A Snowfall Kind of Love

Summary: There's one thing on my grown-up Christmas list, and while it includes a number of specifics in varying degrees of dirtiness, it really all boils to the one thing I've wanted for a year and a half: a do-gooder with unruly hair and a Mister Rogers sweater, and a lifetime of nights that would land me squarely on the naughty list.

. . .

Somewhat rambly A/N: (Feel free to skip ahead to the story; my feelings won't be hurt.) I lost my father in an accident when I was a teenager. My mother wasn't feeling up to putting up a Christmas tree that year; neither my sister nor I could bring ourselves to argue with her. One day just before the holiday, the three of us went out for some forgotten errand. When we got home, my mother's best friend had let herself into our house, put up the tree, decorated it for us, then went home. I'll never forget that. I'll never forget what it felt like to feel heartbroken at Christmas, just as I'll never forget what it felt like to realize how loved we were, even when we were hurting too deeply to see it.

To those of you who have shared painful memories of Christmases past and present with me: I wish you joy and comfort this holiday season and in the coming year. xo

. . .

December 16

(Nine days until Christmas)

"Holy shit, it's cold out here," Alice pants, her nose and cheeks a blazing red, hair sticking out in haphazard wisps from beneath her woolly hat. "We've been running for twenty minutes and I'm still freezing. Can we just call it a day?"

"Ugh," I pant by way of agreement, dragging my now-backup mitten beneath my nose, which may or may not be running – it went numb about ten minutes ago. "Yes. We're stupid."

"I ate seven of those cookies," Alice says, hands propped on her hips as she walks in a circle, her black and neon pink sneakers bright against the bleak winter backdrop. In fact, Alice herself is a pretty vivid picture, with her black-and-neon-orange running pants, her vibrant purple hooded sweatshirt, and her hot pink hat. It sort of looks like a Nike catalog threw up on her. "We had to do something. Running is free."

I groan, propping myself up against a tree to stretch my hamstring. "Until we slip on an ice patch and wind up in the ER."

"Until that happens," she agrees, drawing to a halt and leaning against the tree beside me. "We should find a yoga class for poor people."

"Otherwise known as buying a yoga DVD from the bargain bin at Wal-Mart and doing it in the living room?"

"Sounds about right." She tips her head back, resting it against the bark of the tree and staring up at the gray sky. "My lungs are burning. And my legs. And my face, actually. Why do people do this again?"

"I have no idea."

"Know how it's pretty obvious we're bad at this?"

"How?"

"We forgot to turn around."

"What?"

"We should have turned around about ten minutes ago. That way, we were back at home by the time we felt like we were going to die. Now we have to walk all the way home. And I'd imagine it's only going to be colder when we're not running."

"Oh." I frown. "Yup, that was pretty stupid."

"We should buy coffee for the walk back. And a muffin or something, since we must have burned at least 500 calories, if only through shivering."

I laugh. "At least."

Once we've procured beverages, plus a muffin for Alice and a chocolate croissant for me, and we're walking home, Alice half-turns to face me. "So, change of plans: I'm not going home for Christmas."

"What? Why not?"

She shrugs, blowing into the lid of her cup. "It's too expensive. And my dad bought my mom a cruise for Christmas, which leaves on Boxing Day. Plus, Jasper has to work Christmas week, and…I don't really want to leave him. And you're here."

Suspicion creeps in as I listen to her ramble. "Alice."

"Bella."

"Tell me this isn't because of my mother."

"This isn't because of your mother," she parrots, an obedient schoolgirl.

"Alice."

"It really isn't. Do I feel badly for you? Yes. But I feel more badly for your idiot mother, because you're awesome and she's missing out on that. But really, I want to be with the people I love at Christmas. And I love my parents, of course I do, but I love you and Jasper, and I just…want to be home. Plus, their condo isn't home. And they're leaving at the crack of dawn on December 26 anyway."

I debate arguing the point, but who am I to tell Alice where she should be spending Christmas? Who am I to argue with her about home? "Okay," I say.

