Chapter 11:

First Snowfall in Snowflake

She is flighty and nervous and high-strung and antsy and I know before stepping off the elevator straight into her penthouse apartment that working for Fern Chamomile is going to make for one helluva Christmas Eve.

“Thank GOD!” she says the minute I step onto the marble floor of her spacious foyer, juggling a chafing dish in one hand and her menu for the evening in the other. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you?”

I don’t have to look at my watch to ready my reply: “Ms. Chamomile, I’m 20-minutes early!”

She looks vaguely… disappointed.

“Oh,” she says, recovering quickly and flashing her large, brown eyes at me. “Well, I always tell my advertising clients if you’re not 30-minutes early, then you’re already late!”

“Yes ma’am,” I grumble, figuring that even if I’d said I was 30-minutes early, she still would have complained about not being 40-minutes early.

“And quit calling me ‘ma’am,’ already. I doubt I’m much older than you, uh…”

She leaves that little pause there at the end; the one where I’m supposed to say my name.

“Scott,” I say, passing over her gilded gold and silver holiday menu and extending my hand after she’s snatched it from me.

She ignores it and says, “Great; good. Scott it is, then. Okay, Scott, why don’t you start setting up over there on the grand buffet overlooking the water? I’ve got some last minute calls to make, so…”

Her voice fades out as her back turns toward me; I’ve just been dismissed.

I shrug and slide the heavy chafing dish – the first of many – onto a low-slung table covered by a thick, black cloth.

While she’s frantically working the phone, I sneak a peek out the floor to ceiling window of her spacious, sunken living room; 12 stories below us the Atlantic Ocean pounds the dull, gray beach with intensity so fierce I can hear it all the way through the thick hurricane glass.

I sigh and turn, gazing at the crisp white walls covered only with small, oval mirrors in muted, silver frames.

The furnishings are equally minimal; low-slung white leather chairs dotting the dark hardwood floors with a small, silver table next to each.

A fireplace dominates the far wall, crisply crackling and surrounded by a roughhewn mantel filled with a variety of shapes and sizes of snow globes; all with silver bases, all featuring silver snowflakes inside.

Between them are simple glass votives featuring flickering white candles.

From somewhere overhead, well-disguised ceiling speakers play quiet, soft, instrumental Christmas music; it’s a mix between that slow, arty Winter Solstice stuff my Dad loves and the mellow but funky smooth jazz Christmas carols my Mom listens to, pretty much from the day after Halloween until Valentine’s Day Eve.

In the middle of the room is a towering Christmas tree, 12-feet tall if it’s an inch, flocked with fake, white snow and covered in white lights and dangling silver ornaments.

Even though it’s only midday, the sky outside Fern’s six sliding glass doors is savage and gray; they’ve been warning of an early snowfall since I got into work at six this morning.

I retreat to the elevator, ride it all the way back down and sling the dolly out of the back of the Simply Snowflake delivery van.

Christmas Eve is our busiest day, and all around town the forest green delivery trucks with the famous gold lettering are pulling up to big houses and fancy condos and office buildings, unloading the finest holiday treats from the bustling Simply Snowflake kitchen.

Tonight Fern has ordered the Platinum Special for 30; enough warm and cold hors d’ oeuvres, bubbly champagne and finger foods to feed her entire high-powered, ad agency client list – and then some.

Which means even after an hour spent going up and down, down and up to her pricey penthouse loft and back again, I’ve still got another hour of back and forth to go.

And that’s before I can start setting up in her actual apartment.

The snow starts, fat and heavy, just as I’m piling the last load on the dolly; two more cases of champagne, a flat of clean tablecloths and two boxes of clear, white Christmas lights to string between the ice buckets and chafing dishes on the endless buffet table.

I stow the dolly just inside the lobby, move the delivery van out of the loading bay and into a parking space around back, then return to load the last dolly into Fern’s private elevator.

Upstairs I unload the last of the boxes in the shimmering foyer only to find Fern on the patio, smoke billowing from between her thick, if pursed lips.

