A Winter Dream
Page 16
“It’s good to see you, Ewa.”
“It is good to be seen,” she said. “How have you been?”
“Surviving,” I said.
“That is better than not.”
“Usually,” I said. I took a deep breath. “You haven’t heard from April, have you?”
She looked at me as if she didn’t understand my question. “Haven’t heard?”
“I mean, has she called?”
“Yes.”
“How is she?”
“She is okay, I think. She could be better, but okay.”
“Is she happy?”
Her brow furrowed. “That is a very difficult question to answer. Maybe you should ask her for yourself.” Ewa turned back toward the counter. I looked over. April was standing there, staring at me.
“April.” I jumped to my feet and walked to her, our eyes locked on each other. I couldn’t read her. I didn’t know what she was thinking.
We stood there, just inches from each other. Maybe miles. I wasn’t sure. “I never meant to lose you,” I said.
Tears began to well up in her eyes.
“I came back to find you . . . but you were gone. Then they sent me to New York.” I wanted to touch her—to throw my arms around her. “I never stopped thinking about you.” I just looked into her eyes, hoping she would say something. She didn’t. “Why did you leave?”
She wiped her eyes. “After what I told you, I thought you had left me. It was too much for me. You’re the first man I’ve ever truly chosen. At Christmas, I called Ewa to wish her Merry Christmas. She told me you had come for me. So I called, but your phone was turned off. So I came back. I went to your apartment . . .” She paused. “But you were gone.” She wiped her eyes. “I didn’t know a heart could break twice.”
“I’m so sorry.” My voice cracked. “I was so stupid. I scared you away.”
“You didn’t scare me away,” she said. “I needed to go back. I needed to take care of my past, so I could have a future.”
I stood there, still frozen, afraid to ask. “Am I a part of that future?”
She looked into my eyes with a peculiar light, then slowly shook her head. “No.”
My heart fell. “No?”
“Not just a part,” she said. “I was hoping you would be my future.”
She fell into me and we kissed. Passionately. Fully. This time there was no past to suppress, no secrets to steal her away, no guilt to own her. This time, for the first time, she was mine. I would never let her go again.
EPILOGUE
Life’s greatest lessons are often those we most wished to avoid.
Joseph Jacobson’s Diary
The day I graduated from college my father gave me this letter.
My Dear Son,
I am so very proud of you. Now, as you prepare to embark on a new journey, I’d like to share this one piece of advice. Always, always remember that—
Adversity is not a detour. It is part of the path.
You will encounter obstacles. You will make mistakes. Be grateful for both. Your obstacles and mistakes will be your greatest teachers. And the only way to not make mistakes in this life is to do nothing, which is the biggest mistake of all.
Your challenges, if you’ll let them, will become your greatest allies. Mountains can crush or raise you, depending on which side of the mountain you choose to stand on. All history bears out that the great, those who have changed the world, have all suffered great challenges. And, more times than not, it’s precisely those challenges that, in God’s time, lead to triumph.
Abhor victimhood. Denounce entitlement. Neither are gifts, rather cages to damn the soul. Everyone who has walked this earth is a victim of injustice. Everyone.
Most of all, do not be too quick to denounce your sufferings. The difficult road you are called to walk may, in fact, be your only path to success.
I’ve read that letter many times throughout my life. I never could have imagined how prophetic my father’s words would prove—especially the last line. Had it not been for the difficult circumstances I was thrown into, I never would have been in the position to ultimately save those I cared most deeply about. I never would have found my true soul. And I never would have found her. A philosopher once wrote that we “understand our lives looking backward, but we must live them forward.” He was right. Looking back, the journey all makes sense. At the time, none of it did.
I am indeed a blessed man. April and I were married in June, six months after our reunion. If I had to go through all I did just to have her, I would. In a heartbeat.
My father is now officially retired, and he and Mom are traveling the world. They’ve made a goal to see every country. I’m sure they’ll accomplish it. My father never fails at what he sets out to do. What a legacy he’s left his children.
The Leo Burnett/Jacobson Advertising Agency is thriving. It’s now the largest agency in Colorado. Rupert is the acting CEO. I’m proud of my big brother. My own career is doing well. Mr. Ferrell has been good to me. Advertising has been good to me. Chicago’s a nice place to live. Maybe someday the Cubs will win the pennant. I’m not holding my breath. There might be something to that goat curse.
