DAN TRIED EMILY’S CELL PHONE ON THE RIDE HOME. HE COULDN’T believe he had waited so long to call her. But he only got her voice mail, so he left a brief message telling her to call him.
Jane slept peacefully in her car seat all the way home. She continued to sleep even when he brought her inside and put her to bed. Her forehead felt cooler and he felt deeply relieved.
He meant to go into the kitchen to grab something to eat and call Emily, but instead he lingered in the dimly lit room, watching the baby sleep.
He thought of the episode with Lindsay and his ex-wife again. Claire had rarely missed a chance to remind him that he wasn’t a very good father. Well, he was a good father in some ways, Dan told himself. Both his kids had told him that, now that they had grown up and gotten out from under his wife’s thumb. He just wasn’t good when they were very little. He hadn’t known what to do. He left too much to Claire and then felt inept even trying to make a peanut-butter sandwich.
That was partly Claire’s doing, though. She had shut him out, acted as if helping with homework or serving a bowl of cold cereal was rocket science. It was mainly his fault, of course. He could see that now. He was always at the paper, practically slept there some nights, dedicated to a fault. Then he came home late one night and realized he had entirely missed out. His kids had grown up while he was chasing a big story. In the years since then, he had tried to make it up to them. But he never really could.
“I didn’t do too badly for you today, did I, Jane? We got through it all right,” he whispered to the baby.
He wondered what kind of father he would make now. He sensed that Emily, for all her talk, was headed in that direction, determined to tug him along, too. She didn’t really understand his hesitation. You don’t want to take on a job as important as fatherhood when you believe you failed at it, screwed things up entirely. It was different now, though. He was different.
The question was, was he different enough to do this? It was so hard. He had gotten through today by the skin of his teeth. Maybe the answer was, he just wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to think about it now, anyway. He was just relieved to have handled the crisis.
The phone rang and Dan picked it up in the bedroom.
“Dan? You’re home already? I didn’t think you’d be getting back until three.”
“I came back early. I couldn’t reach the sitter so I got worried. I had to fire her, Emily. She was a total disaster.”
“What happened? Is Jane all right?” Emily was not quite in a panic, but Dan could tell from her voice she was getting there.
“She had a fever. I took her right over to Matt, and it seems she has an ear infection. She’s much better now. She’s got some medicine and some Tylenol to take—”
“An ear infection? Poor thing. I’m coming right home.”
“If you want to. But she’s sleeping now. Everything’s under control,” he promised. “I can take care of her.”
It felt good to say the words, he realized. He meant them, too.
Emily didn’t answer right away. “I know. I would just feel better if I came right away. I’ll see you soon.”
Emily ended the call, and Dan hung up. Then he left the room, but only after taking one last peek at the baby.
Emily came in about an hour later, which gave Dan time to relax and compose himself. He greeted her at the door, then took her coat and briefcase while she rushed back to see Jane.
“She’s still sleeping,” Emily said when he quietly entered the room. Emily reached into the crib and touched the baby’s forehead. “I don’t think she has a fever anymore.”
“That’s good.” Dan stood next to Emily and put his arm around her shoulder.
“I feel awful,” Emily confessed. “I should have been home. I should have noticed that something was wrong with her this morning. She’s been with us less than two weeks, and I’m flunking out already.”
Emily sounded as if she was about to cry. Dan knew what she was feeling. He hugged her closer to comfort her.
“It’s okay, honey. Matt said these things come on very quickly. You can’t be everywhere at once. I was here. I took good care of her.”
Emily glanced up at him. “Yes, I know. Thank you, Dan. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come home when you did.”
“Let’s not think about that. And you don’t have to thank me. I’m her guardian, too.”
Emily didn’t answer. She leaned up and kissed his cheek; then she reached down and smoothed the baby’s blanket.
“I know she must have been screaming bloody murder before, but she looks like an angel now,” Emily said softly.