"I thought we could plan dinner," she says, and suddenly she's alight with Alice-energy, eyes bright and the bobble on her hat bobbing. "We can invite Emmett and Jasper and – well, anybody else who doesn't have plans." The way focuses on peeling the wrapper from her muffin makes me think she was going to say something else – something like "Edward," maybe – but she barrels on. "I'll make…well, the only thing I really can make that's appropriate for Christmas dinner is green bean casserole. But I'll help you with whatever else. And we'll order pies from The Cakery and drink lots of booze and stuff ourselves stupid and watch some Christmas movies and open presents and just do Christmas up right." And as she rambles, it takes shape in my mind: this new Christmas, a new tradition. "What do you think?" she asks, watching my face, and I feel the smile spreading before I'm aware of it.

"I think it sounds awesome. We can make a ham."

"Oh, God, I love ham."

I laugh, a relieved kind of joy bubbling up in me. "Me too."

Alice beams, blue-gray eyes bright above her pink cheeks. "I have to say something real fast, and then I'll keep my nosiness to a minimum."

"Okay."

"You're my best friend. I've never really had a best girlfriend, but you're it. And I want you to be happy. I want the absolute best things for you, whatever they are, and I will support you no matter what you pursue, if you want it." She pauses, expectant, so I nod. "So I'm only going to voice my opinion once, and then I'll back whatever you choose."

"Okay…"

"Boston would be lucky to have you. But I'll miss you like crazy if you go. And for purely selfish reasons, I really hope you stay."

The sting in my eyes could easily be explained away by the cold, but the warmth spreading through my chest has nothing to do with my coffee. "Thank you, Alice. I'll miss you like crazy if I go, too."

She nods, and is opening her mouth to continue when I feel a small bump against the bag holding my croissant. When I look down, there's a dirty, too-thin dog pressing its wet nose against the bag. I jump in surprise, but quickly settle as I watch the dog take a wary step back, ducking his head and flattening his ears. "Hey, it's okay." I slowly lower myself to a knee and hold out a gloved hand. The dog eyes it warily, but makes no move to come any closer. "It's okay," I murmur again, and his tail gives a short, low wag, but his ears stay flattened. "Alice, give me your muffin."

"Excuse me?"

"Your muffin," I say without looking at her. "Let me give him some of it."

"Pretty sure he was sniffing around your croissant," she grumbles halfheartedly, pressing her unwrapped but uneaten muffin into my mittened palm.

"Dogs can't eat chocolate," I say, breaking off a third of the muffin and holding it out, close to the ground. The dog eyes it, tail wagging a little more, but he still doesn't move closer. I set the chunk of muffin on the concrete, and sit back. He takes a hesitant step, moving from side to side in equivocation before finally creeping forward slightly and stretching his neck as far as he can to snag the bite from the ground. "Good boy," I hum, breaking off another third of the muffin and setting it back on the ground between us. This time, his hesitation lasts only half as long before he gently picks it up and scarfs it down. The last piece I hold out in my open palm, and he watches me carefully for a moment before stepping forward and plucking it from my hand. Once it's disappeared, he sniffs around my hand, nudging it with his nose to be sure I'm not hiding anything more. I laugh. "Sorry, buddy. That's all of it."

"Do you think he's lost?" Alice asks, but her voice is doubtful. He's too thin, too dirty, too ragged-looking to belong to anyone. Or, at least, anyone who cares about him.

"If he is, he's been lost for a while," I reply, straightening slowly and feeling my legs ache as I do so. He watches me rise from wary brown eyes, head ducking slightly but tail still wagging in tight, contained sweeps.

"Should we call somebody?"

"I don't know," I say. "Maybe…" As we watch, the dog takes a step closer and sniffs my bag again. "Sorry, buddy. You can't have that." But the hope in those big brown eyes is torture. "Maybe we can take him home and give him something to eat and find a safe place to take him. I don't want to call animal control; he might wind up in a kill shelter or something."

"Okay, yeah. That's a good idea." Stepping closer, Alice wrinkles her nose. "He reeks, though."

"Really?"

