Under the Christmas Star

by Amanda Tru

  “Oh, all right. Nowhere else in your house does anything echo like that. It’s all that tile. Goodnight. Love you.”

  The call disconnected.

  Every case was full, the daisy barrel had been refreshed, and his workroom couldn’t have been tidier if he’d hired a white-glove company to come in and give it a once-over. That left Wayne with no excuse at all not to go. Ramon had promised to pick him up promptly at two o’clock.

  At one fifty-three, the delightful chime and subsequent “whoosh” of the printer feeding paper through told him an order had arrived. Oh, please be complicated. Or at least let it be enough that Lena will think it’s complicated. That’s all I need.

  He waited, fingers tapping the table and ears straining at every sound. The soft whap! of a case door confused him, but just in case, Wayne pulled out his phone and typed out an apology. Just got an order. I need to reschedule. Sorry.

  The wait resumed. Just as he reached to hit the send button, The curtain flung open, and Lena appeared with a small mailbox wrapped in greenery and flowers. “Wayne, do you think this fits this order? I think it does. It just needs the rose inside, yes?”

  The scent of Noble fir and red cedar mingled with the pleasing display of variegated holly and red sheer ribbons. It really had been one of his most inspired designs, considering he’d just used leftovers from several centerpiece settings. After a scan of the order, he nodded. “It says a box, but since it says big enough for a greeting card, I’d say this fits.”

  Almost immediately, he began the hunt for excuses not to use it and found none. He did, however, find an excuse to stay. “Why don’t you get the rose ready, and I’ll make something to replace it.”

  “There’s no room, Wayne. I just got it looking nice again. You make too much.” Lena gave him a soft smile—one he hadn’t seen since the day before he’d sprained his ankle. “Is good for you to be prepared for me, but you go with Ramon. You have fun.”

  There it was… that soft, “Ch—ou” instead of you.

  “—and I will take care of the shop. If there is something I cannot do, I will call Tabitha. She has a good sense for what is nice. It will work.” Her hand paused half an inch from his arm before she curled it into a fist. But her gaze met his, and that smile remained. “Thank you for being the friend to him. Ramon has not many friends without Marta. Is nice of you.”

  With that, she turned and carried the arrangement out of the workroom and left Wayne there, waiting. Wondering. Unsure. He stared at his phone. And stuck with a stupid shopping trip. He glared at the phone and shoved it in his pocket. I feel like a girl or something. At my age.

  From the moment Ramon appeared until they stepped into a dance store an hour later, time both flew and crawled. Ramon did not seem to notice. He dragged Wayne up to the counter and said, “We need shoes and a tango costume—simple. Plain. Not flashy.”

  The guy behind the counter muttered his appreciation to the Almighty for small favors—or something to that effect. Wayne chose to think of it as sincere—a prayer. After all, he sincerely prayed and thanked the Lord for it himself. Then again, perhaps if he took offense at the flippant use of God’s name, assuming said use was indeed flippant, he might be able to get out of his current dilemma.

  By the time he’d processed his thoughts, they stood before a mirror, and one shirt after another appeared beneath his chin as if Cinderella’s little birds held it up for him. I would think of Cinderella. This is ridiculous.

  “The red is no good.” Ramon shook his head. “We want the silver. It…” He hesitated. “I know the word. I am not eh-stupid. For accent.”

  “Accentuates?”

  “Yes!” Ramon continued as if the aside hadn’t occurred—as if he hadn’t taken precious time that would keep Wayne trapped in the store for at least six seconds more than would have been necessary. “It accentuates the silver at your temples—so sophisticated. Now, we need the black pants.”

  The other man’s jaw clenched twice before he managed to spit out, “And with the silver stripe or plain?”

  Wayne and Ramon spoke in unison. “Plain.”

  Off they went to a dressing room—Wayne holding four pairs of black pants and three silver shirts. Ramon sat in a chair in the “lobby” area of the room. “I wait here. Come out so I can be sure it fits well. Too tight and you cannot move. Too loose and you will lose—makes things eh-sloppy.”

