Summer Snow

Summer Snow

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Summer Snow

Copyright © 2008 by Nicole Baart. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of tree copyright © by Dr. William J. Weber/Visuals Unlimited.
All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of shirt copyright © by Veer. All rights reserved.

Author photograph copyright © 2007 by Kevin Gisolf. All rights reserved.

Designed by Jessie McGrath

Scripture quotations are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION
^®
. NIV
^®
. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Baart, Nicole.

Summer snow / Nicole Baart.

p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-1-4143-1623-9 (pbk.)

ISBN-10: 1-4143-1623-2 (pbk.)

1. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3602.A22S86 2008

813'.6—dc22                                                                                        2007042729

Printed in the United States of America

14  13  12  11  10  09  08

7    6    5    4    3    2    1

For Mom

Because Janice is entirely a work of fiction.
You are everything she is not and more.

Many heartfelt thanks …

To Todd Diakow for reasons too numerous to list. Again, this book exists only because of your hand in it.

To Andrew and Amber Van Der Vliet, uncle and auntie extraordinaire. You are so giving, so gracious and loving and patient with our crazy family. We don't deserve you.

To my Bible Study Girls: Gina, Heidi, Jaymi, Melissa, and Sherri. You are my mentors, coconspirators, and friends. I  love you dearly.

To the guys at Butler's Café and Coffee. Thanks for letting me take up space on your couch for hours on end while I  nailed down this book.

To James Calvin Schaap, for being an excellent professor more years ago than I care to admit, and for your support and encouragement these past months.

To Lana, because you lugged a three-hundred-page manuscript to Grand Rapids and read every word.

To all my family and friends for being understanding when my mind was elsewhere, consumed with Julia and Janice.

To everyone at Tyndale. This entire experience has been the stuff of dreams, and you have all been so encouraging, so supportive and kind. Thank you.

To Mom and Dad. We would be lost without you. A simple thank-you doesn't seem adequate.

As always, to my boys. Aaron, you are my better half. I adore you to the moon and back. Isaac, your stories are far better than mine; I could listen to them forever. Judah, you are quite possibly the sweetest, happiest baby ever born. You all fill my life with joy.

Lord, I am Yours. Make me an offering.

Contents

Part 1

Humility

Sifferent

Small World

Reunion

Undone

Surrender

Until

Believe

Stronghold

Part 2

Quicken

Out of the Blue

Invitations

Blue Moon

Secrets

Burnt Offerings

Seeds

Summer Snow

Possibility

Life Without

Christening

Part 3

Timing

Surprises

Letting Go

Well

Humbled

Discussion Questions

About the Author

Part 1

Humility

I
T'S NOT THAT
I ever had delusions of grandeur, or even that I think I am better than anyone else, but there is something about donning a tag that says, “Please be patient; I'm a trainee” and asking, “Would you like paper or plastic?” that is uniquely, even brutally, humbling. Paired with a blue canvas apron cinched tight across my expanding waist, the plastic name tag screamed from my chest and made me frighteningly conspicuous at a time in my life when I longed for anonymity like parched earth wants for rain.

Cover me
, I thought the first time I dressed in the awful ensemble. Standing alone in my room in front of a mirror too honest to disguise the profound hideousness of it, I felt more exposed than if I had been wearing a skirt that barely covered my floral-print panties. “Oh, God, if You love me at all,” I breathed, “cover me.”

He didn't answer. But I thought that maybe He was listening— Grandma promised me He was—and I held on to that hope, fledgling though it was. I couldn't claim to understand Him, but I felt a deep and growing need to try, even if He deigned to ignore my current plea for rescue.

“You look cute,” Grandma commented diplomatically when I sulked into the kitchen moments later. But by the glint of a smile in her eye I knew that
cute
was a euphemism for
ridiculous
. “Just don't tuck your shirt in, Julia. It won't … you know … look too …” She fluffed her fingers around her midsection, and flour poofed from her hands in small clouds like smoke from somewhere up a magician's sleeve. She cautiously, encouragingly, raised an eyebrow at me.

I looked down to see the petite crescent curve of my belly pressing against the knotted apron strings. Startled by what I saw, I sucked in impulsively. It disappeared—the growing evidence of
her
disappeared, a flat shadow beneath a fold of cerulean. “That's the best I can do,” I said dolefully. “We have to tuck our shirts in. It's part of the dress code. And—” I reached into the front pocket of the apron and produced a thin, mustard yellow tie—“we have to wear this.”

Grandma almost burst out laughing but only allowed herself a restrained little chuckle. “You know, I see those kids in Value Foods every week, but I never really noticed the uniform. Is that a clip-on?”

I nodded bleakly and snapped the clip at her, alligator-style, before affixing it to my starched collar.

“It's crooked, honey.” She wiped her fingertips on a towel and left the bread dough that she had been kneading to circle around the worn oak table and face me. She tugged at the obscene bit of fabric, pulling it this way and that before tucking it under the top of my apron and stepping back. “There.” The word sounded almost portentous to me—definitive.

“I'm going to be late,” I croaked, clearing my throat self-consciously. “Don't wait up for me. I'm helping out with a restock tonight. They're going to train me how to record inventory. …”

Grandma pursed her lips and spread her arms in understanding. I walked heavily into her embrace. “I'm proud of you,” she murmured into my hair. “It's really not that bad, is it?”

I didn't want to be melodramatic, but I couldn't drown the sick feeling that was rising past my chest and into my throat, where it sat threateningly at the back of my tongue.
They'll see me
, I thought.
They'll judge me
. But I said, “You're right; it's not so bad. It's just that all the high school kids work there. I'll be the oldest person besides the manager. …”

“You only graduated last year,” Grandma reminded, trying to cheer me up. “You'll probably even know some of the employees!”

Great
, I thought.

But she was doing her best to be helpful, and I managed a wry smile because at the very least she hadn't said, “You'll have so much in common with them!” The disappearing smoothness beneath the straight line of my apron guaranteed that I would have
nothing
in common with my coworkers.

“Well,” I said, pressing my palms together and trying to force a little enthusiasm into my voice, “I'd better go or I'll be late.”

“Wouldn't want that your first day on the job!” Grandma followed me into the mudroom and gave my back a little pat when my coat was zipped up and my hand was on the door. “It's going to be just fine.”

“I know,” I replied without blinking.

She watched from the door as I drove away, but the sun was already a memory on the horizon—a thin ribbon of purple, little more than a bruise left by the imprint of orange—and I'm sure all she saw of my departure was taillights. It was better that way. I hated the thought of her seeing how I strangled the steering wheel.