At first I figure it’s just because it’s so darn cold, but then I see the thin pack of cigarettes and short black lighter clutched for dear life in her left hand.

I let her have her “secret” and get to work, feeling the chill blast through the living room as she stumbles back inside some five minutes later.

“Looks good,” she says absently, but the compliment doesn’t stop her from rearranging a spray of silver spray-painted twigs I’d arranged next to the spotless champagne glasses.

I smirk and begin warming the individual baked brie in her oven, rotating them with the bacon-wrapped scallops to ensure freshness and just the right “crispness” in both.

Meanwhile the champagne is chilling, the red wine is breathing and I find Fern to ask her where I can change into what my boss calls my “serving attire.”

(And my ex-girlfriend Amber always called my “monkey suit.” You stay classy, Amber!!!)

Fern looks nervous and distracted, biting her freshly manicured nails down to the quick as she paces back and forth in the empty foyer, her high heels making “clackety-clacking” noises with every long, athletic stride.

“There’s a guest room in the back,” she says, looking me up and down with a brief flicker from those big brown eyes. “Try not to disrupt the vacuum pattern in the carpet, will you? I’m hoping to use it as a coat room if any of my frickin’ guests ever show up tonight!”

I stifle a chuckle and try to do as she wishes; changing in the bathroom and hanging my work khakis and pine green Simply Snowflake pullover in the shower after I change into my black slacks, white shirt and thin black tie.

I manage to exit the guest room without my thick-soled black work shoes leaving any damaging marks on her gray guest room carpet, only to find Fern practically whimpering into the phone, “But Miles, you’re the sixth guest to cancel in the last 20-minutes. Surely you’re not letting a little snow… yes, yes, I understand it’s more than a little slow, plus the slush. I want you to feel comfortable and I know it’s Christmas Eve… okay, fine. Sure, maybe New Year’s. I’d really like to nail down your account before… yes, yes, ‘Merry Christmas’ to you too, Miles.”

I stand in the kitchen, remaining silent while she stares at the phone.

“Can you believe that?” she asks me, voice still hushed as her soft eyes meet mine. “They’re all bailing on me.”

“All?” I ask, tempted to accuse her of exaggeration.

After all, six guests canceling out of 30 is hardly cause for panic.

“Not all,” she scoffs, giving me her officious look. “But enough. These aren’t friends and family, Scott; these are clients. Two or three clients backing out is bad. Six clients is… brutal.”

I’m about to offer some small measure of condolence, or at least ask where she’d like me to stand when the guests who are coming do arrive, when the phone rings again; and again – and again.

I get used to the awkward sound of her pleading voice, her disappointed voice, to watching her pace the heels off her sparkly silver shoes as her long, black-hosed legs work furiously up and down the length of the living room, spilling from her short silver skirt and matching brocade jacket.

Her hair is raven black and keeps brushing against her high, stiff collar; in her ears are small but brilliant diamond studs.

Around her neck is a simple silver chain, flat and shiny against her bare, white skin.

Seven o’clock comes and goes while Fern steadily paces the floor, disappointment etched into her young, 20-something face as I shift from foot to foot behind the shimmering, candlelit and quite untouched serving table.

“Oh my god,” she squeals after the latest call, tossing the phone onto the nearest leather chair in disgust. “That’s it; I’m officially ruined!”

“Fern?” I ask.

“30 discreet invites just before Thanksgiving, 30 courteous RSVPs as of last week, two hours of snowfall and that’s all it takes for all of them, every last one of my potential clients, to bail on me. I can’t believe it! You’d think in a town called Snowflake, for Pete’s sake, folks would be able to drive in a little SNOW. These people act like it’s raining anvils and meteors out there or something!”

With that she whips open the nearest slider dramatically, stepping onto the snow-covered patio and peering down into the raging Atlantic Ocean a dozen stories below.

I can’t tell if she’s getting ready to scream “I’m mad as hell and not going to take it anymore,” light up another coffin nail or throw herself directly into the floundering sea.