  Heedless of Ramon’s instructions, Wayne tried on every piece until he found the ones he thought fit right. The last thing he intended to do was parade around for some dude to see and approve. Mortification, thy name is Wayne Farrell. Or something.

  He found himself in the snugger pants he’d rejected, and a looser shirt than he’d assumed he’d need. The sales clerk shook his head. “How long has he been dancing?”

  “Eight days,” Wayne groaned. “Eight horrible days in which I’ve only gotten worse rather than better.”

  “Is a lie. You are much better. I am the expert. I will tell you when you are worse.”

  “When is the competition?”

  How’d he know this was a competition?

  Ramon seemed unfazed. “Brunswick. In January. He will be ready.”

  “Practice every day?” At Ramon’s nod and assurance of at least two hours of practice per day, the man reached for the shirt Wayne had decided fit best. “This will be loose by then—but if not, it still fits. That one’s too big. It’ll sag if he tones up a little.”

  In other words, I’m fat now. Great.

  Ramon, however, agreed. “I did not think of that, but a month of dancing? Yes. He will need smaller We’ll take that one. Now shoes.”

  All of Wayne’s hopes that at least buying shoes would feel normal vanished as both of the other men forced him to dance with each of them. In the store. With giggling little ballerinas and elementary tap dancers, who were much more secure in their masculinity than Wayne was at present, watching every move.

  Lena… is friendship worth the humiliation?

  Then again, having a happy store manager meant that life wouldn’t be as awkward when he and Jennie were married. Proving they could have a platonic friendship, even while he was married and happy, would be a good thing. Wouldn’t it?

  “Where is your rhythm triangle? Walk! Push, turn-over, push, turn-over… one, two, one, two…” A moment later, he called for backward step, “And reach, roll, and reach, roll…”

  The other man shook his head. “No, no. Stop. His shoes don’t work. He’s clunky with the toe. I know which ones he needs. Take them off.”

  And welcome to the dance world, Wayne. The moment they’ve got you, they become bossy.

  Lena froze as Wayne’s voice drifted in from the workroom, over the twang of country music that both stirred and revolted her, depending on the song. Did he really just say…?

  Yes, the story continued. She couldn’t help a smile at the mental picture of Wayne being fitted for trousers and a shirt, but the longer the story went, the more obvious it became. Only one person could be responsible for Wayne learning the tango.

  After placing just one foot on the bottom step, Lena realized she’d never make it upstairs quietly. So, she unbuckled her strappy heels and set them in the corner before racing up the stairs. Had she worn something other than a pencil skirt to work that day, she might have taken them two at a time. So, this is why we do not need to dance. He dances with… She froze near the top of the stairs and shook her head. With Wayne?

  Ramon opened to her soft knock as if he’d been waiting for her. His surprise, however, told her he had not been waiting for her. “Wayne is still working.”

  “Wayne?”

  The air of innocence might have worked with Marta, but it would not with her. “Why is Wayne telling his mother about shopping for clothes—for the tango?”

  “He’s learning.”

  She glared.

  Ramon threw up his hands and stormed into the apartment, Spanish flowing from his lips faster than water over N
iagara. “What did you teach me?” He insisted. “Always you have said to me, ‘You know what you know when you try to teach it. So, I teach Wayne. He can almost walk the tango with decent form.”

  Everything would have made sense—except Wayne had mentioned a silver shirt and dance trousers. “Why does he need a costume?”

  “For the competition. You’ll dance with him, won’t you, Magda? He needs the experience to see that he’s learned it. He needs someone who can help him when he makes mistakes.” Ramon gave her that sly smile that had always meant he knew he’d get his way. “You know how to make him look good.”

  One hand on one hip, she jabbed her other in the air, pointing at his nose. “When were you to tell me this? When would you say, ‘Magdalena, Wayne needs a partner for the competition’?”

  “I would give you time—after Christmas. It’s a simple dance. Much walking, a few turns. I know he can do it.”

  She shook her head and planted the other hand on her other hip. “No, Ramon. No.”

