Sorcha in Snowflakes

By Kate Bigel

A magical Holiday tale of true love, deeply romantic, short and sweet. Alexander Macklin bought a painting at a low point in his life — a self-portrait of a woman standing in the forest with snow falling, but he never met the artist. A beautiful painter, Sorcha Rosenbloom, draws a mysterious man in her sketchbook before going out to celebrate the holidays.

Alexander sees Sorcha at a bar while having drinks with friends. He knows her face because he looks at it every day on the wall of his living room. Sorcha never met the person who bought her self-portrait of her in the woods. She can't understand why that handsome man keeps staring at her.
Can someone fall in love with a painting? Did Sorcha draw the picture of a man before she met him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Bigel
• Release date: May 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9780998555850

Kate Bigel

Kate Bigel grew up a bookworm in a family of bookworms—the kind of little girl who walked down hallways at school reading and bumping into people. She went to art school and painted narrative works from her imagination. She found her way into the computer game business and worked there for years. Kate lives with her husband on a sailboat because it’s home and they love to travel. They sailed around the Pacific once and hope to head out for more adventures soon. She is really happy for e-books or the boat would have sunk by now.

Book preview

1

Sorcha was alone this Christmas as plane tickets home to the East Coast were insanely expensive, and the rent for her apartment had just gone up. Rubbing at the tightness in her chest, she missed her ridiculously loud and annoying family during the holiday season and their tendency to celebrate everything with enthusiasm. She looked down at her sketch pad and saw she had drawn a tall man standing in a forest. His face was lost in shadow with only a strong nose catching some light. She had drawn it hardly thinking or realizing what she was doing.

Glancing at the clock, she found she was now late to meet her best friend for drinks. She looked at her sketchbook one more time and wondered who he was—the man in shadows. Her mother always said that imagination could be a sight to the future. She had called this da-shealladh—the two sights. Sorcha thought all artists had regular vision and creative vision but her mother meant something more. Her mother believed in faeries and always hushed Sorcha because the faeries were always listening. Sorcha laughed to herself thinking about meeting an animated version of her drawing. That would be weird.

The sidewalks were dark and slick with water as she ran with stiff-legged care, trying to avoid the puddles. She thought to save money by walking but then, lucky her, it started raining, a cold mist so typical of San Francisco in December. Her long red hair was going to turn into a mass of crazy, frizzy curls but it didn’t matter, Vicky would just laugh.

Stepping inside the bar, she looked up to see the ceiling glowing with strands of little white lights that almost looked like snowflakes. The lights made the space seem magical and festive. There were small decorative flags hung in looping lines across all the walls. It was the Danish flag, an offset white cross. It looked like party decorations.

She spotted her friend at a small table talking to two men in well-tailored business suits. Vicky Taylor, her roommate from college, was a petite blonde who talked fast and laughed a lot. Her best friend was in real estate sales, having abandoned the world of graphic design to make mountains of money. So much for the girls’ night out. Sorcha guessed she was in the process of trying to sell the men some property. Vicky always said every event was an opportunity to make a sale. If she weren’t such a sweet and loyal friend, it would be annoying. Anyway, Sorcha wanted to be supportive of her friend’s plans to rule the world of real estate.

Vicky waved her over to the table. Sorcha, come meet these people I have been talking to. I just met them while waiting for you. She threw her arms around Sorcha and whispered, Happy Holidays. Sorry, I couldn’t resist talking to them. I got your text but I got bored. We can get our own table if you want.

Sorcha gave her a warm hug. Don’t worry. It’s fine. It’s my fault anyway you were waiting so long. I lost track of time drawing. It was strange, I kept thinking I knew the person I was drawing and if I kept drawing, I would remember who it was. It was tall man standing in a forest but I never figured out who it was. Lame excuse, I know but you have to forgive me, she explained.

"Sorcha, you’re an artist and I love you so don’t worry. The drawing sounds cool but just don’t tell your mother because she’ll tell you it’s a vision," Vicky said half-seriously.