By now we’re coming on eight, and the chafing dishes are in full swing; if I don’t keep turning the scallops and rotating the baked brie like clockwork, they’ll scorch on one side and… well, I suppose, who cares now, right?

I turn them down and start to pace myself.

I’ve never been in this situation before.

Not that I’ve been doing it long but, in two Christmases of working for Simply Snowflake this has never happened to me.

I know the food can’t be returned, that even if Fern calls the party off now – which she probably will – she’ll have to pay for the entire evening, even if she sends me home two minutes from now.

Fern emerges from the patio, her hair damp with snow, her jacket spotted with moisture, her face moist from… well… I’d like to say snow but nothing but crying – and plenty of it – makes your eyes look that red.

“What should I do?” she asks, voice pleading, eyes empty. “I mean, I would hate for all this food to go to waste.”

“What about your neighbors?” I ask. “I mean, if I lived next door I’d love to get a knock on the door offering me all the free champagne and brie I could eat!”

She’s already shaking her head halfway through my suggestion.

“All my neighbors hate me,” she confesses, quietly slipping the diamond studs from her ear and sliding them into a kitchen drawer for safe keeping.

I smile; my Mom used to do that after a dinner party, too.

Never before; always after.

“They wouldn’t even answer the door if they looked through the peephole and saw it was me.”

I shrug.

“Well, I know Simply Snowflake sponsors the local homeless shelter. We’re always taking them leftovers after big parties like this?”
“That’d be nice,” she says listlessly, kicking off her shoes into the foyer closet. “At least someone would have a nice Christmas Eve.”

I sigh, not looking forward to breaking down the entire dinner and then schlepping it all the way across town after working all afternoon setting it up.

I start for the buffet table and just then the power kicks out; the music stops, the lights blank out and the giant tree grows dark.

“Well,” she says, “so much for that.”

I stare at the darkened elevator and ask, “No stairs?”

“Oh sure,” she harrumphs, leaning against the kitchen door. “You gonna haul a complete dinner for 30 people down 12 flights of stairs? It took you about 40 trips up the elevator, how many do you think it’s going to take going down the stairs?”

“A lot?”

She snorts, a first, then sighs.

“Listen, no disrespect to the homeless of Snowflake, South Carolina but… I haven’t eaten all day. Have you?”

I go to shake my head but, at that very moment, my empty stomach decides to rumble and answer for me.

“Exactly,” she smiles, looking at me with something resembling actual human emotion for the first time all evening. “Why don’t we sit out the storm, have a little snack, maybe some bubbly and then, when the power comes back on, you can at least use the elevator, right?”

“I don’t know,” I hem, mouth watering over the warm, rich smells of the warm, rich food that permeates the spacious penthouse. “I’m not really supposed to eat, let alone drink, with the clientele.”

“Oh please,” she says, slipping out of her jacket and revealing a snug black, sleeveless sweater beneath. “Who’s going to know? You think your boss is going around during a power outage, checking every employee’s breath for bubbly fumes?”

I smile and she strides to the table, still at least 5’ 9” with her heels in the foyer closet!

I pop the bubbly as she arrives, pouring generous helpings into two nearby glasses.

She takes one, I take one and go to take a sip.

“What, no toast?” she snarks before it reaches my dry, parched lips.

“Merry Christmas?” I ask/answer, clinking her glass.

She winks and says, “It’s getting there…”

I make us both a plate, and bring them over to where she’s taken a seat in one of a pair of buttery white leather chairs that face each other across from a small, square silver table.

She has moved candles all around so that the space is well-lit.

In many ways, other than the howling storm outside and the lack of Christmas tree lights, it’s like the power hasn’t gone out at all.

“Mmmmm,” she says, taking her first bite of baked brie. “Those clowns don’t know what they’re missing.”

Her voice has an edge of bitterness, at least until her second glass of champagne.

