Angels in the Snow Read online

  “I’ll see you around two then. Don’t do anything foolish before I get there.”

  Claire hung up the phone feeling slightly stunned. And she’d forgotten to warn Jeannie about the snow on the roads. She went to let Michael back inside and looked around. Fortunately, yesterday’s sun had melted it down some, and it looked to be doing the same today. But was it really Thanksgiving? She scratched her head. How had she missed that? Maybe she really was going crazy. Oh, well, they always say you’re the last one to find out.

  Claire carefully stacked her paintings against the wall, then draped them with a sheet. It wasn’t that she wanted to hide them exactly. And yet she wasn’t eager to have them viewed either. Not by strangers certainly. Not even by Jeannie. Then she went to work preparing what she hoped would be some adequate side dishes to accompany Jeannie’s turkey. Midway through the day she decided to call her dad. She knew he wasn’t much into holidays, hadn’t been since her mother died more than ten years ago.

  “Hi, Daddy. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Hey, sweetie, how’re you doing out there in the middle of nowhere’s-ville?”

  “I’m doing okay. I’ve been painting.”

  “Really? Good for you. Maybe you were right about needing all that isolation after all. Although I know I couldn’t handle it myself. I needed you and all my friends around after I lost your mother.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to live out here indefinitely. But for the time being, I think it’s doing the trick.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I’ve really been praying for you, Claire.”

  “Thanks, Daddy. I can tell that somebody has. So, you doing anything special for Thanksgiving?”

  “Hank and I played eighteen holes this morning, and he’s here right now trying to talk me into coming over to his place this afternoon, but I don’t know.”

  “Oh, you should go, Daddy. Remember what you just said about needing your friends.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. But what about you? You got any neighbors out there in the sticks wanting to eat turkey with you?”

  “Actually, Jeannie’s coming up. Maybe bringing some friends too.”

  “Well, good for Jeannie. She’s a good ol’ gal.”

  “Yeah.” Claire glanced over at the shrouded canvases. “But I’m not sure that I want her to see my paintings just yet.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’m afraid she’ll think they’re weird. Or worse yet, she might think they’re terrible and then be afraid to tell me for fear that I might completely fall apart and never paint again.”

  He laughed. “I’ve never known Jeannie to be anything but honest. And why would she think they’re weird?”

  “They have angels in them, Daddy.”

  “Angels?”

  Claire bit her lip and waited.

  “Well, what’s wrong with angels anyway? Lots of Renaissance painters painted angels, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah. But my style isn’t exactly Renaissance, you know, it’s more impressionistic. And I can’t think of too many impressionists who were into angels.”

  He chuckled. “Maybe it’s time for a first. I think it sounds great, Claire. If you want to paint angels, you just go ahead and paint angels. And if Jeannie can’t sell them, well then, I’ll buy one, and I’ll bet Hank will too. Right, Hank?”

  “Oh, I forgot you have Hank there, Daddy. I better get back to my kitchen work anyway. Give him my love, and Marie too.”

  “You bet. Now you have a good day, sweetheart. And don’t worry about those angels; if you don’t want to show them to anyone yet, then don’t.”

  She set down the phone and went back to her cooking. It was a challenge to make anything too festive with her spartan ingredients, but then she wasn’t an artist for nothing. By two o’clock she had concocted an apple pie with a festively decorated crust complete with sculpted pastry leaves (hopefully it would taste as good as it looked). And she put together a pretty looking cheese and cracker plate, even if it only contained three ordinary types of cheeses cut into interesting shapes. What she lacked in food variety she hoped to make up for with ingenuity. She even managed to put together a centerpiece using pinecones, juniper berries, moss, and some emergency candles. And it wasn’t half bad, although she knew the candles wouldn’t last long once lit.

  As it turned out, Jeannie only managed to entice one friend to drive up the mountain pass with her, her old friend Leo Goldberg. Claire only knew Leo casually, as someone loosely connected with the art world in the Bay Area and someone Jeannie had dated off and on over the past few years but had never seemed terribly serious about.

