Page 2 of A Very Beary Christmas
Pine boughs sat on every sill and there was a candle in each window, just like on a Christmas card. Warm, yellow light spilled out, along with a heavenly aroma that made my cramping stomach rumble.
“Youlivehere?” I asked, forgetting to disguise the awe in my voice.
He grinned, his white teeth clearly visible. Sam had such a nice smile. It made his eyes crinkle and lit up his whole face.
“Yeah. It’s our family lodge.”
He tugged me up the wooden plank steps, past big clay pots overflowing with bright, colorful poinsettias. When we reached the big door inlaid with glass and a fancy design, he paused to shuffle his feet across the mat there.
I looked down and saw the image of a smiling bear grinning up at me, with bold, black letters telling visitors to “wipe your paws.”
I wiped my feet, too.
He pushed open the door, and all that yellow light spilled out, along with a welcoming warmth. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust and my body to stop shaking.
The inside was just as nice as the outside. Just inside the door was a polished table with a lacy doily and a squat vase filled with even more flowers. I barely had time to glimpse the massive sitting room off to the left as Sam made a beeline toward the back of the house.
“Mom, I found her!” he called out the moment we crossed the threshold.
The urge to flee was strong, but Sam didn’t allow it, keeping me at his side with a gentle but firm grasp.
We entered the kitchen, much bigger than any kitchen I had ever seen. Gleaming silver appliances and wide countertops surrounded long wooden tables. His mom was wiping her hands on her apron as she came over to greet us with concern once again in her eyes.
I thought vaguely of how much her eyes looked like Sam’s. It made me wonder if my eyes looked like my mother’s. I didn’t remember her.
“Oh, Chloe, thank God Sam found you. You must have been terrified out in those woods alone, but don’t worry, you’re safe now ...”
I woke from the dream, a replay of that night so many years ago, glad I had woken when I did. A ghostly echo of the hope I had felt back then lingered, even though I knew that hope had been crushed less than twenty-four hours later. I didn’t like to think about that part.
Throwing off the covers, I shivered as the cold air hit my skin. Each exhaled puff of breath was visible, and I reluctantly clicked the thermostat up a couple degrees.
I shuffled into the bathroom, murmuring a word of thanks that the water wasn’t frigid. I didn’t bother hoping for hot water anymore. My landlord, Mrs. Jankowski, was even more frugal than me, and if she ever got around to replacing the ancient water heater, I wouldn’t be able to afford the rent. It wasn’t much, but I was thankful to have a roof over my head, especially with the impending storm bearing down on us.
I heated up some water on my hot plate. Some went into a chipped mug, along with a teabag; the rest went into a bowl with some quick-cook oats. It wasn’t exactly the breakfast of champions, but it was hot and filled my belly. More importantly, it was cheap enough that I might be able to afford a new brush and a few tubes of paint.
I dressed in layers then grabbed my latest creation—a landscape piece commissioned by the owner of the diner across the street.
Mr. O’Malley was a nice man. I filled in there sometimes when one of his regular servers called in sick or had to take their kids to the doctor or something. Part of me knew he was just being kind. Another part, the part that wanted to eat and make next month’s rent, was okay with that. Charity, I refused to take, but occasional honest work? Hell yes, I’d take that in a heartbeat.
I loved being an artist, even a starving one. It was my escape. When I was painting, I lost myself in another world; a better one that existed only in my imagination. It was something I could do anywhere, which was good because I never stayed in one place for very long.
This piece, like most of my work, depicted forests, snow-capped mountains, and indigenous wildlife. I had been working on it for the last week or so. That was probably what had spawned last night’s dream. Though, in all honesty, there wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t think about Sam at least once.
Nearly twenty years later, he was still the best friend I had ever had, even if things hadn’t worked out the way he’d hoped. He had cared, and he had tried to help me, which was more than I could say for ninety-nine percent of the people in my life.
For about the millionth time, I wondered what he looked like now. Was he still bigger than everyone else in the room? Did he still have that loud, rumbling laugh and crack those corny jokes just to get someone to smile? Was he married now with kids of his own?
That last thought made my chest hurt, but I did like the thought of Sam being happy.
Most people probably didn’t obsess about their childhood friends, especially when they hadn’t really been very friendly. Sam and I had rarely talked. We had never actually played together. The only time I had ever been to his house was that one time, and I had never,everinvited anyone over to my father’s trailer, not in that little town or any of the nameless others we went to afterward. And yet ... there had been something about Sam that had made me want to be near him. To sit in the same room and hear him laugh, or to secretly watch him from beneath a curtain of unkempt hair. Sam had just been that kind of kid, the kind everyone liked being around.
Instinctively, I knew that time hadn’t changed that. He would be that kind of man, too.
The wind was cutting and brutal as I stepped outside, enough that it felt like a slap. Lowering my head, I pushed forward into the diner, my limp more pronounced than usual, a direct result of the cold, damp air and the dropping barometric pressure. I didn’t care. The extra aches and pains of harsh winters were worth the soul-deep peace the mountains provided.
Mr. O’Malley smiled when he saw the wrapped canvas under my arm. “Is that my painting?”
“It is,” I confirmed. It was one of my best pieces yet, in my opinion.