Her mother would say that. "Da-shealladh. ‘Art is the way to see the future and Irish artists are doubly blessed,’ Sorcha said in an exaggerated Irish accent and then grimaced. But in my drawing, I couldn’t get the face of him, just the gesture of how he stood so it will be tough to know if I meet him."

Show it to me later. Now, say hello to Robert and John. They’re waiting for a friend too. We have late friends in common, she said with a big smile and put her arm around Sorcha’s shoulder. Gentlemen, meet my best friend, Sorcha Rosenbloom.

Hello. Nice to meet you, Sorcha said. They nodded at her with welcoming smiles.

The taller one held out his hand and she shook it. Pleasure to meet you, Sorcha. I’m Robert Peterson and this is my friend is John Fryer. John waved hello as he ordered a drink.

Sorcha is a talented artist. Do you need an amazing painting for your apartment? A Sorcha Rosenbloom is a must-have, Vicky said to both men.

A must-have? Maybe Vicky was laying it on a little thick but she had great track record selling Sorcha’s work, and several of her paintings hung in newly purchased condos of young tech millionaires.

Robert scratched his chin. I gotta confess, most modern art confuses me. I’m just not really into it. Sorry. He shrugged carelessly and turned away to order a drink. John said something flirty to Vicky.

Her mouth hung open in shock. How could a human not like art? What was wrong with him? Art was the heartbeat of the human race, it was everything. She filled her cheeks with air and crossed her eyes at his back. Vicky saw her ridiculous expression and tried hard not to laugh.

Are you feeling okay? said a deep voice.

Sorcha flinched in surprise and looked up to see a tall, broad-shouldered man. He looked at her with beautiful golden-brown eyes that had crinkles in the corners. His dark blond hair was messy and his face was all chiseled lines with a strong nose.

She gave an apologetic, embarrassed grin. Probably thought she was crazy making silly faces and, of course, she was caught being a goofball by a man so handsome that he made little butterflies dance in her stomach.

* * *

Alexander walked through the bar looking for his friends. He froze in disbelief as the face of the woman with long red hair became visible. He walked up to her in stunned disbelief and caught her making a face at Robert. Impulsively, he stupidly asked her if she was feeling okay. What was he thinking?

When she looked up and blushed he froze, unsure of what to say, of what to do. How could his beautiful Sorcha from his painting be here? How could she be real?

Robert shouted, Alexander! You made it! Ladies, I would like to introduce to you my friend and last year’s MacArthur Genius Grant recipient and SF’s entrepreneur of the year, Alexander Macklin. Alexander, this is Vicky Taylor and her friend, Sorcha Rosenbloom.

The blonde woman shot him a sharp look and a salesman smile. Sorcha just stared at him with wide eyes, her mouth slightly parted and her many little freckles standing out hard against her pale skin. He winked at her and she snapped her mouth shut and swung her long red hair forward to cover part of her face. He would bet her cheeks were pink.

Alexander shook Vicky’s hand, murmuring his hellos and then turned to shake Sorcha’s. Her hand was small and cool. Sorcha. A good Irish name, he said with a little bit of brogue.

Her eyes lit up. "My first name is a peace offering to the Irish side of the family. Erin Go Bragh, keep that Celtic pride alive. My last name is Rosenbloom, she said, and rolled her eyes. Confuses everyone. Yay the American melting pot."

He gave her a wry smile. Same story here. Alexander Larsson Macklin. My Irish father’s peace offering to my mother’s Danish family was that I was born and raised in Denmark. He was a wee Irish man and they’re all Vikings. It was a funny coincidence that both their names were compromises for families.

A wee man? Sorcha grinned. Maybe in a land of giants. But families are crazy, aren’t they?

Alright, my father is the same height as my mother. I just like saying ‘wee.’ My uncles are giants. Real Viking types with beards and loud voices. And my siblings are the same except for my sister. No beard for her. He shook his head in mock sadness. "They’re all musicians. I’m the boring