Page 11 of Please Send Snow
“You need to grab anything before we head out?” I ask the girl.
She shakes her head and scrambles up, surprising me when she shoves her laptop in a bag that costs as much as a mid-sized sedan. I should know, my wife—ex-wife, I remind myself—has three of them.
It’s a classic rich girl move toslum itin the mountains without her fancy clothing and jewelry so she can write the great American novel—like nice things have to be at odds with making art.
But I’m not here to judge her, because she might just be saving my bacon.
“Are you coming with us?” Dylan asks her.
“Yes,” she tells him. “If you want me to?”
“Definitely,” he says. “But I have to put my letter in the box.”
“Of course,” she tells him, not even checking with me first.
We both watch as he finishes writing the last part of his message.Please send snow.
Yeah, little buddy, that’s a good wish right about now.Too bad there isn’t really a Santa Claus to make it come true.
The two of them approach the box. She’s walking slowly and he’s skipping to keep up with her.
She shows him how to pull down the top of the mailbox and he shoves his note in there with the others. Surprisingly, there are already a bunch in the box. I haven’t seen many guests, so people from town must be bringing them. Or maybe it’s the employees—they certainly have a lot to ask for. This place seems to be held together on a wish and a prayer.
I wince at my own grim humor and head to the door. By the time they’re finished, I’m holding it open, even though the old couple on the sofa are scowling at me for letting in the cold air.
I keep my head high and scowl right back. I might not be who I used to be in my own social circles, but I’m still a gentleman. And that means I hold doors open.
On the way out, the girl gives me a shy half-smile and I’m surprised at how gratifying it is.
It’s probably just been too long since I’ve sensed a straightforward emotion from anyone but Dylan. These days, everyone else seems to be either whispering behind my back or holding their hands out for something.
The wind whips the girl’s hair as we step out onto the porch with its rotted wood planks. The scent of her peppermint shampoo swirls right to me, as fresh and bright as she is, and I have to stop myself from imagining what the rest of her smells like.
Maybe this was a bad idea.
“Right here,” I tell her, indicating the Porsche SUV.
She nods without a second glance at the car, and I’m settled now in my opinion about exactly who she is—definitely a rich girl playing at being a starving artist.
In fairness, the car is actually a rental, so she shouldn’t be too impressed. But I guess it’s the kind of thing I’d drive if I lived up here.
She does seem surprised when I move to the passenger side and open the door for her. I help her up, holding my breath against that sweet peppermint scent, and then head back to get Dylan strapped into his booster seat.
“Is your name Nora?” Dylan asks her as I check the strap at his chest.
Of course not, it’s…
Wow, I didn’t even stop to ask her for her name. Not exactly a high-level vetting process on my part. Thank goodness for Dylan.
“Your dad was only teasing me,” she tells him. “My name is Maddie. Maddie Foster.”
Foster…
Yeah. She’s got money.
It doesn’t take a genius to put her name together with the fact that one of the original Foster’s Figurines factories is in this town. If Maddie isthatMadeline Foster, then she doesn’t exactly need a babysitting job.
But I’m glad that she wants one. The way Dylan is smiling at her in the rearview mirror tells me he feels comfortable with her, that helikesher.