"You don't smell him? He smells like wet dog that's been rolling around in garbage."

"Well, Alice, he probably is a wet dog that's been rolling around in garbage."

"Then maybe the first thing we should give him is a bath."

"Good idea."

Alice eyes the dog warily. "How do we get him home?"

It's a good question. Neither of us has anything that would double as a leash, and he doesn't have a collar to fasten one to, anyway. "Maybe if I wait here, you can go home and get your car." At her face, I amend, "My car." Reaching into the zippered pocket of my workout pants, I fish out our house key. "Here," I say, stepping toward her. As I do, the dog echoes my step forward. "Huh." I take another step; again, he's at my heels. "Maybe…" I take a few more steps; he shadows every one. "Well, okay then. Guess we're walking."

Sure enough, the dog follows Alice and me the entire way home. By the time we turn onto our street, he's walking very nearly between us.

As we approach our front door, Alice spots it before I do and elbows me. When I look up, there's a long red envelope taped to the door with a gold bow stuck to its corner. "Damn! We missed him!"

The dog flinches at Alice's sudden shout, and I place a reassuring hand on the warm crown of his head. "Easy, Alice."

"Sorry." She yanks the envelope from the door. "But seriously. I want to catch him in the act." She pauses. "But then again, I sort of don't. This is the most exciting thing going on in my life, at the moment, so…" She shrugs, holding the envelope out to me.

"Well, my hands are too frozen to open it out here, so let's get inside."

Once in, I peel my mittens off and reach for the envelope, peeling it open and sticking the bow to Alice's forehead. She giggles, plucking it off and sticking it to her coffee cup. When I open the envelope, there's no note, but rather a pair of tickets. It only takes a glance for the name to stand out. "The Nutcracker," I read.

"I get it!" Alice yells suddenly, snatching the tickets and holding them aloft. "Dancing!"

I nod, pulling off my hat. "Yeah, Alice. It's The Nutcracker. There's dancing."

"Ladies dancing," she emphasizes, and I frown.

"Well, really, it's mostly children and animals and…candy and stuff. Although I guess the Sugar Plum Fairy is a lady."

"No!" Alice says, grabbing and squeezing my forearm in her excitement. "Nine ladies dancing."

"What…" I begin, even as I start to catch on, remembering that first note – the only other note, until now – and its reference to the twelve days of the season. I'd sort of forgotten it with the subsequent gifts.

"The first one was twelve chocolates. Twelve. Then a drum of popcorn. Then…" She stops, frowning, ticking numbers off on her fingers.

"Gloves," I supply. "And I'm more of a mitten girl. So gloves really—"

"Gloves!" she nearly shrieks, and the dog barks. "Gloves, with ten fingers. And now this—" Here, she holds the tickets aloft again – "Ladies dancing! He's doing the Twelve Days of Christmas." Almost immediately, I think back to Edward's criticism of the song while we were decorating the House. "That's…really sweet, actually," Alice says, looking down at the tickets. "I didn't realize Emmett had it in him."

I did, but I don't tell Alice this. Emmett is romantic, but he doesn't broadcast it. His sweetness is undeniable – anyone who knows him can see how much he cares about the people around him – but he always tried to do little things like this. To show his love in tangible ways. Almost immediately, I feel guilty that I'm not more smitten. More grateful. More…something. I feel terrible at the undeniable knowledge that, if this gesture were coming from someone else, it would be the most romantic, most amazing thing anyone had ever done for me. As it is, it just makes me feel badly that I'm not more swept away. Emmett knows how much I love Christmas; that he's gone to all this effort makes my heart hurt. I remember playing the Nutcracker theme on loop in my car last year, when Emmett and I first started hanging out, and how he'd laughed and admitted he didn't really "get it," the whole Nutcracker thing. But he remembered, all the same.

"Nothing, huh?" Alice says, her eyes softly sympathetic, as if she's been able to follow every thought that has meandered through my mind. I shrug, and Alice sighs. "And no forward movement on the Edward front?"

"Nope." As if he, too, has picked up on my sudden bout of wistfulness, the dog nudges my hand. I stroke his head, scratching lightly behind his ears.

