Home for the Holidays

by Debbie Macomber

  Faith laughed—which Emily didn’t consider very sympathetic. “All you have to do is look out your front window.”

  That was true enough. Leavenworth was about as close to Santa’s village as any place could get. The entire town entered the Christmas spirit. Tourists from all over the country visited the small community, originally founded by immigrants from Germany, and marveled at its festive atmosphere. Every year there were train rides and Christmas-tree-lighting ceremonies, three in all, plus winter sports and sleigh rides and Christmas parades and more.

  Emily’s home was sixty years old and one block from the heart of downtown. The city park was across the street. Starting in early December, groups of carolers strolled through the neighborhood dressed in old-fashioned regalia. With the horse-drawn sleigh, and groups of men and women in greatcoats and long dresses gathered under streetlamps, the town looked like a Currier & Ives print.

  “Everyone else can be in the holiday spirit, but I won’t—not without Heather,” Emily said. “I’m not even going to put up a tree.”

  “You don’t mean that,” Faith told her bracingly.

  “I do so,” Emily insisted. She couldn’t imagine anything that would salvage Christmas for her.

  “What you need is a shot of holiday cheer. Watch Miracle on 34th Street or—”

  “It won’t help,” Emily cried. “Nothing will.”

  “Emily, this doesn’t sound like you. Besides,” Faith said, “Heather’s twenty-one. She’s creating her own life, and that’s completely appropriate. So she can’t make it this year—you’ll have next Christmas with her.”

  Emily didn’t respond. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “You need your own life, too,” Faith added. “I’ve been after you for years to join the church singles group.” “I’ll join when you do,” Emily returned.

  “Might I remind you that I no longer live in Leavenworth?”

  “Fine, join one in Oakland.”

  “That’s not the point, Em,” her friend said. “You’ve been so wrapped up in Heather that you don’t have enough going on in your life.”

  “You know that’s not true!” Emily could see that talking to Faith wasn’t having the desired effect. “I called because I need sympathy,” Emily said, her tone a bit petulant even to her own ears.

  Faith laughed softly. “I’ve failed you, then.”

  “Yes.” Emily figured she might as well tell the truth. “Of all people, I thought you’d understand.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Em.”

  Her friend didn’t sound sorry.

  “I actually think being apart over the holidays might be good for you—and for Heather.”

  Emily was aghast that Faith would suggest such a thing. “How can you say that?”

  “Heather might appreciate you more and you might just discover that there are other possibilities at Christmas than spending it with your daughter.”

  Emily knew she’d adjust much more easily if she wasn’t a widow. Being alone at this time of year was hard, had been hard ever since Peter’s death. Perhaps Faith was right. Perhaps she’d clung to her daughter emotionally, but Emily felt that in her circumstances, it was forgivable.

  “I’ll be fine,” she managed, but she didn’t believe it for a moment.

  “I know you will,” Faith said.

  Even more distressed than before, Emily finished the conversation and hung up the phone. Never having had children, Faith didn’t understand how devastating Heather’s news had been. And if Emily was guilty of relying on her daughter too much, Christmas was hardly the time of year to deal with it. But wait a minute. She’d encouraged Heather’s independence, hadn’t she? After all, the girl was attending school clear across the country. Surely a few days at Christmas wasn’t too much to ask.

  Emily decided a walk would help her sort through these complicated emotions. She put on her heavy wool coat, laced up her boots and wrapped her hand-knitted red scarf around her neck. She’d knitted an identical scarf for her daughter, although Heather’s was purple instead of red, and mailed it off before Thanksgiving. Finally she thrust her hands into warm mittens. It’d snowed overnight and the wind was cold enough to cut to the bone.

  The Kennedy kids—ranging from six years old to thirteen—had their sleds out and were racing down the hill in the park. In order of age and size, they scrambled up the steep incline, dragging their sleds behind them. When they reached the top, they all waved excitedly at Emily. Sarah, the youngest, ran over to join her.

  “Hello, Mrs. Springer.” The youngster smiled up at her with two bottom teeth missing.

  “Sarah,” Emily said, feigning shock. “Did you lose those two teeth?”

  The girl nodded proudly. “My mom pulled them out and I didn’t even cry.”

  “Did the tooth fairy visit?”

  “Yes,” Sarah told her. “James said there wasn’t any such thing, but I put my teeth under my pillow and in the morning there was fifty cents. Mom said if I wanted to believe in the tooth fairy, I could. So I believed and I got two quarters.”

  “Good for you.”

  With all the wisdom of her six years, Sarah nodded. “You’ve got to believe.”

  “Right,” Emily agreed.

  “In Santa, too!”

  As the youngest, Sarah had four older brothers and a sister all too eager to inform her that Santa Claus and his helpers bore a strong resemblance to Mom and Dad.

  “Do you believe, Mrs. Springer?”

  Right now that was a difficult question. Emily was no longer sure. She wanted to believe in the power of love and family, but her daughter’s phone call had forced her to question that. At least a little…

  “Do you?” Sarah repeated, staring intently up at Emily.