  “Claire, you look lovely,” said Leo as they walked in the door. Then after setting a large cardboard box on the table, he took both her hands in his. “The mountain air must agree with you.”

  “Yes,” agreed Jeannie as she removed her big wool cape and gave Claire a kiss. “You’ve even got roses in your cheeks.”

  Claire smiled. “Oh, I’m so glad you came up, Jeannie.”

  “Well, to be honest, I was worried you might be up here gnawing on a table leg and mumbling to yourself.”

  “Yes, she was beside herself thinking you might’ve lopped off an ear.” Leo looked at her carefully. “But they both appear to be intact.”

  Claire forced an awkward smile. “Actually, that might not be too far from the truth.” She patted the dog’s head. “But this guy has been good company for me.”

  “Okay, let’s get this turkey into the oven to heat,” said Jeannie. “And then I want to see those paintings.”

  “Did you actually cook this?” Claire opened the oven door and slid the golden brown turkey inside.

  Jeannie laughed. “Are you kidding? I’m a city girl, and I know how to survive in the city—it’s called take-out.”

  Leo began unpacking other food items, and he and Jeannie continued to laugh and joke about her lack of culinary skills. But suddenly the cabin began to feel overly full and slightly stuffy to Claire. She found herself stepping away from them. And she felt relieved that Jeannie had brought only one friend.

  “Do you guys want to take a walk before dinner?” she asked, longing for fresh air and hoping to distract them from wanting to see her art just yet.

  “Hmmm?” Jeannie looked outside the window and tapped the toe of her soft leather high-heeled boots. “I didn’t exactly wear hiking boots, if you know what I mean.”

  “Right.” Claire pointed to the chairs at the maple table. “Why don’t you both sit down? Would you like some coffee or tea? I have hot water all ready.”

  “Tea sounds lovely.” Jeannie sat down at the table, but Claire saw her eyeing the draped canvases off to her right.

  Claire poured the hot water into the teapot, breathing deeply as she gazed out the window above the sink, willing herself to relax.

  “Those your paintings?” asked Jeannie, as stubborn as ever.

  Claire waited while the tea steeped in the pot before she returned to the table. “Yeah. But I’m not sure they’re ready to be—”

  “Jeannie says you’ve been painting angels.” Leo leaned back in his chair and crossed his leg, an unreadable expression across his face. “I suppose you haven’t heard that the angel trend is over now.”

  “Oh, Leo.” Jeannie frowned and waved her hand. “Angels have been around forever.”

  Claire sat down with them and poured tea. “So, do you mean to say that you believe in them too, Jeannie?”

  Jeannie laughed. “I mean that they’ve been represented in various art forms for thousands of years. Good grief, you can probably find them carved into some cave walls from prehistoric times. So they’re certainly not only a modern-day fad, although Leo’s right,” she cleared her throat, “our latest angel trend is probably over by now. But that shouldn’t matter—not really.” Still there was something unconvincing in Jeannie’s voice, like she was only trying to humor Claire.

  “Cheese and crackers?�
�� Claire hopped up to get the platter she’d so carefully prepared earlier.

  “Very pretty,” said Leo as he took one.

  “Well, I didn’t really shop for Thanksgiving,” she admitted. “My pantry was a little, shall we say, boring, so I thought I better at least try to make it look good.”

  “But back to the paintings.” Jeannie nodded toward the canvases again. “You don’t really want to keep me in suspense like this, do you?”

  Claire smiled. “Actually, I do.”

  Jeannie leaned her head back and groaned. “Whatever for?”

  “Well, I’d like to enjoy your company and the dinner before . . .”

  “Before what?” asked Leo.

  “She’s afraid we’re going to hate them.” Jeannie shrugged. “Well, even if they’re not very good, Claire, at least you are painting. That’s the main thing. And you’ve only been up here—what? A few weeks now. There’s time to do more. I know how fast you work once you get going.” She winked at Leo. “That’s one thing I love about my impressionists, they usually work in a whirlwind of inspiration—producing a volume of paintings in a short amount of time.”

