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“I like this.”
    “You do?” she asks, stopping still.
    “Sure, it’s got a nice local flavor. And who knows, some of our readers might commission the artist to paint their homes, too. I might like one for a Christmas gift for my wife, actually. So, yes. I’ll use this in a few weeks.”
    Every bit of breath that Vera hadn’t realized she’d been holding expels in a tearful, quick sigh. “Seriously?”
    “Definitely.”
    “For pay?”
    He laughs. “Of course. Listen, you’ve proven yourself with the scarecrow piece, and now this. So I can put you on the payroll, part-time, but it’ll be regular part-time work.”
    “I’ll take it. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
    “Stop at Bonnie’s desk on the way out. She’ll have a couple forms you’ll need to complete. It’s a formality. Since you’ll be on the payroll now.”
    “Wonderful.” Vera extends her hand to shake his.
    “Glad to have you on board, Vera. And thrilled to have one of Boston’s top journalists working here. Actually, I’ve got an exclusive that might be right up your alley.”
    “Really?” Visions of in-depth reporting fill her thoughts. She’s been away from the big time for so long, but it all comes easily back with the suggestion of it. Research, and tracking down leads, and verifying facts. “I’ve got references from Boston, if you need any.”
    “No, that won’t be necessary, Miss Sterling. Although this one’s under a tight deadline, so I hope you can handle the pressure. I’m giving you the Holly Trolley exclusive.”
    “The what?”
    “Holly Trolley exclusive. It’s mid-October already, so it’ll be starting its holiday rounds soon. I need a driver interview, some history, maybe a first-hand look at a ride around town. What do you think?” he asks with a twinkle in his eye. “You up to the challenge?”
    “You’re serious.”
    “Vera. It’s the Addison Weekly . It’s what we do.”
    She looks long at him, squinting. “Well I’ve never met a challenge I couldn’t meet,” she tells him. “I’ll get right on it,” she says while walking out of his office.
    And so, like those squirrels burying acorns to get through the winter, she stockpiles one check from Lauren’s profile and a future check from her latest coup, the trolley piece. Hopefully she can dig up a few more to sustain her over the coming months.
    Outside, headed to her car, she glances up at the sky. The thing is, furry caterpillars and tree branches holding on to lingering leaves, none of it can predict beyond what she knows.
    And what she knows is this: Sometimes it feels like she’s freefalling through a storm of days, twisting and turning with job issues and a tired old house and a dwindling bank account, her life constantly changing shape, starting out one way and becoming something else along the way, just like one of her father’s falling snowflakes.
    *  *  *
    The heavy, rusted latch feels like it hasn’t been touched in years. Derek lifts it to unlock the side double doors from inside Vera’s barn, opening them slowly to an expansive view of the cove. The far side of the water is lined with trees in full autumn color, reds and golds and yellows. Closer to the barn, tall cove grasses of pale green, topped with feathery silver seed, sway in the cold breeze, almost like a whisper. An old green wooden rowboat, its paint faded, its inside driftwood gray, is tied to a rickety old dock in the grasses. And he simply stands there and looks, then decides to finish the ham grinder he’d brought along in his toolbox, finish it right there in front of that serene view.
    In five minutes, or fifteen, he can’t be sure how many, he hears Vera’s car pull in the driveway and so he folds up his napkin, closes up the double doors and goes back through the barn, exiting through the old Christmas Barn entrance facing her house. He waves to her after shutting the door behind him. “I set out those traps I told you about,” he says over his