Page 7 of A Very Beary Christmas
Chapter 3
Chloe
The lights went out, throwing the room into near darkness. With a sigh, I stepped away from my painting and carefully placed my palette and brush on the table. The power had held for longer than I had thought it would. The storm had been raging nearly sixteen hours, bringing with it the kind of heavy snow and damaging winds that felled trees and snapped power lines.
Right on cue, the wind howled again in renewed intensity, rattling the windows. I lit a candle, cupping my hands around the feeble flame for a few moments to ward off some of the chill. Then I closed my eyes, telling myself that I wasn’t in my second-floor apartment alone. That I was instead in a grand lodge before a giant hearth, and the heat I felt licking at the tips of my fingers came not from a single wick, but from a stack of thick, seasoned logs fully ablaze.
It worked, sort of. Retreating into my own mind, creating my own reality, was a form of self-preservation I had learned early in life.
I exchanged my fingerless gloves for the ones I’d purchased the day before, then pulled the blanket off my bed and draped it over my shoulders to preserve body heat. A brief glance out the window, looking up and down the street, let me know the outage extended beyond Mrs. Jankowski’s ancient circuit breakers.
Within minutes, I saw lights flicker to life across the street, a welcoming beacon, beckoning the townspeople to the diner, with the promise of heat and light, food and companionship to weather out the remainder of the storm.
Sure enough, over the next hour or two, I could make out dark silhouettes moving amongst the swirling flakes toward O’Malley’s. I wouldn’t be among them. I preferred to ride out the storm in solitude, where I wasn’t expected to make polite conversation.
I had enough social skills to get by, enough for people to assume I was quiet or shy, but I avoided getting close to anyone.
I was a wanderer. A lot of that probably had to do with my transient upbringing. My father and I had moved around a lot. We would stay only long enough for him to earn a few bucks, then move on when people started asking too many questions. In all those years, there was only one place that had felt like home.
I wish I could remember the name of it, or where it had been, but details like that had been lost to time and a beating that had almost killed me. Some things, like Sam and the forest and the lodge, had come back to me in dreams. Other things, like names and places and dates, not so much. One thing I was certain about: if I ever found it again, I would know it.
Part of me hoped that if I did find it again, Sam would still be there. I knew that wasn’t likely, but it gave me something nice to think about and a reason to go on.
My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten for a while. That wasn’t unusual. Sometimes I got so lost in painting that I simply forgot, and the storm had inspired me. It was another landscape, similar to the one I had sold to Mr. O’Malley, but a winter scene.
Even cold, Mr. O’Malley’s stew was delicious and filling. I savored every bite. Then, hunger appeased, I crawled into bed and curled up, willing the dreams to come. I didn’t have to wait long. Within moments of laying my head against the pillow, I was asleep.
“Wow, you’re really good.”
My hand stilled over the paper, and my gaze reached just beyond it, seeing a pair of the hugest feet I had ever seen. I didn’t have to look up to know who it was. Sam, the boy with the golden-brown eyes who seemed determined to talk to me no matter how much I ignored him.
While the other kids chased each other around the playground, I sat under the sprawling tree with my notebook and pencil, sketching the mountains in the distance. It was autumn, but there was snow on the highest peaks. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t seem to get it right.
Sam sat down beside me, close enough for me to feel his warmth and get a whiff of that clean, outdoorsy smell that seemed to cling to him. I liked the scent, though I would never lethimknow that.
I scooted to the side and shot him a scowl. That worked with most people. Not Sam. He just smiled back.
“Want one?”
I looked down at the hand he held out and saw a sandwich of some kind. “What is it?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“PB & J.” When I didn’t respond, he said, “Don’t tell me you don’t like PB & Js. Everyone does.”
I had no idea what a PB & J was, but I didn’t want to look stupid. “Not me.”
“What part don’t you like? The peanut butter or the jelly?”
Ah, so that’s what it stood for.
I shrugged. I liked both.
“My mom makes her own jam out of whatever berries are in season. I bet you’ll like it.”
“Hey, Sam!” one of the kids called from the playground. “You playing or what?”
“Coming!” he yelled back, easily getting to his feet. “We’re playing Manhunt,” he said to me. “It’s like tag and hide-and-seek, only cooler. You wanna?”
I shook my head.