By then we’ve nibbled our way through most of what the buffet table had to offer, and have eased back into our seats, the champagne mostly gone, the two empty plates stacked up on top of each other to make room for the flickering candles and half-empty glasses.

“My compliments to the chef,” she says, crossing her long, luxurious legs.

Her brown eyes swim in the candlelight, the warm glow caressing the hollows of her soft, feminine face.

“I’ll be glad to let her know if I ever get home.”

She makes a big show of pouting and says, “Ah, would staying over be so bad?”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” I stammer.

“Relax, Scott; I was only kidding. Hopefully the storm will die down soon and—”

Just then a massive gust of wind rattles the hurricane door behind her; snow swirling outside in the dark like a snowman trying to will itself to life.

Already the balcony is piled high with an inch of the white stuff, and still more has collected on the buried deck chairs.

“Then again,” she says, sighing contentedly and draining the last of her glass.

She holds the empty out playfully and I groan, standing to take away the plates and bring back a new bottle, chilled steam wafting from its stem after I opened it at the buffet table.

“I’m wondering if I still have to tip you even if nobody shows,” she says playfully over the lip of her recently filled glass.

“Hey, I’m still on the clock aren’t I?” I joke.

She rolls her eyes and sets her glass down, as if she wasn’t really thirsty, but wanted the option just the same.

I do the same and try not to stare at her long, slender arms.

Ditto for her legs and the way her small, pert breasts press at the clingy material of her expensive black, sleeveless sweater.

Meanwhile, her eyes look everywhere but at me; they roam the walls, gazing into the well-spaced oval mirrors or at the flickering fireplace.

“Penny for your thoughts,” I say quietly, so as not to jar her.

She looks back at me, focuses her eyes and says, voice cracking, “I’m just taking one last look around at the place before I have to leave.”

“What? You’re going somewhere?”

“I used to think so,” she says cryptically, avoiding my eyes and reaching for her champagne; she finishes half the glass in one quick swig.

Finally I get her and say, “Fern, it’s just one bad night; one rotten storm with really, really bad timing. I guarantee you after a good night’s sleep you’ll—”

She shakes her head and looks away, biting her lip until she says, “You don’t get it, Scott; tonight was my Hail Mary pass, you know? My three pointer from just under the other team’s basket, with 4 seconds left in the game.”

She pauses, holds up her hands, lets them fall back to the top of her thighs where they land with an unflattering “snap.”

“I’m done, finished, through. Those 30 clients were me casting a net on the best and brightest in Snowflake. I was hoping to snag at least one to make it through the rest of the month. I’m broke, Scott; flat busted. Now there’s no chance of making my bills in December.”

“You don’t mean that, Fern,” I say, though she doesn’t seem the type for histrionics.

“I wish I didn’t, Scott, and I don’t mean to dump this all on you on Christmas Eve, it’s just… I really thought I could save it all tonight, you know? Put on a good show, serve the best food, play the right music, show the fat cats in Snowflake I know what I’m doing. Now? Now it’s all come tumbling down; I’m a fraud, a sham, a fake.”

“Fern, listen…”

“I’m serious, Scott. You really think 30 people canceled on my party because of a little snow?”
“It IS coming down, Fern.”

“Yeah, now it is. Not when they called to cancel. Word gets out in a small town, Scott. One couple decided my lavish Christmas Eve gala wasn’t worth it; then they told two friends, and they told two friends… and word got out. I’ve seen it happen before; that’s why I moved here from the city. I figured life in Snowflake would be different. Nicer, you know? Calmer, quieter, less BS, red tape and politics. But it’s just the same here as everywhere else I’ve ever been; maybe even worse.”

“It takes time for a new business to grow,” I say, helpfully.

She chuckles wryly and finishes her glass.

Rather than wait for me to pour for her, she fills it herself; even tops mine off.

“I know that, Scott, really I do. I’m not trying to sound like a flake or exaggerate but, ever since I moved to Snowflake six months ago, I’ve been living on borrowed time.”

“What do you mean, Fern?”