  “Magda!”

  Her eyes closed. Inhale. Exhale…. Eyelids opened up again. She glared. “You do not know what you ask of me.”

  “He’s just a friend, is he not? He is just your boss. You can do this for him.”

  I loved him. Can’t you see that? Her heart called her a liar. Fine, I still love him. But I can’t have him. I can’t dance with him. Not the tango!

  With one arm around her shoulder, Ramon led her to his couch and snatched up a box of Kleenex as he did. He pushed it into her hands and spoke to her almost as if a child. “I’ll keep it friendly—playful. The tango does not have to be sensual, Magda. Who taught me that?”

  A new idea sent her thoughts scurrying in a different direction. “How did you convince him to do this?”

  “I told him what I told you. If you are friends, if you will work together, you can dance.” His expression changed, and he reached for her hand. “Magda. I need you. He’s a horrible dancer, but I can’t tell him this. But he has form.” Her sharp look helped him amend it. “Okay, okay… it’s becoming good. And he’s helping me. I think…” He glanced over his shoulder as if expecting Wayne to appear. “I think it is good that he is no longer your novio. You could not be happy with a man who cannot dance.”

  That is not true! I was very happy—until he…

  Ramon eyed her. “Until he what?”

  Lena couldn’t find her voice. She hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “I—until—I.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. He has a new girlfriend—that silly Jennie.” Ramon made a dismissive gesture before adopting an affected apologetic humility. “She’s a nice girl—pretty, if you like women who look like little girls. He obviously couldn’t make you happy, or he wouldn’t have let you go.”

  He didn’t “let” me go… A quick glance at Ramon showed she hadn’t spoken aloud this time. “I pushed him away, Ramon. I made a decision that he could not break.”

  “You make my point well.” Before she could protest, Ramon added, “You will do it? Por favor?”

  Music downstairs silenced. Lena heard the back door slam shut. Wayne would be taking the cuttings to the dumpster. Then he would come upstairs—to dance. She jumped up. “If he agrees after all the lessons, then I will do this, but do not be the bully, Ramon. Don’t make him feel he must.”

  With that, Lena dashed downstairs, snatched up her shoes, and made it into the front of the shop before the back door banged shut again. She bent to buckle the straps around her ankles, and in a stroke of luck she could only attribute to her Heavenly Father, Wayne stepped in. He started to call out to her, and cut himself off. “Hmm… must have gone already.”

  She would have called out, but his next words cut. “What, now she can’t even say goodbye?”

  It took all her strength to make it out the door and into her car before the first tear fell. She’d not allowed a true cry fest—not yet. However, it might be time. All the hopes, dreams, and trust she’d placed in him crashed down into a pit she’d dug in her heart.

  The streets rolled by at speeds that shamed her but not enough to slow her. She snatched up the mail from her mailbox in the glow of the streetlight. Her shoes slid on ice as she dashed up the walk, but Lena knew how to correct, how to fall, if necessary. Her feet hurried up the steps to the door, and the porch light flipped on.

  The automatic light that Wayne insisted on—for my protection. He’d put it in, too. She hadn’t known that he could do little repairs and things like that, but he had.

  For reasons she couldn’t explain, the memory of kissing his cheek as he screwed on the plate around the light is what finally did her in. Lena burst into her house, hopped down the hall, dropping one shoe and then the other as quickly as she unstrapped them, tossed her mail onto the headboard, and flung herself onto the pillows.

  She wept.

  Each tear worked as a cleansing agent, washing away doubt, anger, mistrust. By the time she’d cried herself dry, her heart was clean—prayerful. Lena hadn’t prayed in weeks—not really. But once she began, she couldn’t seem to stop.

  Ah, Dios mío… have I ever prayed? Have I ever really prayed? I have, haven’t I? The priest taught me all those years ago. But somehow…

  In a way she knew she never had, Lena poured out her heart to the God she claimed to serve—to love. Every fear, every hope crushed, every dream dashed. She railed against the torment she’d endured at Alejandro’s hands. She blamed God for not protecting her and then begged forgiveness for not understanding and trusting. I knew I shouldn’t marry him. The priest, he told me not to do it. But would I listen? No… and I nearly died.

