Page 31 of Please Send Snow
And a pretty snowfall might even impact his dad’s views on the lodge. I doubt it, but it might.
The salesgirl guesses my shoe size, and once againshe’s annoyingly accurate. I follow her this time and she points to a bench where I sit obediently.
She disappears in back and I realize I’m going to have to take off my sodden sneakers and reveal my wet socks. It was so rainy this morning, and my footwear really wasn’t designed for it.
Shame washes over me, and I remind myself inwardly of all the times Dad and I volunteered at the homeless shelter. I never faulted any of the people we served there for the condition of their clothing, so I shouldn’t be ashamed either.
We’re no better than anyone else here,Dad would tell me softly once in a while, like he was afraid I’d forget.We’re just luckier.
Tears prickle in my eyes and I wish so much that he could be here with me. I know he would just grin at me and wink, and I wouldn’t care about my socks at all.
A moment later, the lady is back with a couple boxes of boots.
I slide my sneakers off and look up to see her eyes on my wet socks, her nose wrinkled up.
“Bring Miss Foster some warm socks to try on,” Jake snaps.
She’s on her feet in an instant, grabbing the softest, thickest socks I’ve ever seen off the rack and hustling over with them.
“You can’t just try these on,” she says tentatively.
“We’ll buy them,” Jake says. “Obviously. She can wear them out.”
“Very good, sir,” she tells him, handing off the socks.
I make quick work of wadding up the old ones andshoving them in my sneakers before pulling on the fluffy ones.
The new socks are like two little woolen clouds. I feel like a new woman. As much as my dad wasn’t one for luxury, he was a big believer in the power of new socks. I always thought that was pretty silly. I get it now.
A few minutes later, I’ve also got a really nice pair of waterproof winter boots that somehow look cute too. Jake has decreed that I’ll be wearing the socks and boots out, so my old gross stuff is packed up in one of the boxes.
We approach another counter and I’m literally afraid of how much this will cost. If he wants me to pay him back, I’ll have to work as his part-time nanny until Dylan is thirty-five.
“You need some gloves,” Jake suddenly says.
I glance up, but he’s looking at Dylan.
“I have mittens,” Dylan reminds him.
“You need gloves that keep your hands warm and dry in the snow,” Jake tells him. “A good hat and scarf too.”
The salesgirl catches us looking at the racks and scurries back over.
“We’re fine on our own,” Jake tells her dismissively without even looking up.
I almost feel bad for her when I see her face fall.
“What about these?” Dylan asks, holding up an absolutely enormous pair of fleece-lined black leather driving gloves.
“Let’s look over here,” I tell him, indicating a smaller rack with the kids’ stuff on it. “The ones at the top are good for making snowballs.”
His face lights up and he grabs a blue pair, but they’re too big.
“They have red ones in your size,” I tell him, holding some out. “These are perfect for making snowballs.”
He tries them on right away, looking absolutely thrilled when they fit… well, like a glove.
I grab him a hat and scarf to match and he beams up at me.
