“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” Mason asks. “I think you need a little time to process everything.”

“I need wine, Mason,” I grumble. “We’re not at a PTA meeting.”

“That’s where you need wine the most, right?” He winks, and I smile.

“I don’t have kids,” I say. “But I do have a mother.”

He laughs. “I have kids,” he says. “And how long do you have to talk about my mom?”

I laugh and turn to Icicle. “I’m going to edit this footage and send it Lisa,” he says. “Go on. I’ll catch up with you in a half hour, if that works.”

“I’m not on air tonight, am I?” I ask Icicle.

“No,” he says. “Tomorrow night.”

“I don’t want a repeat of my last newscast.”

“You sure?” Mason asks. “Last time I looked, that clip was up to about five million views.”

“You’re buying, Mason,” I say.

I follow the yeti to a nearby wine shop. It’s downright adorable, with big oak barrels serving as tables and a sign made from corks that reads, Don’t Wine About Winter!

We take a seat, and a waitress brings us a menu.

“Our yeti must be thirsty!”

She takes a free hand and musses the fur on his costume, until it mats.

“So,” I start, “you’re…”

“Freddy the Yeti,” he says. “Each year, a local celebrity—” he stops and uses dramatic air quotes around local celebrity “—is chosen to be Freddy.”

“And what does Freddy do?”

“Well,” Mason starts, “Freddy is like the abominable emcee for all the events. The library holds a yeti story time and answers kids’ questions like what do yetis smell like, or do yetis have friends. There’s a big scavenger hunt around town, where people try to find me hidden in the snowy landscape, the movie theater is showing Abominable, and there’s a chili cook-off.”

“Do yetis have friends?” I ask.

“Depends if they’re hungry,” he says.

I laugh, too hard, and look at the menu.

“This place is a winter pop-up for a local winery that holds wine tastings on their spectacular orchards overlooking the water,” Mason says. “The whites and reds are very good.”

I guffaw, too hard.

“That laugh sounded sarcastic.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I’ve spent my whole adult life in California. They sort of know their wine there.”

Mason waits until he can catch my eyes. “We sort of know our wine here, too. Things have changed. Michigan is famous for its wine now. Can I order for you?”

I nod, and he calls over the waitress.

“Two glasses of the Blustone 2018 Cab Franc Rosé,” he says. “Typically, I’d go with a red, but considering it’s early…” He looks at his watch and smiles. “Really early, and a drunk yeti can be a bad thing.”

The waitress returns with our wine. Mason starts to pick up his glass, but realizes he’s still wearing his yeti paws. He removes the oversize mitts, then swirls and sniffs, and lifts the glass of peachy-pink wine to his lips. I do the same, but steel myself as if I might be drinking bad milk. Instead, my taste buds explode.

“The aromas of gooseberry, apricot and strawberry are charmingly blended with more subtle hints of beach grass and white pepper. The palate is juicy and loaded with lemony acidity, ripe strawberry and cherry, ending on tangy cranberry and apple.”

I look at him, impressed.

“Yetis like their wine.” He shrugs. “I’m the chamber guy. I have to know everything about everything here. Cheers!”

He lifts his glass. I follow suit. We clink.

“So,” Mason says. “What’s it like to be home?”

I take another sip of my wine and tell him even more about my career debacle, moving back to live with my mom, my fight with Polly, my fall in the parking lot and my ride with Icicle.

“Great first day at work,” he says. “Cheers again.”

Mason looks at me, unzips the top of his yeti costume, and I can’t help but stare.

“Did you grow up around here?” I ask.

“Northport,” he says. “Born and raised. Married my high school sweetheart, and we had two kids. A boy and a girl. Both grown. Both flew the local coop. One works in Detroit, and one lives in Chicago. Both married with kids.”

“So you’re a grampa,” I say. “Congratulations. Your wife must love being a grandmother.”

Mason ducks his head and looks at me. “She passed away nearly ten years ago.”

“Oh, my gosh,” I say. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Andi committed suicide,” Mason says. “She suffered from depression her whole life.”