  Her fingers slid up the side of her face to the hairline by her left temple. A slight ridge—so minuscule most people never saw it. A scar from the blow that had almost been the last thing she ever felt.

  But Wayne saw it. He knew.

  Eyes closed, Lena remembered well the night he’d slid one finger over the scar and asked, “Alejandro?”

  That’s all he’d needed. At her nod, he’d pulled her close. Held her. Promised never to hurt her like that.

  He wouldn’t, either. I know this. So what was he hiding? Why would he do something he knew would frighten me? Is not kind.

  Only one answer remained. He hadn’t. He was innocent. She only needed to ask. He would tell her. Then he would tell Jennie it was over.

  Lena sat up. “I’ll ask.” Her eyes rose heavenward, and her palms closed flat against each other in that classic prayerful pose she’d been taught as a child. “Please protect me.”

  It took a minute to find her phone and retrace her steps to the bed. She dropped it before her, ready to tell Siri to call him. But a package at the bottom of her mail stack caught her eye. “I didn’t order anything.”

  A flat, mustard-colored bubble mailer had a return address from Crossroads. “Little Star Boutique… what?”

  When the return address did little to enlighten her, Lena tore open the top and shook out a small, flat box. The sheer gold bow slipped off with a tug. Her hand shook as she lifted the lid… folded back the tissue paper.

  Lena’s heart squeezed at the sight of two stained-glass birds and the banner that said, “Our First Christmas.” Her breath caught at the sight of the ring that hung from a ribbon, and her heart broke as she looped the ribbon over one finger and lifted the ornament. One bird and the ring dangled there. The other bird and the banner lay still in the box.

  A tear fell onto that opaque bluebird and slid down the words, “Our first…”

  Seven days. He only had seven more days until the ornament exchange at church, and Wayne found it harder to wait with each passing hour. An inexplicable sense of urgency tempted him to blurt out the proposal each time he saw her, but something else held him back. That “something” definitely had roots in a ring that he couldn’t offer her yet. It still hadn’t arrived.

  The whole thing created turmoil that made him ache to spend more time with her and resist it at the same time. N
erves, he thought nearly every time that resistance surfaced. Still, he’d feel better once the ornament arrived. Maybe I’ll just give it to her right away. Yeah. That’s what I’ll do. She’s quieter than Lena. Maybe she won’t like a big splash. And intimate is romantic. Right?

  The first week after he’d been home, he saw her twice. Unfortunately, the closer it came to Christmas, the busier she became. All understandable, of course, but it didn’t help his already over-burdened nerves.

  That, of course, might explain why he almost drove past her house after work that Saturday night before the exchange. Maybe he would have if the scent of two taco plates from Rosita’s hadn’t reminded him that he’d brought her dinner. “Can’t let her go hungry.”

  He pulled up in front of the neighbor’s house and let his car idle. In one awkward motion, he shut off the engine and opened the door. Inside of thirty seconds, he stood at her door. As he waited for her to answer his knock, Wayne gave himself a stern “talking to.”

  You will ask about her day. You will make her feel special. You will not let things turn serious—not tonight. You will also resist the temptation to kiss her. It’s not a good idea. Finally, he added as her silhouette filled the door window. You will not propose to her.

  Jennie’s smile greeted him, but she said nothing as he handed her the little potted and blooming amaryllis. “Hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  Whew.

  In her kitchen, Wayne realized that they’d have to move her into his place after the wedding. That thought stuck in his craw. A wedding. Family. Tulle. Flowers. Family. And more family. Does she have family, too? How do I not know this? He gazed at Jennie as she transferred her food to her plate. Shouldn’t I know about her family before I propose?

  So, as he set his plate at the table and pulled out her chair for her, he tried that as a conversation starter. “You said you were spending Christmas with your family?”

  She gave a short nod as she lowered herself into the chair. Jennie’s response came out in a whisper. “I wish I could invite you—”