Page 20 of Snowman

I was lying on my bed shirtless, the cool air barely brushing against my skin as I glared at the wooden ceiling over me. The wall lamp flickered once in a while, light throbbing like a pulse as if trying to convey something to me.

She wants to see me again.

Then, I closed my eyes, just for a second, her face disappearing, but everything else sharpening.

She was everything I'd ever imagined perfection to be, yet I knew she'd never see herself the way I saw her. She didn't know the spell she had cast, the way she haunted my every thought. Her long blonde hair, streaked with shades of sunlight and shadow, shone like fresh snow under a winter sky. Her ocean-blue eyes, the deepest and darkest I'd ever seen, were now my favorite color.Blue.

She fitted together so perfectly that she seemed to have been made for some specific purpose. The soft outlines of her face, the slight shine on the tip of her small nose, and her skin were smooth and blemishless. Her lips, full and soft, held a gentle pink that gave them an almost surreal appearance. But it was her eyebrows, curved delicately over those sad, stormy eyes, that stayed with me. They gave her the look of a porcelain doll; fragile, innocent, perfect.

She stirred something in me that I had not felt in years. Her sorrow reached into me, where the cold had taken permanent home, and started to melt the frost. I was a man who rarely felt anything at all, and now I found myself longing for something I wasn't even aware of.

I wanted to see her smiling; I wanted her to smile a lot more.

I rolled onto my side and faced the window. The woods were still and silent, dark silhouettes against the fading light. They reminded me of everything I'd left behind, everything I thought I had escaped. But a sudden knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts, scattering them behind.

I let out a heavy sigh, the weight of the moment settling back over me, and got up. My bare feet hit the cool floor as I made my way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

Even before I saw her, the smell of chicken soup greeted me. She was standing near the stove, her grey hair all braided, her back to me. The familiar smell filled the little kitchen, warm and comforting.

"They found her, you know," she said, turning to me now. Her face was more wrinkled than the last time I'd truly set eyes on her.

"I know," I replied, walking into the kitchen island that stood proudly in the middle of the place, its polished wood glowing shyly in the evening light, two chairs up front.

She moved to lift the pot from the stove and set it down on the counter. The lid clanged softly upon being set down, and then she reached for a spoon from the drawer, dipped it into the soup, and brought it to her lips.

"You know Joe's back?" she asked casually before leaning over to taste, her face screwed up and went pale. "Damn, it's hot." She blew on the spoon before setting it on the soup plate1 and sliding it onto the island beside the pot.

"Yeah, I saw him," I said, standing and going to the cabinet. I pulled out another soup plate, with a silver spoon from the drawer. The kitchen was small, and cozy in a way that sometimes felt suffocating.

I set the soup plate down. She didn't wait but poured soup into it for me, the ladle making soft ripples as it moved through the broth. I walked around the island and sank into the chair across from her.

"Did you see the oldest one?" she asked, blowing softly on her spoon of soup before taking a cautious sip.

"Yeah," I muttered, dipping my own spoon into the soup. The liquid scalded my tongue as I took a hasty sip, but I didn't flinch.

"You know why he brought them here?" she started, her voice laced with curiosity. But before she could continue, my fist came down on the wooden surface of the island, the sudden, sharp sound cutting through her words.

"Let me stop you right there," I said. My jaw tightened, all the muscles in my face rigid. "Mother."

She threw her hands up in defeat, her face smooth except for the flicker of mirth in her eyes. "Okay, okay," she said much softer now. "All I am saying is, he's different. He barely recognized me. And Laura—" she paused, rolling her eyes "Laura thought I was the housekeeper."

A dry chuckle escaped me, tinged with bitterness. "How rich of her," I said, my tongue clicking against my teeth. "He didn't recognize me either."

"Who would?" she shot back with a smirk, her eyes crinkling. "With that beard?"

I huffed a laugh, the corners of my mouth pulling up briefly before falling flat again.

"What do you think I should do?" I asked, leaning forward as my gaze sharpened. "Let him be? Or should I stop him once and for all?"

She tilted her head, studying me. "He is your father's son," she said, every word a careful choice. "He is no blood of mine, never will be." Her voice gentled and she leaned in and placed her hands like fall leaves on mine. "But he once was your brother."

"Stepbrother," I said, shaking my head. My voice lowered, "And that is no answer."

She stepped back, smoothing the folds on her dress before reaching for the knitted bag which rested in the corner of the table.

"I am off," she said, her tone all at once brisk, all practical, and she walked to the door, suddenly turning to me.

"Oh, and…." she added, one brow rising. "Do you think he is smart enough to figure it out?"

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