Snowfall

chapter nineteen

May unfolded like a long-held breath finally released, the air turning thick and languid with heat that pressed against the skin like a living thing. Mornings already carried the heavy, sweet scent of honeysuckle climbing the back fence, mingled with the warm, almost fermented perfume of blackberry brambles along the creek. The sun rose fierce and early, turning the grass a vivid green that seemed to steam faintly after overnight dew evaporated. Cicadas began their drone at dawn, a constant, vibrating hum that made the air itself feel alive and pulsing.

Emily’s pregnancy became visible now—a gentle, rounded swell that changed the way her thin cotton sundresses clung damply to her skin in the humidity. She moved slower in the afternoons, one hand often resting on her belly where the baby kicked against the heat, skin stretched taut and glistening with a faint sheen of perspiration. The bakery thrived despite the warmth: strawberry-rhubarb tarts with buttery crusts that released clouds of steam when sliced, lemon bars so tart they cut through the sticky heat like a cold drink, wedding cakes layered with peach filling that carried the sun-ripened sweetness of the orchard outside—scent drifting through open windows and settling over the house like a golden haze.

Ethan watched her constantly, eyes tracing the way sweat gathered at her hairline and trickled down her neck on the hottest days, the way her cheeks flushed rose in the stifling afternoons. He carved tiny wooden toys in the relative cool of early evenings on the porch—the sharp, resinous bite of fresh cedar shavings mixing with the thick night air, hands slick despite the fan turning lazily overhead. Each piece was sanded silky, oiled until it gleamed warm in the lamplight, and placed carefully on the nursery shelf where the soft green walls trapped the day’s heat long after sunset.

June brought a heat that shimmered visibly above the asphalt driveway, turning the air into something you could feel on your tongue—thick, tasting faintly of dust and warm pine. The creek slowed to a lazy trickle, sun-dappled and steaming gently at the edges, its banks heavy with the cloying sweetness of overripe berries. Fireflies returned in full force, their cool green glow cutting through the dense, velvet darkness of summer nights, carrying the same faint ozone scent as those from 1862 while the air hung so heavy it seemed to press couples closer on porch swings.

At their twenty-week ultrasound, the room offered brief relief—cool gel slick and cold against Emily’s warm belly, the sharp antiseptic smell cutting through the memory of outdoor heat. When the technician turned the screen, the baby’s heartbeat filled the space—strong, rapid, like rain on a hot tin roof during a sudden storm. Tiny fingers flexed, a foot kicked against the confines of her womb, the profile clear and perfect beneath the gel’s glossy shine.

“It’s a girl,” the technician said softly.

Emily’s hand found Ethan’s instantly, fingers slick with nervous sweat, squeezing hard enough to leave marks. A daughter. The one they had imagined under the willows—hair like her mother’s curling in humidity, eyes like her father’s squinting against summer sun, laughter that would cut through the thickest heat like creek water.

They drove home with windows down, hot wind whipping through the car, carrying the dry scent of cut hay and sun-baked earth from passing fields. Sweat beaded on their skin almost immediately. Then Emily began to cry—not sharp tears, but deep, rolling sobs of joy that shook her whole body in the passenger seat, warm tears evaporating quickly on her flushed cheeks.

Ethan pulled over on a quiet road lined with wild blackberry bushes, thorns glinting like needles in the blazing sun, berries swollen and dark, bursting with heat-ripened juice. He held her as she wept against his chest, her tears soaking through his shirt to his already damp skin, tasting salt when he kissed her temple. The car’s interior was an oven, air thick and tasting of vinyl warmed all day.

“We get her,” Emily whispered finally, voice raw and hoarse from crying in the heat. “After everything. We get our little girl.”

Ethan’s own tears fell hot into her hair, mixing with the sweat there.

“The one we named in dreams,” he said, voice breaking in the stifling air. “Before we even knew her name.”

They chose it that night on the porch swing, the wood almost too hot to sit on until dusk finally eased the temperature. Fireflies swirled in the cooling dark, their glow a brief relief against skin still radiating the day’s heat. Amelia Rose—for the woman she had been, and for the new life blooming like the roses climbing the trellis, petals heavy and fragrant in the humid night.

July’s heat settled like a heavy blanket, air so thick it felt like breathing through wet cotton. Midday temperatures soared; even the shade offered little relief, leaves hanging limp and motionless. Cicadas screamed relentlessly, the sound vibrating in chests and eardrums alike. Emily’s belly rounded fully now, skin stretched taut and always warm—hot to the touch, glistening with a constant sheen of sweat that made her dresses cling transparently in places. The baby moved constantly—kicks strong enough to ripple visibly across her stomach like waves on a heated pond, each movement leaving Emily breathless in the humidity.