Sighing again, she glances down. "Well, you could always try the same trick that worked on the dog." When she sees my frown, her face breaks into a devilish smile. "Give him a bite of your muffin."

"Alice!" I holler, but as I chuck the balled-up wrapping paper at her, I'm grinning.

"Seriously," she says, laughing along with me. "What have you got to lose?"

"Oh, nothing, just my pride," I volley, but I'm still smiling. With Alice teasing me, it doesn't seem quite so dire.

"Pfft," she scoffs. "Pride's pretty poor company on cold winter nights."

"Yeah, well, so are foul-smelling canines. Let's get this guy in the tub."


After getting the dog – who, it turns out, is a she and not a he – scrubbed and calling a vet chosen at random from the Yellow Pages, I leave our new furry friend in Alice's dubious but capable care and head over to Grove House with the bags of popcorn I popped last night and a few spools of thread. Soon I'm sitting cross-legged beside Redford, with Edward sitting across from me, doubt written pretty clearly across his face.

"It seems like we're just inviting a rodent problem," he says as I hold the string aloft, and I chuck a piece of popcorn at his face. Quick as lightning, he opens his mouth and his tongue darts out to catch it before disappearing back into his mouth. He smirks as he chews. "Delicious. If slightly stale."

I will myself not to blush at something as stupid as a seconds-long glimpse of his tongue. "Scrooge."

"I'm just saying. We're diligent about putting food away so we don't get mice in here, and then we're going to just dangle snacks from low-hanging branches like a vermin buffet?"

"Just…shut up and string," I tell him, and he glances at me once before obediently picking up a length of green thread and a needle. We're quiet for a few minutes before he clears his throat.

"Everything okay?"

Surprised, I look up. "What?"

He breaks my gaze, stabbing a piece of popcorn. "You usually give me more pushback than that. More…'Hooray, Christmas.' Everything okay?"

I shrug. "Yeah. Just tired."

I feel rather than see the piece of popcorn bounce off my forehead. When I look up, he's smiling, but it's small and is tempered by the crease between his eyes. "What's up?"

I string a few more kernels, and when I realize he's still watching me, I sigh. "My mom's Christmas card came back. The address was right, but it got returned."

"Oh," he says after a moment, and I hate the pity in his voice nearly as much as I hate the fact that it's not entirely unwarranted.

"I just…I can't believe she could move without even telling me."

"Maybe it was a mistake?"

"I tried to call her. Her number's been disconnected."

"Oh." He's quiet for a long time, diligently stringing popcorn, his long fingers working the needle through each individual piece.

"I don't even know why this bothers me. We hardly speak, anyway. It shouldn't even matter."

"But it does."

"Yeah. I guess it does." But I'm frowning at the winding trail of popcorn in my lap, lost in my own confusion. I still don't know why it does.

"Can I ask a question?" he asks after a long moment, pulling the needle free and tying a knot in the short tail of thread at the end of his popcorn chain before setting the completed string down beside him.

"Sure."

"Would it matter as much if it had been her birthday card?"

"What?"

He puts his bowl of popcorn on the floor beside him and brings his knees up, wrapping his arms around them. "Would you be this upset if it wasn't Christmas?"

It takes me a minute to come around to his meaning, but when I do, I realize that for all the distance we keep between us, Edward might know me even better than Alice.

It's Christmas. The time of year for family. For miracles. For wishes and dreams and hope. It's the time of year that bursts with possibility. And my mother has just stomped all over it in her ugly, clumpy Birkenstocks.

"No," I say softly, staring down at the unfinished string of popcorn in my lap, which begins to swim before my eyes. "No, probably not."

"Bella," Edward says softly, and I remember his discomfort when I cried over Charlie all too recently, his barely-obscured desire for my momentary meltdown to pass as quickly as possible. Still, in this moment, he doesn't look awkward or uncomfortable. Just…sad. Sympathetic. Somehow, it's worse.

"Sorry," I say quickly, looking away as I press a fingertip to the corner of my eye.

