Page 74 of Please Send Snow
“And let me guess,” I say. “The next time there’s amisunderstanding, you’ll tell him I was only in it for the money.”
He steps back like I’ve physically hit him.
“Maddie, I’m so sorry,” Jake says, his face falling. “I was upset. I know you too well to really think that.”
“Miss Foster,” Michael says, saving me from more excuses. “Would you like a grilled cheese sandwich and some tomato-basil soup?”
“I would love that,” I tell him, trying and failing to wipe the tears from my cheeks with the sleeve of my wet jacket.
“Why don’t you get changed?” Michael suggests. “We’ll have your meal ready for you when you come out.”
“You don’t have to take care of me anymore,” I say softly. “He knows.”
“That was never why I was doing it,” Michael replies, winking at me. “You’re family, Miss Foster. And family takes care of their own.”
I need to gather my thoughts.
“I’ll see you in a minute, Dylan,” I whisper to the boy over the lump in my throat.
“You won’t come back,” he whimpers, holding onto me.
He’s not wrong to worry. I’m tempted to collapse on that cot until the snow melted and his father went back up the mountain.
But I know I won’t. I have to come back to Dylan.
“I’ll be back out to eat dinner with you, okay?” I tell him, crouching so he can see in my eyes that I mean it.
“Don’t cry, Maddie,” Dylan says, cupping my cheek in his little hand as the hot tears slide down.
“It’s okay to cry when you’re sad,” I tell him, wishing I was going to be around long enough to share all the other wisdom my parents shared with me.
How can I walk away from this, even for a minute?
I squeeze his shoulder before rising and letting Michael lead me back to the hallway.
I stop in front of the broom closet but he shakes his head.
“The owner insisted we move you to a guest suite,” he tells me. “Your things are waiting for you there.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. A guest suite doesn’t make up for the way Jake treated me. But it does sound nice to sleep in a bed instead of a cot tonight, and to have a hot shower without sneaking out to the pavilion in the middle of a snowstorm.
Michael continues down the hallway and opens another door to reveal a very familiar room.
“I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of telling him which suite was your father’s favorite,” he says, winking at me again.
I love this room, from the wood paneling to the built-in bookshelves flanking the small fireplace. I can almost see my parents sitting at the little table, Dad laughing his head off while my mom wiped the floor with him in chess. I was so little during that visit, but some memories stick with you.
“Make yourself at home,” Michael says softly, slipping out and closing the door behind him.
By the timeI’ve showered and put on fresh warm clothing, I’m feeling much more like myself.
I sit at the table in the suite for a few minutes, looking out the window at the driving snow and feeling nice and cozy in here with my memories.
But even as I do, I can hear my father’s voice in my head.
Life is about other people, Maddie.
He used to say it when I got frustrated that he wanted to stop and talk to the neighbors and I was in a rush to get home. Or when I got in an argument with a friend and he wanted me to put it behind me.
