Page 1 of Snowed In with the Bosses

1

CLARA

The Christmas season in Silverbrook sparkled from every corner of town. I hated having to leave the bright shops downtown, even for a minute, though visiting my mother took priority. Kicking snow from my boots, I twisted the doorknob, calling out as I entered, “It’s me, Mom.”

Heat licked over my skin and I shed my heavy winter coat, scarf, hat, and gloves while stepping out of my boots.

“Clara?” Mom’s voice came out quivery and weak.

It sent my heart dropping all the way to my toes, but I forced out a smile. “No, Mom. It’s your other daughter.”

Her laugh—dry and brittle as it was—brought my pulse back to normal. “Wise ass.”

“You know it.” I took in the small stack of dishes piled in the sink and the slightly unpleasant scent in the air. I’d clean up once I saw Mom. Brushing a hand over my hair to tame the frizz, I stepped over the pile of newspapers Mom loved reading when she couldn’t sleep and headed into the living room.

Mom sat in the corner of the couch, her thin legs drawn up beneath her and a thick blanket over her chest and arms. Sheshivered even as I stood there. “Can you turn the heat up another degree? I’m freezing.”

I was sweltering, but I’d only be here for an hour or so and was more than willing to suffer if it made her feel better. “Sure. Do you want some tea?” I motioned back at the kitchen. “I brought cookies.”

“Those shortbread cookies from Holly Jolly?” Mom’s eyes sparked and she shuffled her legs around, putting her feet on the floor. “I might be able to eat a cookie.”

Should I ask her now about coming to live with me? I could promise her tea and cookies all hours of the day and night, but it would be a lie. I still had to work. But I wanted her closer to me, where I could pop in anytime without the long drive. Seeing her like this hurt me in ways I never thought possible. She’d once been a robust woman, thick in the chest and hips like me. Now she resembled a scarecrow with tufty hair and limbs that quaked.

Stubborn old woman would refuse to live with me. Mom loved her independence and had raised me to be the same.

“When’s Bridget coming?” I concentrated on fixing the tea how Mom liked it and opened the tin of cookies.

She took one between her thumb and forefinger and raised it to her nose. Once bright eyes dulled by chemo and radiation closed as she inhaled. “Remember when we used to stay up on Christmas Eve and eat a whole tin of these?” She broke it in half, then into quarters, then pinched off a crumb-sized piece and set it on her tongue.

Tears burned and threatened to lock my throat.

“Yoohoo, I’m here.” Like me, Bridget simply walked into the house. Her giant black bag thumped to the floor, and she flew across the room to hug me. “Look at you. Lord, it feels like forever since I saw your face. How’s the new job?”

“Amazing.” Bridget always knew how to pull Mom out of a funk. Seemed she had the same knack for me. I angled a darting glance at Mom. “How is she?”

Mom continued breaking the cookie into tiny pieces, her head jigging back and forth in her version of a food dance.

Bridget shifted her hand in a rocking motion. “Still some bad days. Very weak. But the treatment has been working and she seems better this time. Her reaction wasn’t as strong. And she’s eating, which is great.” Bridget squeezed my shoulders in mutual grief. She loved Mom, and I couldn’t have asked for a better caregiver.

I had to ask, even though I knew the answer. While Mom inched another bite of cookie onto her tongue, I set her tea by her elbow and joined her at the table. “You know, I get tins of cookies like every week. They arrive at the house like clockwork. If you moved in with me, you’d have an endless supply.”

Mom stilled, her lips puckered around the cookie. “Clara, honey, I don’t like having this conversation.” She sighed, the sound as breathy and weak as ever, but the ferocity in her eyes and the sudden scowl gave me hope. “This is home.” She swept a hand out.

I followed the motion and ignored the way her veins spiderwebbed beneath her fair skin.

“All our Christmases through your childhood were spent right there.” She pointed at the living room, where a small Christmas tree twinkled with clear lights. It was the only decoration in the house. Mom couldn’t handle a real tree with her treatments, but between me, her, and Bridget, we’d managed the little three-foot artificial thing covered in red ornaments.

All my childhood photos lined the walls. No matter how often I pleaded for her to take them down, she always shook her head and insisted they stay.

“Your father and I used to sit on the couch and watch it snow.” The quiver returned to Mom’s voice. “He loved the snow.”

That familiar ache settled behind my breastbone, the longing to know my father, to have more memories of him instead of the scattered fragments that might not even be real. The single-bedroom home had a cozy feel to it that I’d never accomplished at my own house. Mom had always kept the place spotless, and she would now if she could manage to walk across the room without getting dizzy and almost passing out. Maybe I should move back and take care of the house.

Mom pointed at me. “Don’t you even. I know that look. You’re not moving back home. You have a nice house, a great job, and you love living in the middle of everything in Silverbrook. If you try to move in here with me, I’ll disown you.”

That was the mom I’d missed the most. Grinning, I took a cookie from the tin and popped it into my mouth. “Bet you couldn’t stop me.”

“Bet I could.” She’d find a way. Mom always did. Before I could respond, she continued, “This place has all my memories. They sustain me. When all I feel like doing is sitting on the couch and staring at the walls with memories for company, it’s this house that comforts me.”

---