One more thing. April and I are going to be parents. She’s due next October. If it’s a girl, we’re thinking of naming her May.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© DEBRA MACFARLANE
Richard Paul Evans is the #1 bestselling author of The Christmas Box. Each of his twenty-one novels has been a New York Times bestseller. There are more than 15 million copies of his books in print worldwide, translated into more than twenty-four languages. He is the recipient of numerous awards, including the American Mothers Book Award, the Romantic Times Best Women’s Novel of the Year Award, the German Audience Gold Award for Romance, two Religion Communicators Council Wilbur Awards, the Washington Times Humanitarian of the Century Award and the Volunteers of America National Empathy Award. He lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, with his wife, Keri, and their five children. You can learn more about Richard on Facebook at www.facebook.com/RPEfans, or visit his website, www.richardpaulevans.com.
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Lost December
Promise Me
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Finding Noel
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Timepiece
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Designed by Davina Mock
Jacket design by Jackie Seow
Jacket photograph by Carson Ganci/Design Pics/Corbis
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Evans, Richard Paul.
A winter dream / Richard Paul Evans. — 1st Simon & Schuster hardcover ed.
p. cm.
1. Adult children—Family relationships—Fiction. 2. Family-owned business enterprises—Fiction. 3. Forgiveness—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3555.V259W56 2012
813’54—dc23 2012032646
ISBN 978-1-4516-2803-6
ISBN 978-1-4516-2805-0 (ebook)
Contents
TWENTY YEARS LATER . . .
I. THE WIDOW’S MANSION
II. THE CHRISTMAS BOX
III. THE BIBLE BOX
IV. THE DREAM, THE ANGEL, AND THE LETTER
V. THE STONE ANGEL
VI. THE ANGEL
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For my sister Sue.
Whom I love and I miss.
No little girl could stop the world to wait for me.
—NATALIE MERCHANT
TWENTY YEARS LATER . . .
Richard Paul Evans
Twenty years and a million miles ago I was a young man with political aspirations. When I sat down to write The Christmas Box, I had just lost a race for the state legislature by less than one percent. I am grateful for many of my failures, but none more than that one. With time on my hands I decided to pursue a lifelong dream to write a book.
I didn’t have visions of becoming a bestselling author. My story was too personal, a trifle, meant only for my two young daughters, Jenna and Allyson. I wanted to write something that would capture the feelings of a young father—with the hope that someday, when my daughters were adults, they would read my book and understand the joy and beauty they had brought into my life.
I can’t think of a better place for the magic to begin. As I began to write my story, the story began to write itself. The words came to me with such unexpected and great force that I would wake up in the middle of the night and write long sections without stopping. I once pulled off the freeway and wrote an entire chapter on the back of whatever paper I could find in my car. I remember, very distinctly, wondering why I was being blessed with such great inspiration for something that, in the end, didn’t really matter that much. I didn’t understand at that time just how much this little book would matter.
I produced twenty copies of my book for family Christmas presents and gave a copy to my mother. To my surprise she said the book helped her heal after the loss of my little sister more than twenty-five years earlier. Other family members called to say how much they loved the story. I was pleased by the response I received from my book and thought my project was finished. My book, however, had other plans. Those original copies were quickly passed from person to person until hundreds had read them, and soon bookstores began calling with orders for my unpublished book. Following the bookstores’ advice, I sent my book out to local publishers who quickly rejected it. A book like this would never sell.
Still, I was receiving so many requests for copies that I decided to publish it myself—and The Christmas Box started its climb to the top of the world’s bestsellers lists, making history as the only book to simultaneously hit number one on the New York Times hardcover and paperback bestsellers lists. In spite of the book’s commercial success, the true legacy of The Christmas Box is more than a number. To me this book has produced three notable miracles.
First, the healing of those who have lost children. Since publication, I have received thousands of letters and emails with messages echoing that of my mother’s—that this little book has brought healing after great loss. How it brings peace I’m not sure, but I attribute it to the very source and miracle of the book itself.
Second, The Christmas Box Angel monument mentioned in the book has not only become a site to visit, but the statue has been duplicated throughout the world, giving those who have lost children a place to go to find healing. Today, there are more than a hundred Christmas Box Angel monuments, and every December 6th, thousands of people gather around those angels to remember their lost ones and find peace and comfort in the angel’s presence.
