Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Shoving my feet into the nearest pair of boots, I barely pause to grab a coat before rushing out the door. The frigid New York winter air hits me like a punch in the stomach, but I push through it, trudging through the thick layer of snow from last night’s storm.
“Are you hurt? You should have asked me for help,” I chide as I look his body over for any visible injury. “What are you doing shoveling your walk by yourself?”
“Was trying to get the path cleared before the mailman comes. Didn’t think I’d be taking a tumble.”
I glance over at my shoveled walkway. There isn’t hardly a speck of snow on mine curtesy of the landlord. Why in the hell he’d shovel my side in our row of connected townhouses and not Mr. Haven’s, made no sense.
“You should have knocked on my door, Mr. Haven,” I scold as I attempt to get him off the ground. His hand trembles in mine, frail and cold, making me feel guilty for having been sulking indoors, cocooned in my flannel blanket by the warmth of the cinnamon-scented candle.
“Let me help,” a man who is walking his dog calls out from the other side of the street. His bulky figure is almost hidden beneath layers of thermal clothing, cheeks reddening in the cold, and a beanie pulled down low over his ears. The dog is a large husky, its tail wagging excitedly at us. “Are you hurt?” he asks as he ties the dog to the porch railing and kneels down beside Mr. Haven.
“I don’t think so,” Mr. Haven responds, his voice shaky from the cold, or perhaps from the fall.
“I’m a firefighter. If you’d allow me, I’d like to check you over to be sure nothing is broken before we get you standing?” he offers, his own breath frosting in the air as he speaks.
His eyes are kind, a bright green that stands out against the white winter wonderland. They flicker toward me, offering a small smile as he continues his examination of Mr. Haven, whose color seems to be returning.
“I’m Jack,” the stranger introduces himself after ensuring Mr. Haven is not seriously injured, extending a gloved hand toward me. His name slips from his lips with an air of familiarity as if it’s been etched into the corner of my mind.
“Chloe,” I reply, shaking his hand and trying not to shiver from something other than the snow-laden breeze. “And this is Mr. Haven. Someone who should not be out here shoveling his own walkway.”
Jack’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, or maybe grimaces—hard to tell. “Right, then, Mr. Haven,” he says, helping the man to his feet once again. “How about you take it easy for the rest of today?” He picks up the shovel and adds, “You let Chloe help you inside, and I can finish up what you started.”
Mr. Haven tries to protest, but he’s clearly outmatched by both of our determined expressions. With a bemused shake of his head, he concedes, leaning heavily on my shoulder as we make our way slowly toward his front door.
The husky, evidently finished with its bout of curious sniffing, darts forward to meet us at the entrance. Blue eyes glinting, it nuzzles into Mr. Haven’s unsteady grip, drawing a genuine smile from the old man.
I glance over my shoulder at Jack, who is now industriously shoveling, his broad back moving with the effort. The snow seems to have picked up again, fat flakes falling steadily and muffling the sounds of the city.
“Thank you, Jack,” I say, my voice carrying over the wind. He pauses to acknowledge my appreciation with a nod and a wave of the hand before continuing on.
Inside, Mr. Haven’s home is warm and comforting, smelling of old books and coffee. I help him take off his heavy coat and hat, guide him to his recliner by the fireplace where his calico cat, Miss Patches, is curled up. She raises her head at our entrance, letting out an indignant meow as if scolding us for disturbing her peace. As Mr. Haven settles into the cushions, I notice a faint sigh of relief escape his lips.
“I’m going to make you some tea to warm you up,” I tell him, heading toward the kitchen. I fill up the kettle with water and set it on the stove, the gas flame dancing under the cold metal. “So why didn’t you wait for the landlord to shovel your path?”
“That old coot?” he says from the other room. “He’s good for one thing only and that’s cashing our checks at the beginning of the month.”
“That’s not true,” I argue. “He shoveled mine. In fact, he always does.” Not only has he been shoveling my walkway after every storm, but he also hung the Christmas lights outside my window. Granted, it was a single and simple strand of lights on my tall shrub, but I appreciated the effort.