve never had a reason to distrust him.”
I nod as she looks away, not at my wall of framed movie posters but… past… them.
“What does Pierce do, Myrna?”
“He’s in real estate,” she harrumphs. “So he’s got all the time in the world to run all over town and I’d never suspect anything.”
“But you do suspect something. Right, Myrna?”
“I just, well, he’s been having these late night ‘meetings.’ Or so he says…”
As she begins her tale, Myrna’s normally placid, pale face comes to life.
Her skin blushes, her eyes widen, her lips scowl.
“And getting calls all time of day and night…”
I nod because, well, that’s real estate kicked in the pants.
But I don’t say anything because a smart woman like Myrna already knows that.
There must be something else or she wouldn’t have gone to the trouble to look me up or set the appointment, nonetheless keep it.
“Then,” she says, reaching into her small black purse and retrieving a well-worn piece of crinkly white paper, “there’s this.”
She slides it over, face down, like she’s offering me a quote on some pricy objects d’art.
I pick it up and scan its contents.
It’s a receipt; for a bed.
A queen-size bed, to be exact.
And sheets, and pillows, a comforter and bed skirt, even a mattress pad, totaling nearly $800 at the local department store.
“It’s the holidays,” I rationalize diplomatically. “Maybe it’s a… gift?”
Myrna shakes her head and says, almost apologetically, “We haven’t slept in a queen-size bed since we first got married. Even our guest rooms have king-size beds. Unless he’s turning the basement into a bachelor pad, there’s only one reason I know for my husband to buy a queen-size bed AND new sheets.”
“And why’s that?”
“Clearly, he’s dating someone with very low expectations…”
* * * * *
I begin tailing Pierce Fletcher the next afternoon, waiting outside his real estate office on Fiske Street and Elm, one of those cozy Victorians they converted into office space early last year.
Despite the holiday season it’s still open window weather this far south, and he and a male assistant have rolled up their sleeves and spent two hours just after lunch stringing Christmas lights over the door and around the giant picture window in the reception suite.
I eat a granola bar around three in the afternoon, hitting the “seek” button on my radio dial continuously trying to find something, anything, other than the 24-hour, 7-days-a-week Christmas music stations that have suddenly taken over the dial.
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