Third, the Christmas Box House. After The Christmas Box was picked up by a major publisher, my wife, Keri, and I decided that we would take some of the money we received and give back to our community. We began by building shelters for abused and neglected children. Since that time our charity, Christmas Box International, has served more than 35,000 children.
A few years back at one of my book signings, an excited young woman said to me, “Mr. Evans, I’ve wanted to meet you my whole life.”
Flattered, I said, “You like my books?”
“No,” she replied, “I’ve never read them.”
“Oh,” I said. “Then why did you want to meet me?”
“I’m one of your Christmas Box House kids.” Then she put her arm around the teenage boy standing next to her. “This is my brother. When we were taken from our biological parents, there was no place for us to go. They took us to your Christmas Box House. Then, when our parents put us up for adoption, nobody wanted both of us. But because of your shelter, we had a place to stay until my father and mother came along and adopted us both. My caseworker said that if it wasn’t for you, I would have been raised without my brother. I’ve always wanted to thank you for my brother.”
I looked at her then smiled. “Would you like to sign books with me?”
“Love to,” she said.
For the next hour we sat together drinking Cokes and signing.
Twenty novels later and with more than fifteen million copies of my books in print worldwide, one of the questions I’m most frequently asked is which, of all my books, is my favorite. I usually reply by saying that’s like being asked which of my children is my favorite. But that’s not completely true. Without The Christmas Box, there would be no other books. This little book has helped me to reach people throughout the world, and though my books may have become more sophisticated and I a better writer, I would not change a word of that original text.
This was the meaning of the Christmas Box,
that someday I would turn around
and my little girl would be gone . . .
How quickly the time has passed. Today those two little girls for whom I wrote The Christmas Box are adults. Jenna is married and working as my writing assistant. Allyson is pursuing her Masters of Social Work. What hasn’t changed is the relevance of my little story. Now, just as it was a thousand years ago and will be a thousand years from now, parents stil
l look at their children and feel their hearts breaking a little, knowing that the only promise of childhood is that someday it will be gone. It is my deepest hope that, for centuries to come, the message of The Christmas Box will endure as a reminder of the sanctity and holiness of a parent’s love. God Bless and Merry Christmas.
Chapter I
T MAY BE THAT I am growing old in this world and have used up more than my share of allotted words and eager audiences. Or maybe I am just growing weary of a skeptical age that pokes and prods at my story much the same as a middle-school biology student pokes and prods through an anesthetized frog to determine what makes it live, leaving the poor creature dead in the end. Whatever the reason, I find that with each passing Christmas the story of the Christmas Box is told less and needed more. So I record it now for all future generations to accept or dismiss as seems them good. As for me, I believe. And it is, after all, my story.
My romantic friends, those who believe in Santa Claus in particular, have speculated that the ornamented brown Christmas Box was fashioned by Saint Nick himself from the trunk of the very first Christmas tree, brought in from the cold December snows so many seasons ago. Others believe that it was skillfully carved and polished from the hard and splintered wood from whose rough surface the Lord of Christmas had demonstrated the ultimate love for mankind. My wife, Keri, maintains that the magic of the box had nothing to do with its physical elements, but all to do with the contents that were hidden beneath its brass, holly-shaped hinges and silver clasps. Whatever the truth about the origin of the box’s magic, it is the emptiness of the box that I will treasure most, and the memory of the Christmas season when the Christmas Box found me.
I was born and raised in the shadow of the snow-clad Wasatch range on the east bench of the Salt Lake Valley. Just two months before my fourteenth birthday my father lost his job, and with promise of employment, we sold our home and migrated to the warmer, and more prosperous, climate of Southern California. There, with great disappointment, I came to expect a green Christmas almost as religiously as the local retailers. With the exception of one fleeting moment of glory as the lead in the school musical, my teenage years were uneventful and significant only to myself. Upon graduation from high school, I enrolled in college to learn the ways of business, and in the process learned the ways of life; met, courted, and married a fully matriculated, brown-eyed design student named Keri, who, not fifteen months from the ceremony, gave birth to a seven-pound-two-ounce daughter whom we named Jenna.