“My office, my Jaguar, this condo, these very chairs we’re sitting in; they’re all leased. I haven’t been able to pay my bills for the last two months; I’m screwed. They’ll be moving guys here tomorrow morning if I don’t rob a bank tonight!”

Her voice is high-pitched, her face flushed.

I open my mouth to say something but… what’s to say?

“Oh God,” she says, putting her glass down and covering her face with her hands. “What am I doing? Why did I just tell you all that? You must think I’m the biggest loser ever, Scott.”

“Me?” I ask, looking away. “The guy lugging up your baked brie and heating up your scallops and pouring your champagne thinks YOU’RE a loser? What do you think I’m doing here, Fern? Living the dream?”
My voice sounds a tad bitter, and I’m sorry about that.

She waits me out; waits to hear my story.

I take one deep breath, only one, and say, “I left college three years ago to take Hollywood by storm. It took less than a year to kick my butt. I moved home – literally, into my parents’ basement – and have been working at Simply Snowflake since last Christmas. On weekends, I wait tables at Café Kringle. My girlfriend broke up with my on the 4^th of July, citing my ‘rampant lack of ambition,’ I think she called it. So, here I am. Here I am to tell you that you are NOT a loser, Fern.”

She snorts; her eyes haven’t left me during my entire diatribe.

“Fine, Scott; we’re not losers. So… what are we?”
Her question takes me by surprise; so does the snort that erupts from my nose/mouth combo!

“I… have no idea,” I confess, mesmerized by how full and wet her lips look in the flickering candlelight. “But I don’t feel like a loser, do you?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, I do, but… not as much of a loser when you’re around.”

After a beat she picks up her champagne glass again and asks, “So, you’ve crashed and burned and picked up the pieces again, Scott. What am I supposed to do now?”

“Downsize, for one! Let the lease lapse on this place, get a smaller one; a much smaller one. Let your office space go and work from home, for another. Get a used car. If you can’t afford a used car, I’ll lend you my bike!”

“Really?” she asks. “You’d do that?”

“Well, when I’m not using it that is. Which I mostly am because… I’m in between cars at the moment.”

Her laugh is warm as honey and soft as the Christmas music that was playing earlier.

“Okay, so I downsize and… then what? What do I do for clients, Scott? I mean, since you’re revamping my life and all?”

Her tone is still haughty, like she’s joking, but her eyes are serious; almost… pleading.

“Well,” I brainstorm out loud. “I know Simply Snowflake is getting ready to head into its slow season. After Christmas and until just before Valentine’s Day is pretty beat for us. I’m sure my boss could use your services, you know, on a month-to-month basis pretty soon, if that would help.”

“You’d do that for me?” she asks, leaning forward in her seat.

“I’d do it for us,” I shrug. “I’m sure you could help give Simply Snowflake a busy January, and Simply Snowflake could mean you stay in business through January. Maybe, if it works out, through Valentine’s Day as well.”

She shakes her head, voice soft as she says, “I don’t know how to repay you, Scott. And to think I was such a creep when you got here tonight. I can’t believe you’re still even talking to me, let alone helping me…”

“I’m used to it,” I say, the champagne hitting me all at once. “Besides, I usually let the hot clients slide when they act like that.”

She snorts and sighs all at once, sitting back in her chair in an… inviting… way.

I stand and reach for the champagne bottle; go to fill her glass.

I mean, what have I got to lose at this point, right?

The candlelight is soft in her eyes and flickers along her moist, full lips as I lean over to pour the bubbly into her glass.

She touches my hand, softly, and leans up to kiss me; she tastes like cranberry and champagne.

I pull her from the chair and she glides up to meet me, willingly.

Our bodies dance around the living room, warm and entangled as the storm rages on, rages on… and on.

Only later, much later, do the lights come back on, illuminating her half-naked body as she snoozes, content, on the fuzzy white rug in front of the fire.

By then the candles have long since burned down, and the tree, and the music, are a fitting way to ring in Christmas morning…