  “Ah…” Then it hit her. She suddenly saw what should’ve been obvious from the moment she answered the phone that afternoon. “Yes, Sarah,” she said, bending down to hug her former kindergarten student.

  It was as simple as talking to a child. Sarah understood; sometimes Emily hadn’t. You’ve got to believe. There was always a way, and in this instance it was for Emily to book a flight to Boston. If Heather couldn’t join her for Christmas, then she’d go to Heather.

  The fact that this answer now seemed so effortless unnerved her. The solution had been there from the first, but she’d been so caught up in her sense of loss she’d been blind to it.

  Emily had the money for airfare. All she needed was to find a place to stay. Heather would be so surprised, she thought happily. In that instant Emily decided not to tell her, but to make it a genuine surprise—a Christmas gift.

  Emily reversed her earlier conviction. What could’ve been the worst Christmas of her life was destined to be the best!

  Chapter Two

  Charles Brewster, professor of history at Harvard, pinched the bridge of his nose as he stared at the computer screen. Stretching his neck to see the clock hidden behind two neatly stacked piles of paper, he discovered that it was three o’clock. Charles had to stop and calculate whether that was three in the afternoon or three at night. He often lost track of time, especially since he had an inner office without windows.

  And especially since it was December. He hated the whole miserable month—the short days with darkness falling early, the snow, the distractedness of his students and colleagues. Christmas. He dreaded it each and every year. Cringed at the very mention of the holidays. Rationally he knew it was because of Monica, who’d chosen Christmas Eve to break off their relationship. She claimed he was distant and inattentive, calling him the perfect example of the absentminded professor. Charles admitted she was probably right, but he’d loved her and been shocked when she’d walked out on him.

  Frowning now, Charles realized it was happening already. Christmas was coming, and once again he’d be forced to confront the memories and the bitterness. The truth was, he rarely thought of Monica anymore except at Christmas. He couldn’t help it. Boston during December depress
ed him. In fact, he associated Christmas, especially Christmas in the city, with unhappiness and rejection. It was as if those emotions had detached themselves from Monica and just become part of the season itself.

  Standing up, he strolled out of his office and noticed that all the other History Department offices were dark and empty. It must be three at night, then, which meant he hadn’t eaten dinner yet. Funny, he distinctly remembered Mrs. Lewis bringing him a tuna sandwich and a cup of hot coffee. His assistant was thoughtful that way. On the other hand, that might’ve been the day before. Frankly, Charles no longer remembered. His stomach growled, and he rummaged through his desk drawers for a snack. He located a candy bar, eating it hungrily, with only the briefest consideration of how old it might be.

  It was too late to head home now, Charles decided. If he left the building, Security would be on him so fast he wouldn’t make it to the front door. He’d have to haul out all his identification and explain why he was still here and…No, it was easier just to stay.

  He returned his attention to the computer screen and his work. He’d recently been contracted to write a textbook. He’d agreed to a tight deadline because he knew it would help him get through the holidays. Now he wondered if he’d taken on too much.

  The next time he glanced up from the computer, Mrs. Lewis had stepped into the office. “Professor Brewster, were you here all night?”

  Charles leaned back in his chair and rubbed his hand along his face. “It seems I was.”

  Shaking her head, she placed a cup of hot, black coffee on his desk.

  He sipped it gratefully. “What day is this?” It was a question he asked often—so often that it didn’t even cause the department secretary’s brow to wrinkle.

  “Tuesday, December fourteenth.”

  “It’s the fourteenth already?” He could feel the panic rising.

  “Yes, Professor. And you have three student appointments today.”

  “I see.” But all Charles saw was trouble. If his mother wasn’t pestering him, then it was his students. He sighed, suddenly exhausted. He’d spent the better part of fifteen hours writing his American history text, focusing on the Colonial era, the Revolutionary War and the country’s founding fathers. Much of his work that night had been about the relationship between Thomas Jefferson and Aaron Burr. It wouldn’t be light reading, but he knew his history and loved it. If he met his deadline, which Charles was determined to do, and turned in the completed manuscript shortly after the first of the year, it would be published and ready for use by the start of the 2006 autumn classes. High aspirations, but Charles knew he could meet the challenge.

  “Your mother just phoned again,” Mrs. Lewis informed him. She’d left his office and returned to set the mail on his desk.

  Charles sighed. His mother’s intentions were good, but she worried about him far too much. For years now, she’d been after him to join her in Arizona for the holidays. Personally, Charles would rather have his fingernails pulled out than spend Christmas with his mother. She suffocated him with her concern and irritated him with her matchmaking efforts. Try as he might, he couldn’t make her understand that he wasn’t interested in another relationship. His one and only attempt at romance had practically demolished him. After Monica’s Christmas Eve defection, he’d shielded himself from further involvement. He was content with his life, although his mother refused to believe it. He didn’t want a relationship. Women made demands on his time; they were a luxury he couldn’t afford if he planned to get ahead in his profession. He wanted to write and teach and there simply weren’t enough hours in the day as it was. Frankly that suited him just fine.