Mason takes a sip of wine. “Sorry, I didn’t know we’d be getting into all this today,” he says. “Especially just meeting and wearing this.” Mason smiles, and the dimple on his chin expands. “I’m an open book, though. I don’t like to keep secrets.” He looks at me again as if I’m the only person in the world. “I believe in life. I believe the good outweighs the bad. I believe we’re on a journey here that is filled with beauty and pain, happiness and horror, highs and lows, but it’s a journey we must take because we never know the impact our lives and love will have on others.”

I’m at a loss for words after that. I am anything but an open book. I am a diary with a lock and a hidden key. I shiver.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “I’d give you my costume to stay warm, but it’s all I have.”

I smile. “Readjusting to Michigan…to winter…pretty much everything.” I turn and gesture toward the door. “I forgot that Michigan stores always keep a door cracked open, even in the winter.”

“We get used to the cold, so we get hot easy,” Mason says. “Remember what that was like?”

“I’m used to being hot all the time, and liking it,” I say.

“You know,” Mason says, “they just might ask you to be Freddy the Yeti next year.”

“Oh, God, I hope I’m not here a year from now.”

Mason gives me an odd look and sits back in his chair.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t…”

“But you did, Sonny,” he says, leaning forward again. “You did mean it.” Mason swivels his chair toward me. “We’re not yokels. You’re actually one of us. Remember, Amberrose?”

I look at him.

“Stop stereotyping us. Maybe we’ll stop stereotyping you. Have you ever considered that maybe we’re just good people up here who love all four seasons just like Californians love the sun? To each his own?”

“Winter is the longest season by far here.”

“I think it’s the prettiest.”

I turn from him and stare out the window. It is snowing like the dickens now. I can’t even see across the street. I couldn’t find the yeti in this lake-effect blizzard with a team of baying bloodhounds.

Am I angry I’m back in Michigan? Angry my career took a U-turn? Angry my past still holds me prisoner? Or embarrassed because this stranger just read me like a book? Is it possible to merge Amberrose and Sonny?

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m a bit off-kilter. I wasn’t expecting all of this today.”

There is silence for a moment before Mason asks, “What is snow?”

“I’m sorry?” I ask. “I’m not following.”

“What is snow?”

“Well, snow is precipitation in the form of ice crystals, mainly of intricately branched, hexagonal form and often agglomerated into snowflakes, formed directly from the freezing of the water vapor in the air at a temperature of less than thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit.”

Mason laughs. “Spoken like a true meteorologist.” Then he looks at me again, and the entire world drops away. It’s just me and him. “But what is snow? What does it mean to you, as a person?”

I can feel my heart begin to flutter. I shake my head to try to knock the memories away. I look away from him. A young girl in a bright pink coat stops at the front window and puts her mouth to it. She blows on it, and the glass fogs. She traces a heart with her finger. Then she sticks out her tongue and catches snowflakes, before turning to run, her mother racing after her.

Joncee, I think. Joncee is snow.

“I have to go,” I say, standing. I reach for my coat but realize I’ve never taken it off.

“Sonny, are you okay?”

I don’t respond to his question. “Thank you for meeting me. I know Lisa wants you to show me around and get me involved in a lot of these winter festivals for live broadcasts. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll be seeing you tomorrow actually,” he says.

I stop.

“We’re going sledding,” Mason explains. “Actually, cardboard sledding.”

Can this day get any worse?

“Lisa already arranged it.” He grins and holds up his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Can’t wait,” I say, heading toward the door.

“Sonny?”

I turn.

“Word of advice?”

What is he going to say now?

“Make sure your rear is padded.”

I smile.

“One more thing?” Mason continues.

“Yes?”

“You can’t stop the weather from happening,” he says. “It’s going to snow in Michigan. A lot. You already know that as a meteorologist. You just need to understand that as a person.”

I start to head out the door when Mason yells, “You know, when it snows, you have two choices: you can shovel or you can make snow angels.”