Page 41 of Please Send Snow
I’m expecting mine to taste pretty much like a grilled cheese with tomato soup. But there’s something about the crispy, gooey concoction that transcends the simple ingredients.
Or maybe it’s the company.
We all devour our treats while they’re piping hot, moaning over how delicious they are. Dylan insists that I take a bite of his, and when I tell him I like it, Maddie tells me that Elvis Presley used to love peanut butter and banana sandwiches.
I don’t know if it’s true or not, but when Dylan asks who Elvis Presley is, I pull up the music app on my phone and tap on his Christmas hits before setting the phone on the bench beside me.
“Blue Christmas” comes on first.
“That’s my favorite,” Maddie murmurs, her voice tinged with wonder.
I’ll bet it’s a lot of people’s favorite—that’s why it’s first on the stream. But she lights up like she’s the luckiest woman in the world and something about it makes me feel warm inside.
Before I can make a fool of myself staring at her, she grabs two pie irons and she and Dylan make two more, each with plain white bread and raspberry jam inside.
When they’re ready, she cuts one in half for herself and Dylan and gives me the other.
I normally run every day—it keeps me focused and lean. But I’ve been a little lax since we got up here, so I’ve been skipping desserts.
I can’t turn her down though when I see the hopeful pleasure in her eyes. She really wants me to like it.
I’m fully ready to fake it just to please her. But when I take the first bite it melts in my mouth, and I decide that the raspberry concoction is actually the most unbelievably delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. Maybe there’s even alittle magic in it—after all, I saw her make it. I know it’s just buttered bread and jam.
“Now do we tell stories?” Dylan asks suddenly.
He’s super sticky from the jam, and I call him over and use my water bottle to help him clean off his hands and face.
“Ghost stories?” I ask him.
His eyes get really big.
“How about a fairytale?” Maddie puts in quickly. “That’s the kind of story my dad used to tell around the fire.”
“Cinderella,” Dylan decides. “You tell it, Dad.”
He wipes his wet hands on me and scampers across to Maddie, crawling right up into her lap to listen like he’s been doing it his whole life.
I’m not exactly a storyteller, but the two of them are gazing at me expectantly, so I don’t have much of a choice. The show must go on.
“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful young girl named Cinderella,” I begin. “She lived with her father, out in the country, and they were very happy together. But one day, her father told her he had a surprise for her. He was getting married and she would have a new stepmother.”
I settle into the story pretty quickly, after all, everyone knows this one.
But I can’t help noticing how Maddie’s eyes get damp when the father dies. I should have thought about that and picked something different.
Dylan is really into it though, and he even stops me when we get to the fairy godmother’s part.
“You have to do the voice, Dad,” he says earnestly.
I know I should be embarrassed, but it’s just us. I guess Dylan isn’t the only one that’s become instantly comfortable around our new addition. And it’s worth it when Maddie roars at the high-pitched quavery voice I use to tell Cinderella she has to come home at the stroke of midnight.
“The stroke of midnight,” Dylan echoes, taken by this important-sounding turn of phrase.
“That means twelve o’clock at night,” Maddie whispers to him. “The moment the bells on the big clock tower strike, and not a second later.”
“I have to go to bed at the stroke of eight o’clock,” he tells her, nodding wisely. He’s not wrong.
I go on with the story, trying to hide my smile, and the two of them cheer when Cinderella gets her man.