  If Ray would do him the favor of marrying, Charles would be off the hook. Unfortunately his older brother seemed to be a confirmed bachelor. That left Charles—and his mother wasn’t giving up without a fight. At every opportunity she shoved women in his path. Twice in the last six months she’d sent the daughters of friends to Boston to lure him out of his stuffy classroom, as she called it. Both attempts had ended in disaster.

  “She wants to know your plans for the holidays.”

  Charles stiffened. This was how their last conversation had begun. His mother had casually inquired about his plans for Labor Day, and the next thing he knew she’d arranged a dinner engagement for him with one of those young women. That particular one had been a twenty-four-year-old TV production assistant in New York; to say they had nothing in common was putting it mildly. “What did you tell my mother?” he asked.

  “That you were occupied and unable to take the call.”

  From the way Mrs. Lewis’s lips thinned, Charles guessed she wasn’t pleased at having to engage in this small deception. “Thank you,” he muttered.

  “She insisted I must know about your plans for Christmas,” Mrs. Lewis said in a severe voice.

  Apprehension shot up his back. “What did you say?”

  Mrs. Lewis crossed her arms and stared down at him. “I said I am not privy to your private arrangements, and that for all I knew you were going out of town.”

  Actually, that didn’t sound like a bad plan. He needed an escape, and the sooner the better. If his mother’s behavior was true to pattern, she was about to sic some woman on him. As soon as Mrs. Lewis had made that comment about traveling, the idea took root in his mind. It would do him good to get out of the city. He didn’t care where he went as long as it was away from Boston, away from his seasonal misery. Someplace quiet would suit him nicely. Someplace where he could work and not worry about what time or day it happened to be.

  “Hmm. That has possibilities,” he murmured thoughtfully.

  The older woman didn’t seem to know what he was talking about. His students often wore the same confused look, as if he were speaking in a foreign language.

  “Traveling.” The decision made now, he stood and reached for his overcoat. “Yes.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  “That was an excellent idea. I’m leaving town for the holidays.” All he wanted was peace and quiet; that should be simple enough to arrange.

  “Where?” Mrs. Lewis stammered, following him out of his office.

  He shrugged. “I really don’t care.”

  “Well, I could call a travel agent for recommendations.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  A travel agent might book him into some area where he’d be surrounded by people and festivities centered on the Christmas holidays. Any contact with others was out of the question. He wanted to find a place where he’d be completely alone, with no chance of being disturbed. And if possible, he wanted to find a place where Christmas wasn’t a big deal.

  He told Mrs. Lewis all this, then asked her for suggestions. He turned down Vermont, Aspen, Santa Fe and Disney World.

  Disney World!

  At her despairing look, he sighed again. “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll do it myself.”

  She nodded and seemed relieved.

  Later that day, Charles had to admit that finding an obscure location for travel on such short notice was difficult. Taking his briefcase with him, he walked to his condo, not far from the university area. But after he’d showered, heated up a microwave lasagna for his dinner and slept, he tackled the project with renewed enthusiasm. It was now shortly after 8:00 p.m.

  After calling half a dozen airlines, he realized he was seeking the impossible. Not a man to accept defeat, Charles went online to do his own investigative work. It was while he was surfing the Internet that he found a site on which people traded homes for short periods.

  One such notice was from a woman who’d posted a message: Desperately Seeking Home in Boston for Christmas Holidays.

  Charles read the message twice, awed by his good fortune. This woman, a schoolteacher in a small town in Washington State, sought a residence in Boston for two weeks over the Christmas holidays. She could travel after December 17th and return as late as December 31st.

  The dates were perfect for Charles. He started to
get excited. This might actually work without costing him an arm and a leg. Since he didn’t have to register in a hotel, his mother would have no obvious means of tracking him. Oh, this was very good news indeed.

  Charles answered the woman right away.

  From: “Charles Brewster”

  To: “Emily Springer” springere@aal.com Sent: December 14, 2004

  Subject: Trading Places

  Dear Ms. Springer,

  I’m responding to the DESPERATELY SEEKING IN BOSTON advertisement shown on the Trading Homes Web site. I live in Boston and teach at Harvard. My condo is a two-bedroom, complete with all modern conveniences. You can e-mail me with your questions at the address listed above. I eagerly await your reply.

  Sincerely,

  Charles Brewster

  Before long Charles received a response. Naturally, she had a number of questions. He had a few of his own, but once he was assured that he’d be completely alone in a small Eastern Washington town, Charles agreed to the swap. He supplied references, and she offered her own.

  A flurry of e-mails quickly passed between them as they figured out the necessary details. Emily seemed to think she owed him an explanation as to why she was interested in Boston. He didn’t tell her that he didn’t care about her reasons.

  He certainly didn’t mention his own. He rather enjoyed the notion of spending time in a town called Leavenworth. If he remembered correctly, a big federal prison was situated in the area. As far as Charles was concerned, that was even better. The less celebrating going on, the happier he’d be. He could spend the holidays in a nice, quiet prison town without any Christmas fuss.

  His remaining concern was buying a plane ticket, but once again the online travel sites came to his rescue. Charles had no objection to flying a red-eye, since half the time he didn’t know whether it was day or night.