“She is an angel.” Dan’s voice was quiet, but emphatic, his gaze still fixed on the baby. Emily glanced at him. He rarely sounded so sentimental.
“So are you. Lucky for me I have a husband who can handle these things so well without getting rattled.”
SARA HAD TO SPEND A FEW HOURS AT THE NEWSPAPER OFFICE ON SATURDAY, finishing up a story for Monday’s edition. Afterward, she found herself with nothing to do. She didn’t want to go home to her empty apartment and hang around waiting for Luke to call. That wait would be in vain, she knew. They hadn’t spoken or seen each other all week. It was one of the longest stalemates in the history of their relationship. Did they even have a relationship anymore, she wondered?
She did some errands and some halfhearted Christmas shopping. A few hours later, she found herself climbing the steps to her grandmother’s house on Providence Street.
The mansarded Victorian was a historic treasure, at least architecturally. It wasn’t the type of house, though, that people pointed out and admired. Painted slate grey with black shutters and white trim, its only ornaments were two cement urns at the top of the walk that held dark green ivy.
It could really be something, Sara thought, if her grandmother cheered it up a bit. It was the type of house that would look spectacular trimmed with Christmas lights, the kind that cling to the roof edges and look like icicles.
But her grandmother’s house was bare of all holiday decorations. Sara held the only possibilities forever in her hand—a large pine wreath with a red satin bow and a small tabletop Christmas tree. She also carried a shopping bag with gifts for Lillian.
From her first year in Cape Light, Sara had brought her grandmother a wreath every holiday season along with an amaryllis bulb that eventually sprouted a huge, trumpet-shaped red flower. Lillian’s husband used to buy her one each year, so she accepted the amaryllis as tradition. The tree was a new idea, though, a sudden impulse. Sara fully expected that Lillian would complain about it at length, and also secretly prize it.
Sara sometimes wondered why she went to so much trouble for her grandmother, who rarely seemed to appreciate the effort. Yet there were things about Lillian that she not only respected but also enjoyed—her sharp intellect, for one thing, and her quick, surprising wit. Her audacity, too. Lillian was her only grandparent and despite her prickly nature, they had managed to forge a genuine relationship.
Sara rang the brass doorbell. The place looked deserted as usual, the windows dark except for one small light up in the bedroom. Sara waited a long time, then rang the bell again. She knew Lillian was in there. Her grandmother did need extra time to get to the door, but it was also her particularity about accepting visitors that made her reception so slow.
The corner of the curtain in the living room window shifted slightly, and Sara took that as an encouraging sign. “It’s me—Sara,” she said forcefully. “I know you’re in there, Lillian.”
She waited a few more minutes, thinking she might just leave everything on the doorstep. Finally a light clicked on in the foyer and the big door opened.
“What are you doing here? Did your mother send you to see if I was still breathing?”
Sara ignored her grandmother’s play for sympathy. “Yes, exactly. I figured the wreath could be used either way,” she said lightly, hiding a small smile.
“Touché,
young lady. You may enter,” Lillian said grandly. She opened the door all the way and Sara stepped inside.
“What do you have there? Is that pathetic stalk of greenery supposed to be a Christmas tree?” Lillian reared back, taking in the tiny tree. “I hope you didn’t pay much for it. And I don’t want a tree in the house, for goodness sake. What a pagan tradition. They make a huge mess, and who’s going to clean up those pine needles and do all the decorating?”
“Calm down, Lillian. It’s hardly a tree. More like a Christmas . . . branch.”
Sara brought the tree into the living room and looked for a good spot to set it up. The rooms in Lillian’s house were spacious but crammed with furniture, large antique pieces that had come from the Warwick family estate—a real mansion that was now a historic site owned by the town.
When Lillian’s husband, Oliver, was caught in a business scandal, they had been forced to sell everything. Lillian had kept the family together and courageously pulled them through the crisis, though not without a cost to her spirit, Sara knew.