"Don't be sorry," he says, voice rough, and when I look back up at him, I wish I could let myself believe that the look in his eyes was love.

"I'm fine."

"I know you are."

We stare at each other in silence for a minute before I incline my chin toward him. "So, what's with the beard?" I ask, chucking another piece of popcorn at his face. Again, he catches it, and again, the flash of his tongue makes thoughts of my mother nearly vanish.

As he chews, he shrugs. "Keeps my face warm."

"You look like a lumberjack," I say, with a pointed glance at his plaid flannel button-down.

"Burly and masculine and strong?"

"Unkempt and scruffy," I edit, letting the truth echo silently in my mind. Capable. Manly. Comfortable. Huggable.

"Hmph."

"You missed Halloween by about two months, if you were trying for Paul Bunyan."

"Halloween," he says, voice faintly wistful. "Now there's a holiday. Candy and zombies and movies with chainsaws."

I roll my eyes. "Again, with the chainsaws. Are you sure you don't have aspirations toward forestry?"

He gestures toward Redford, looming over us. "I did manage to haul a pretty considerably-sized tree in here."

"Yeah, after some other real lumberjack chopped it down for you. Stud."

He chuckles. "Fine." We lapse into silence for a bit, stringing popcorn in companionable silence until he breaks it. "So how did your interview go?"

"Great," I say, finishing my string and starting on another. "They offered me the job."

"Hey, congratulations! Bella, that's great!" he says, eyes as bright and warm as the twinkle lights draped around the tree's branches.

"Thanks," I say, focusing carefully on the string in my hands. "It…Rosalie said they'd love to have me, but she wanted me to be sure I knew what I was getting myself into. She said it's a hard job."

"Yeah. They have a lot of turnover."

"Yeah."

"What about Boston?"

"I don't know. It's…exactly what I want. A great place, great reputation."

"But?"

"But…it's in Boston."

"Not a Red Sox fan?"

I shrug. "I just…I wasn't sure I'd like Chicago, when I first moved here. But I do. And…I don't know. If I could get that job here in Chicago, I'd take it in a heartbeat. I just…I don't know if I want to move again." It's the closest I'll ever come to saying it out loud: that, more than anything, I want to work at Grove House. I want to stay. I want him to ask me to.

"Yeah. There aren't a lot of jobs like that out there."

"No. There aren't."

We fall into silence for a minute before he speaks again. "You'll have a tough decision on your hands," he says finally, and there it goes. My last shred of hope that he might ask me to stay. If not at Grove House, then at least in Chicago. Close by.

"Yeah. I guess I will."

"Well, if I can do anything to help…"

"Yeah. Thanks."

He finishes another string and ties it off, then unwinds another length of thread from the spool. "So. Your departmental dinner."

I look up at him, surprised. "My dinner?"

He pauses in attempting to thread the needle, looking at me intently, a faint trace of uncertainty clouding his eyes. "You…invited me. Last month."

"I remember. I just…wasn't sure you were coming." I remember the burst of nerves I'd had when I asked him. The departmental dinner is something my program does for every class of graduates: a small get-together to recognize the accomplishments of the soon-to-be-grads and to hand out a few departmental awards, let students drink for free, and invite practicum and internship supervisors for a free meal as a thank-you for putting up with us for however long. I asked Edward last month, when I first learned about it, and he'd said he'd see if he could take the night off. When he didn't mention it again, I assumed he'd forgotten. Or was avoiding turning me down by pretending to forget. Now, in the face of the truth, I feel faintly guilty for thinking so little of him.

"I'd still like to, if that's okay. Shelly can stay late, and Sam can come early." I do my very best not to let the sudden thrill of excitement show on my face. He may not want me to stay on. He may not return my feelings. But the idea of spending an evening with him, dressed up and dining, fills me with delight. "Is it…still okay?"

"It's more than okay," I say, my voice faintly whispery, and he smiles, face softly aglow in the light of the tree beside him.

The silence is just threatening to turn awkward when the boys appear in the doorway. "Can we help?"