  Claire glanced at Leo. “Forgive me, Leo, but I’ve forgotten exactly what your connection to the art world is.”

  He grinned. “You may be sorry you asked.”

  Jeannie rolled her eyes. “Claire, honestly!”

  He waved his hand. “Oh, it’s all right, Jeannie—”

  “No, Claire should know better than this. For heaven’s sake, Leo is an art critic with the Times.”

  Claire slapped her forehead. “Oh, that’s right. I’m sorry. But Jeannie can vouch for the fact that I go out of my way to remain oblivious in that area. I’m that proverbial ostrich with my head—well, who knows where? I just don’t pay much attention to the reviews. I figure if someone praised my work I might turn into a prima donna and sit around on my laurels all day. And, on the other hand, if someone criticizes my work, I’m sure to take it personally and never want to paint again. And I’ve already been creatively paralyzed for over a year now. So, for me, it’s better not to know. Besides I trust that Jeannie’s keeping up with all that, and she sort of lets me know, gently, how I’m being received out there.”

  Leo ran his fingers down his goatee beard. “Then you probably want me to keep my mouth shut if I take a peek at your work today?”

  Claire sighed. “I don’t know. I probably don’t really want anyone to look at it just yet.”

  “Come on,” said Jeannie. “You can’t possibly think I’d drive all the way up here and then leave without even looking.”

  “I thought you said this was a mental health visit,” teased Claire.

  Leo laughed. “Yes, and I also heard you’ve been chasing angels in the woods.”

  Claire looked down at the table.

  “I’m sorry,” said Leo. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Oh, come on,” urged Jeannie. “Claire isn’t as thin-skinned as that. Are you, Claire?”

  Claire looked up. “No. But you’re right, Leo. I have been chasing angels in the woods.”

  “Well, good for you.” He clapped his hands. “I like an artist with spirit and passion. It’s always sure to show through in their work.”

  “So, you don’t think I’m crazy? I mean, did Jeannie tell you that I found footprints and that I thought they belonged to my deceased husband and son—or maybe angels?”

  He smiled. “Yes. I think it’s a charming story. And who are we to say what’s real and what’s not? If it seems real to you—”

  “Enough!” Jeannie stood up. “Please, don’t encourage her along these lines, Leo. Claire’s been through a lot this past year. She needs to move on now.”

  “But perhaps this is part of the moving on process for her,” he argued. “Maybe she needs to chase angels in the woods to escape something. Maybe it’s how she’ll become free of her grief. Who are we to say?”

  Jeannie sat down again. “Oh, I don’t know. I just want to see her get better. And all this talk of angels-angels-angels . . . frankly it worries me.”

  Claire reached over and patted Jeannie’s hand. “I appreciate your concern. To be honest, it worries me a little too. Sometimes, in the middle of the day when I’m doing something ordinary like heating soup or feeding the dog, I think all my obsession with angels is pure nonsense. But then, at other times, like in the silence of the snowy woods, or in the middle of the night . . . well, I’m not so sure.”

  “A lot of people believe in angels,” said Leo quietly. “There are all kinds of books written about them.”

  “You two.” Jeannie pressed her lips together and shook her head.

  “Have you read any books on angels, Leo?” Claire leaned forward, eager to hear anything he had to say on the subject.

  “No, but my mother has. She happens to be a devout believer in angels.”

  Claire sighed. “It’s encouraging to know I’m not alone.”

  “Come now,” said Jeannie. “It worries me to think of you out there in the snow trying to track down your dead husband and son—forgive me for being so blunt, Claire. But it sounds pretty outrageous to me.”

  “Oh, I don’t really think it’s them. . . .” She gazed out the window with a longing to be out there, walking in the cool snow.

  “But you want it to be,” said Jeannie. “That’s almost as bad.”

  “Of course, she wants it to be them,” defended Leo. “Who wouldn’t want to see their departed loved ones again, if they could?”

  Claire nodded. “But at the same time, I know I need to let them go. I know I need to accept that those footprints out there probably don’t really belong to them.”