Ethan’s hand rarely left her belly, palm slick against her skin, feeling the life they had waited centuries for through the furnace-like warmth radiating from her body. He brought her cold cloths scented with lavender, pressed them to the back of her neck where sweat gathered in steady droplets; fanned her slowly on the porch while the sun baked everything it touched.

One scorching afternoon when the heat index climbed past triple digits, Emily craved blackberries with an intensity that made her tear up. They drove to a pick-your-own farm, the car’s air conditioning struggling against the furnace outside. The field was brutal—sun hammering down, air shimmering, berries so hot from the day’s blaze they burned fingers when picked. Thorns scratched sweat-slick arms; juice burst warm and sticky, staining hands and mouths purple, tasting sharper and sweeter than any fruit had a right to in such heat.

Emily laughed breathlessly when Ethan smeared a berry across her cheek, the juice cool for only a second before warming instantly. He kissed it away slowly, tasting summer’s intensity and memory and promise on her sun-heated skin.

That night, swollen with heat and happiness and eight months of pregnancy, they lay in bed with every fan whirring and windows open to catch any hint of breeze. The sheets were damp beneath them almost immediately. Ethan traced the curve of her belly with fingertips that still smelled of blackberry thorns and warm earth.

“I used to think the river carried everything away,” he said quietly into the heavy darkness, voice rough with the day’s heat still trapped in his throat. “Our plans. Our future. All of it lost downstream in cold snow.”

Emily turned toward him as much as her belly allowed, sweat making their skin stick briefly before separating.

“But it didn’t,” she whispered, breath warm and humid against his chest. “It carried it forward—through winters and wars and waiting—until it could give it back to us in this heat. In her.”

Amelia Rose kicked hard then—as if protesting the stifling night or celebrating it—her tiny foot pressing visibly against Emily’s taut, glistening skin like a promise pushing through summer’s weight.

They both laughed through fresh tears that evaporated almost as quickly as they fell in the thick air, the sound mingling with cicadas screaming their eternal summer song outside the window.

July deepened into a haze of heat and waiting. The peach trees hung heavy with fruit, skin blushing deep gold and rose, scent so intense it drifted through open windows like syrup—warm, sticky, overwhelming. Emily baked cobblers that filled the house with buttery steam and cinnamon even in the hottest hours, the taste of summer concentrated in every bite that melted on sweat-salted tongues.

On the hottest night of the month, when even darkness brought no relief and the air felt like breathing inside an oven, they couldn’t sleep. They moved to the porch swing instead, bare feet on wood still radiating the day’s trapped heat, skin prickling with perspiration that never quite dried. Fireflies pulsed in the dense night like slow, cool heartbeats offering brief relief. The creek below barely murmured, too warm to move quickly.

Emily rested her head on Ethan’s shoulder, one hand on her belly where their daughter turned restlessly against the heat.

“I keep thinking about that Christmas Eve,” she said softly, voice thick with humidity and wonder. “How cold it was—the snow biting skin, breath freezing. How alone we both were in that icy dark. And now… this furnace around us. This life burning inside me. Her moving like she can’t wait to breathe this thick summer air with us.”

Ethan’s arm tightened around her slick shoulders, his own voice rough from the day’s trapped heat.

“I found you with one knock,” he said, words warm against her damp hair. “In the coldest night I’d ever known. And now we’re here—melting together in this heat, peaches ripening heavy, fireflies like living stars, our daughter almost ready to be born into a world warm enough to hold her.”

Emily turned her face up to his, tears cutting brief cool trails through the sweat on her cheeks.

“We didn’t just survive the wait,” she whispered, breath hot against his lips. “We won it. Every stolen summer we never got in 1864—this heat, these berries, this heavy sweet air—we’re living them all now.”

He kissed her then—slow, deep, tasting of salt sweat and blackberry residue and the fierce, triumphant heat of a love that had outlasted ice and death and time itself.

Above them, the cicadas screamed their victory song. Below, the creek carried the last traces of winter away forever.

And in the warm, sweat-slick curve of Emily’s belly, beneath Ethan’s hand burning with shared heat and love, Amelia Rose dreamed her first dreams—safe, fierce, finally coming home to parents whose love had burned brighter than any summer sun.

The heat held them gently, fiercely—like the promise it had always been.

The river flowed on, content and warm at last.