"Absolutely," Edward says, gesturing toward the massive bucket of popcorn. "Grab a string." And for the first time, I realize something I've never thought to consider about Edward: for all he harrumphs and humbugs about Christmas to me, he never lets that seep into his tone when the guys are around. He doesn't turn into one of Santa's elves, but he tries to inject as much enthusiasm as he can into these little moments, to pretend that this holiday doesn't hold two of what must be the most painful memories of his life.

For what must be the millionth time this week, I try desperately to hold the last bit of my heart back from tipping over the edge and falling for him like the rest of it already has, but as I peek at him helping Jake thread a needle, I know it's hopeless.

Despite the fact that the boys eat just as much popcorn as they thread, there are enough strings within an hour to cover the branches of the tree looming above us. The room has grown dark and the lights nestled in the branches give off the only light in the room. As I watch Edward and the boys draping the popcorn around the branches, a familiar hum of satisfaction buzzes through me, accompanied by memories of doing just this with Charlie. And, for once, the memory doesn't hurt. It's just there, comforting and constant.

When he realizes I'm not helping, Edward glances over at me, but the direction of my thoughts must show on my face, because he simply gives me a soft smile and returns his focus to draping popcorn strands. When they're done, the boys step back and study the tree.

"What about the balls?" Jake asks, and James punches him in the shoulder.

"Dude," he snickers, and Jake shoves him back, blushing slightly.

"The Christmas balls, jackass."

"Still," James says, snickering, and Edward holds up his hands.

"Okay, guys, easy," he says, but I can see the smile he's fighting in the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "There's a girl in the room."

Two pairs of eyes swing to me, and both boys shove their hands in their pockets. "Sorry, Bella," they say in near-unison, and I shrug.

"Don't worry about it." As I say it, though, I wonder for the first time what it must be like, this house with all these boys in it, when Shelly and I aren't here. The mere thought is sort of horrifying. Forcing my wandering mind back to the present moment, I shrug. "Edward wouldn't let me buy ba— uh – ornaments last year. But if I get some, you guys want to put them on?"

"Definitely," Seth pipes up, and I toss Edward a superior smirk.

"Done."

Edward rolls his eyes, since I'm the only one looking, but he's smiling, too. "Okay, I know when I'm outnumbered. Just…no toy wooden soldier ornaments, okay? Those things are creepy, and I don't want them staring at me in the dark."

And oh, the host of images that comment brings to mind.

Edward, creeping down the stairs in his boxers shorts for a glass of water in the middle of the occasional nights he stays at the House, the lights from the tree playing over the planes of the stomach I've only ever imagined.

Edward, staring at someone in the dark.

"Okay, no nutcrackers," I agree, and the minute the word leaves my lips, I watch his face for any trace of recognition.

"Ugh," he says, shaking his head. "Talk about another creepy Christmas thing. Tell me that giant, ballet-dancing bear isn't seriously disturbing."

"The bear? What about the part with the creepy lady and all the little people that come out from under her dress?" James argues. "That's weird."

"I think those were her children," Riley says, frowning. "Weren't they?"

"Either way," James says. "Weird."

Now, Edward's the one looking triumphant. He's also looking smug, but I can't see any trace of anything more in his face, any indication that he's picking up on my not-so-subtle hint.

"Too bad," I say, rallying to maintain the joviality. "I was thinking that 'creepy lady' – whose name is Mother Ginger, by the way – would have been the perfect tree-topper."

The boys – including Edward – look suitably horrified, and I can't help the laugh that bursts free. "Okay. No nutcrackers, no Mother Ginger, and no…teddy bears?" They all nod. "Got it."


So small a turning
The world grows older every day
An ache, a yearning
Soften when I hear you say

All that I want, all that I want

And when the cold wind's blowing
Snow drifts through the pine trees
In houses lights are glowing
Likewise in your eyes that find me here

With all that I want.

(The Weepies, "All That I Want")


For what it's worth, the next chapter is my favorite so far. (Provided that I don't screw it up in trying to finish it. *thumbs up*) Thanks to beckysue9999 for the peanut butter correction! xo