“How about right here, by the window?” Sara held the tree up over a small table that was covered with bric-a-brac. “I’ll just move some of these photos and things. Then you can see it when you come in the room.”
Lillian had followed her at a snail’s pace, walking slowly with her cane. She waved her hand at Sara and sat in her favorite high-backed armchair, the one that made her look like an ancient queen on her throne, Sara thought.
“Why ask me? I only live here. You seem determined to plant that thing in my house, no matter what I say. You pick the spot. It clearly doesn’t matter what I think about it.”
“Okay then,” Sara said brightly. She rearranged the table, making space for the tree.
“For goodness sakes, don’t break anything,” Lillian called out sharply.
“Don’t worry.” Sara placed the tree in the middle of the empty table. It looked cute, but too bare.
“Don’t you have any ornaments, Lillian? I thought a few years ago you put up a tree in here.”
“Of course I have ornaments. Very fine ones, handblown glass. They don’t make ornaments like that anymore.” Lillian shifted in her chair. “They’re up in the attic, though. I have no idea where.”
“I’ll go up and get them,” Sara offered. “It won’t take long.”
Sara had ventured into Lillian’s attic on a few other occasions and actually liked exploring up there.
For once Lillian didn’t object. “All right, you know the way. Just don’t get lost up there. The boxes are marked Christmas, of course. Just bring down one or two. I don’t want to turn this place into Santa’s workshop, for goodness sakes.”
“No chance of that,” Sara said dryly. She ran up the three flights to the attic and pulled on the string that controlled the light. A weak light bathed the shadowy space; it was just enough to help her find her way around. Sara was tempted to peer inside the trunks of old clothes and cartons that held the history of the family. But she knew Lillian was waiting impatiently and would start calling if she took too long.
She found a dusty old box marked Christmas. Inside were ornaments wrapped in yellowed tissue paper. The tree was so small, a single box would do, she decided, and carefully carried it down the stairs.
“What took you so long? Did you get lost up there?” Lillian watched her as she came down the last few steps into the foyer.
“It’s a mess up there. You really ought to find someone to put it all in order for you, Lillian.”
“Hire someone, you mean? Why should I? There will be plenty of volunteers when I’m dead and buried; you’ll see.”
Sara shook her head but didn’t laugh. Her grandmother could connect the most innocent comment to her imminent demise. Reminding everyone of her fragile mortality seemed to be one of her favorite pastimes.
You’re so stubborn, you’ll probably outlive all of us, Sara often wanted to say.
Sara could have made short work of trimming the tiny branch of pine, but Lillian watched closely, micromanaging the placement of the antique ornaments and relating some long story about each one.
“Those round red balls with the reindeer design come from Switzerland. We spent Christmas there one year, when your mother was just a baby, in a chalet on Lake Lucerne. My husband, Oliver, was a great sportsman, loved to ski. I couldn’t stand it—foolish sport, sliding around the snow with planks of wood strapped to your feet. Ridiculous.” She sighed, remembering. “The Alps are spectacular, though. You really ought to travel, Sara. That’s what you should be doing at your age. I can show you some pictures someday.”
Sara stood up and brushed off her hands. “I’d like to see them, Lillian. You know how I love your old photographs.”
Lillian had made them some tea while Sara was working on the tree and served it on a silver tray alongside a dish of tea biscuits. Sara was familiar with the dry, hard cookies, which lived in a little tin in Lillian’s kitchen. They must have taken up residence there about the year that she herself had been born.
There should be some music and a fire in the hearth, Sara thought, but the little tree had definitely brightened up the room and made it feel more like Christmas.
“I have some gifts for you in that bag, but you can’t open them until Christmas,” Sara teased her. “I’ll put them under the tree.”
