Snowflakes and Coffee Cakes by Joanne Demaio Page A

next chapter, whether that is a new beginning or an end.
     
    Warmly and with many blessings and holiday cheer,
    Alice
     
    “You didn’t know this was all here when you bought the place?” Brooke asks.
    Vera shakes her head, no. “I guess it was too much to take with her, or to sell off at the time.”
    “Glory be.” Brooke looks at the boxes and few decorations already set out. “It is all so beautiful.”
    “It is, but seriously Brooke, what am I going to do with it all?”
    “You can’t keep it?” Brooke slips out of her quilted riding jacket, leaving a teal scarf around her neck, and heads to the coffee. She hands one to Vera before unwrapping a slice of the cake she’d brought along.
    “Keep it?” Vera asks while peeling the lid from her coffee. She takes a sip and looks around, shaking her head. “No, even though Alice might want me to. I have to clean this place out for the Marches. So I’m thinking more like having a huge holiday tag sale with what’s in that room. I can definitely use the money, and I’ll bet lots of people would like to have some of this. You know, it’s sentimental and all, from the Christmas Barn.”
    “Maybe.” Brooke bites into her cake. “Hey,” she says then. “Speaking of holidays, I meant to ask you about Thanksgiving. I’m having it at my place this year, on account of Mom’s foot. She needs to rest it. So I’m making all the dessert—”
    “As if,” Vera says around a mouthful of cinnamon cake.
    “And my in-laws are making the sides. So I need you to make the turkey.”
    “Me?”
    “Sure. You did it last year, in Boston, and it was so good.”
    “I guess I could. You must have a portable platter of some sort, so I can cook it here and bring it with me?”
    “Definitely.”
    “Okay then,” Vera says, sipping her steaming coffee. “That’s settled. Wish the rest of this was as easy.” She sets down her cup and lifts out pinecone mantle decorations and large gold candles. “Hm, these would look good right here.” She sets them on a narrow shelf that looks like a dark mantle, the candles and pinecones nestled among sprigs of greenery.
    Brooke pulls out another box and rips open the flaps, silently lifting out needlepoint stockings and hanging them on nails beneath the mantle shelf. “This stuff’s gorgeous,” she whispers, then pulls a blue snowflake tree skirt from the bottom of the box, flipping it open with a swoosh as though the flakes are fluttering in the cold November barn air.

Chapter Eleven
    JUST LAST WEEK VERA HUNG a twig and berry wreath on her newly-stained wood plank front door. It’s hard to believe that the wreath and dried cornstalks and potted mums set around her lamppost will all be put away soon, making way for twinkling lights and garland. But for now, it’s Thanksgiving.
    She turns on the kitchen television in time for an important steadfast tradition, her father’s holiday forecast.
    “Snow, snow, snow?” He shakes his head and motions to the clear weather map of the east coast. “No, no, no.” The map widens, showing the entire country. “The sunny morning is custom-made for high school football games across the land,” he continues. “But be sure to bring your blankets, and scarves and mittens too. Because it’s awfully cold out there. What I am predicting is a rushed return to warm houses filled with rattling pots and pans, tinkling silverware, and the best part of the holiday … that aroma, oh that delicious scent of turkey cooking in the oven when you walk in from the cold.”
    “Wait.” Vera sniffs the air in the kitchen. Then she goes outside to the chilly morning and stops on the front stoop for a minute while rubbing her hands in the cold before walking back inside to sniff again.
    Nothing.
    She looks at her father wearing his snowflake tie on Thanksgiving, wishing and hoping for a bit of snow, hoping to usher in the Christmas season this weekend with at least a dusting of the white stuff. “Not on the