  “Probably?” Jeannie lifted an eyebrow.

  “Okay, they don’t belong to them.”

  “That’s better.” Jeannie glanced up at the clock. “I’ll bet that turkey’s almost heated by now. We should warm up those potatoes and gravy and rolls too.”

  The three of them enjoyed a homey and delicious dinner, and Michael enjoyed the treats tossed his way from the table. Then Jeannie helped clean up while Claire made coffee to go with their pie. Finally, they were all sitting at the table, leaning back in their chairs and feeling stuffed and content.

  “It’s times like this when I wish I still smoked my pipe,” said Leo as he patted his full midsection.

  Jeannie stood and walked slowly over to the paintings. “The time has come, Claire. Are you ready?”

  Claire took in a deep breath. “Are you two ready?”

  Leo rubbed his hands together. “Well, if anticipation has anything to do with it, you’ve sure got me going, Claire.”

  Claire walked over to the paintings, wondering about the best way to do this. “All right,” she finally said, “if we’re going to have an art show, you need to give me a couple of minutes to set up, okay?”

  “Maybe we should step outside for a breath of fresh air,” suggested Leo.

  “Good idea,” said Claire. “I’m sure Michael would enjoy stretching his legs a bit too.”

  With the cabin to herself, Claire rearranged the table and chairs and lights to best accommodate and display her work. She set four of the paintings on the chairs and finally placed the picture of Scott and Jeremy on the easel, draping it with the sheet, still unwilling to show it to anyone. Then she went outside to invite them back in.

  Her voice actually trembled as she spoke. “Okay, the gallery is officially open.”

  “I’m so excited,” said Leo. And that alone filled Claire with dread. An art critic! What had Jeannie been thinking?

  Claire lurked behind them as they entered the cabin. She stood silently as they viewed the works, watching their every move, waiting for their reactions. But Jeannie and Leo said nothing—absolutely nothing. They simply moved about the crowded space, situating themselves to best view her various works.

  “Perhaps if they were framed,” she finally said weakly, almost inaudibly.

  The floor squeak
ed beneath Leo as he moved to get a better look at the night painting. His hands hung loosely at his sides. But still he said nothing.

  “Oh, I should’ve known,” muttered Claire. “I never should’ve. . . .” She walked over to the sink and stared blankly out the window, wishing desperately that her company would just quietly turn and leave. Or perhaps she could leave, maybe just vanish into the air, like an angel.

  Finally, Jeannie spoke, but her voice was different somehow; perhaps it was strained by all this. “What’s under this, Claire?” She was standing before the easel now.

  Claire stepped up to the easel. Well, why not get it over with. She might as well let them see it all. Like a felon about to be sentenced, she pulled the sheet from the painting, then stepped back, unable to actually look at it herself. Oh, if only this cabin had another room, besides the bathroom, where she might run and hide. She felt her teeth clenching and wished that this day could be over—that Jeannie and Leo could politely excuse themselves and get in Jeannie’s BMW and just leave. But still they stood there, just looking in silence. As if they were too embarrassed to speak. And Claire felt as if she were standing before the two of them naked and ashamed, with nowhere to hide.

  At last Jeannie turned around and faced her. But her expression was confusing. Was she upset? Angry? Frustrated by Claire’s lame excuse for art? Then Claire noticed there were real tears in Jeannie’s eyes.

  Jeannie pulled out a handkerchief and daubed at her eyes. “These are beautiful, Claire.”

  “Really?” Claire grabbed Jeannie by the arms. “Tell me the truth, Jeannie. Are you just saying that? Are you afraid I’ve totally lost it, gone off the deep end, and you don’t want to tell me for fear I’ll completely crack up, and you’ll have to get the men in the white coats and—”

  “No!” Jeannie leaned forward and looked directly into Claire’s eyes. “I mean it. I’m perfectly serious. These are the best things you’ve ever done.”

  Now Claire felt tears filling her own eyes. “What about you, Leo?” she asked in a shaky voice. “What do you think?”