“I have one for you, too . . . somewhere. Oh yes, over there on the dining room table. I wrapped it today. A premonition of your arrival, I suppose. It’s not much,” she warned Sara. “You know how I despise holiday shopping, all the expense and fuss. It’s just a big swindle that the shopping malls manage to put over every year. People are like sheep. They have no common sense.”
“I agree there’s too much commercialism this time of year, Lillian. But I wouldn’t call the entire holiday a big swindle.”
“Of course it is, silly girl. Open your eyes. This Christmas malarkey is about as genuine as the beard on a department store Santa. It’s a corporate conspiracy. Conscienceless lot, too. The way they use the children, it’s shameful. Making the parents feel guilty if they aren’t buying their kids everything under the sun. My children were never spoiled at Christmas, I’ll promise you that.”
“I believe you.” Sara couldn’t even imagine Lillian spoiling a child.
“So.” Lillian smoothed her skirt over her boney knees. “I hear your mother still has custody of that foundling. I hear she disgraced herself, too, carting the child into a very important meeting at Village Hall.”
Lillian was obviously keeping a close eye on the situation despite her distant perch. Sara wasn’t surprised. Lillian acted aloof but was actually quite interested, always fishing for news.
“You should have been a reporter, Lillian. Sounds like you have some good sources.”
“Nonsense. Your mother is being gossiped about all over town, and not in a very kindly way. One more stunt like that and she’ll be up in front of the town council. Then what? Is it worth losing her office over this . . . baby?”
“Lillian, you exaggerate. She’s found a full-time sitter now, an older woman from church, Blanche Hatcher. I’m sure Emily can figure out how to be mayor and have a baby.”
Lillian grunted with disapproval. “So she’s going through with this then? I thought it was only temporary.”
“The social service agency should be concluding their search for relatives soon, maybe by the end of the week,” Sara explained. “Then the baby will be free to be adopted.”
Sara paused. She didn’t know how much she should share with Lillian. Since the scene at church, Emily hadn’t spoken with her mother at all, though she did get reports from Jessica that all was well.
“I’m sure my daughter wants to proceed with this madness,” Lillian said. “Though I’m not so sure about her husband. He seems too settled in his ways for such an adjustment.” A keen observation, Sara thought. Lillian was actually paying more attention than people realized.
“I know everyone th
inks this is all so warm and wonderful, but it’s not. For one thing, Emily is likely to get hurt,” Lillian insisted. “There are probably a lot of younger couples who have been on these lists, waiting for a baby. Rich husbands with stay-at-home wives who are a far better bet than middle-aged newlyweds with a workaholic streak. What makes Emily think she’s going to get this baby anyway?” Lillian asked. “Why is she so obsessed with the child?”
Sara put her teacup down and looked at her grandmother squarely. She had considered this question herself and could come to only one conclusion.
“Maybe because she had to give me up.”
Lillian glared at her. “Because I made her. Isn’t that what you mean to say?”
Her grandmother didn’t seem the least bit rattled. She sat back in her chair, squared her shoulders, and lifted her chin. “That’s the family legend anyway. Well, I won’t apologize. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I did what I thought was best for her. For everybody. It wasn’t easy for me. When you have a child, you’ll see. You’ll have to make some hard calls,” she said knowingly. “Emily might find she has to give this baby up, too. And she won’t be able to blame me this time, thank goodness.”
For all Lillian’s anger, she did have a point. It would be ironic if that happened, Sara realized. Despite her own mixed feelings about the baby, she didn’t want Emily to be hurt again.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Sara said, wanting to put the subject aside.
“When will they know? By Christmas, do you think?”
“Probably,” Sara answered.
“Well, it might not be such a happy holiday on that side of town,” Lillian observed. “Where will you be? Will you stay here or visit your other family?”
The ironic note at the mention of her granddaughter’s adoptive parents was not lost on Sara, though she pretended not to notice it.
“I’ll be down in Maryland. My parents have asked me to come for a visit. I’m looking forward to it, actually.”
The Christmas Angel Page 19