Page 3 of A Very Beary Christmas
I handed it over with both pride and regret, consoling myself that, if he hung it up in the diner like he’d said he would, I’d still be able to look at it every day. At least until I moved on.
He removed the paper carefully, revealing the forested, mountainous landscape. I had poured my heart and soul into it, losing myself in my memories and the beauty of nature.
He didn’t say anything for a long while, and I began to worry.
“If you don’t like it, I can make you another,” I told him hurriedly. I had used up the last of my rich greens and browns, but I could conceivably eke out a winter scene with whites, grays, and blues.
“It’s beautiful, Chloe,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
I started breathing again, unaware that I had even stopped. “Oh, good.”
“The detail in this bear is simply amazing! So lifelike! He looks as if he’s going to step right out of the canvas.”
Pride welled up in my chest. I loved painting wildlife, but bears were my absolute favorite and were the focal point of a lot of my work. I loved everything about them—their strength, their size, their demeanors. If a fairy godmother came along and told me I could be anything, I would choose to be a bear.Nobodymessed with bears.
“You have real talent, Chloe.” He opened the register and counted out a couple bills. “I feel like I should be paying more.”
I waved him off. Mr. O’Malley was a nice man, and he ran a nice place in a small town well off the beaten path. Tourists who preferred the scenic route to the popular resorts sometimes passed through, but he wasn’t rolling in cash, either. And what he did have, he shared.
From my window, I had seen him open his doors to some of the locals after hours, providing hot meals to those who couldn’t afford it. He reminded me a lot of Sam’s mom that way.
He looked so conflicted, though, that I said, “Tell you what. Set aside some of your amazing beef stew for me, and we’ll call it even.” Mr. O’Malley’s beef stew was to die for, and it was one less meal I had to coax out of my ancient hotplate.
He shook his head but grinned. “You got a deal, Chloe.”
With that, I wished him a good day, promising to be back later to pick it up.
The wind had died down somewhat, but the heavy, gun-metal gray clouds hung ominously overhead. If the increasing ache in my leg was any indication, it wouldn’t be long before the snow started to fall, guaranteeing a white Christmas.
I stuffed my hands deep into my pockets to take advantage of my body heat and continued down the street, my fingers wrapped securely around the cash.
A trip to the thrift shop netted a “new” pair of gloves, a knit hat, some thick socks, and a handful of discounted candles in case I lost power. Afterward, I hit up the grocery store and picked up some canned goods and a loaf of bread from the day-old table. I even splurged on a jar of peanut butter with the jelly mixed right in.
What the hell, I thought. It was only a couple days until Christmas. I might as well live it up.
The first flakes were already falling by the time I made it back to the diner. The place was empty except for a couple of tourists, probably on their way to the big ski resort up north for the holidays. I hoped they were smart enough not to linger. If they waited much longer, the narrow roads up to the resort would be impassable, and their expensive clothing and gear suggested they wouldn’t find any local accommodations up to snuff.
Mr. O’Malley went back into the kitchen and returned with a lidded Styrofoam cup. It was the extra-large size, which meant I would be able to squeeze at least two meals out of it.
“If you lose power, come to the diner,” he told me. “I have a back-up generator and enough fuel to get us through the worst of it.”
I nodded and thanked him, but we both knew I wouldn’t take him up on it. I didn’t take charity. Ever.
