Beautiful Star of Bethlehem

by Lori Copeland

  A van pulls up beside us, and I note the name written on the side: SUNSET GARDENS OF BUCKHEAD. Inside the bus, three gray-headed old ladies wearing hats turn to crane their necks toward the pickup.

  Julee slides out and reaches for the backdoor handle. I think this is my cue to exit, but I hesitate. My mind is spinning. Nothing I’m witnessing makes sense. Opening the door, my daughter-in-law eases me out, and I hear voices talking—Jack Jr. and a man whom I don’t recognize.

  “Morning, Jack! You behind the controls this morning?”

  “Never miss an opportunity to fly. How’s the wife, Skip?”

  “Doing well. Her mother lives with us now. Keeps life interesting.”

  Before I can say Jack Sprat, Steven and Jack Jr. load me into the plane and then take my bag from Melissa. Cupping my elbow, Melissa seats me up front, and my jaw drops when I see someone has loaded my tablemates.

  Gwendolyn, Frances, and Eleanor grin. “Are you surprised?” they chirp in unison.

  Surprised? I couldn’t be more startled if I woke up with a rattlesnake in my pajamas. I’m certain that I look like I’ve been caught in headlights.

  Once I’m strapped in, Steven steps into the plane and kneels before my seat. He gently takes my hand. “Mom, I know you’re confused, but the doctors, Jack Jr. and I, Missy and Julee—we have told you about this move. You agreed. You’re going home, Mom.”

  “Home?” I shake my head, near tears from the strange excursion. “I don’t know where that is, son.”

  “It’s a very happy place in Vermont with big rooms, and all of Dad’s things are there as he left them. Jack Jr. and I closed the house after the accident. We haven’t known what to do with it, but the answer came the night of your Christmas party. With the help of more cleaners, lawyers, and paperwork than you can imagine; endless family conversations with Frances’s, Eleanor’s, and Gwendolyn’s kin and guardians; more papers, more lawyers, hiring a full-time nurse and small staff; the old home place is back in fine shape. Seems Jack Jr. and I have opened a new business.”

  “Is Jack there?”

  My son’s eyes soften to liquid love. “In so many ways, Mom, he’s there. Not physically, but his big chair is there, the bed you shared is there, his razor, his coffee mug. When you’re ready, we’ll store his things. But for now, I want you home, to look out the big windows and watch your birds in their feeders, your lovely tiger lily flower garden. You’ll get to see them bloom this summer. Dad’s there, and you should be with him.”

  Frances blows her nose harshly and then states, “We get to live with you until we croak.”

  At the moment, Steven’s words fail to register. My Jack is gone, but considering how very much I miss him, I can allow my son to dream, can’t I? And the word home? I mentally try the word on and find it fits perfectly, like rainbows and summer showers.

  Steven grins. “We thought it appropriate that our first guests to occupy ‘Arlene’s Place’ should be your tablemates.”

  Frances sticks the hankie in her purse.

  My son continues. “Like I said, you’ll have all the help you need, and Ella will be underfoot a lot. Julee and I are going to relocate—move back to Vermont. We plan to run Arlene’s Place, and my foreman will run the electrical business here in Atlanta. All you girls need to do is put on a couple of Elvis CDs, roll your hair in orange juice cans, and parrrteee.”

  “Steven,” I admonish. “I may be nuttier than a rabid bulldog, but even I know women do not roll their hair in orange juice cans any longer.” Well, there is one woman in the complex that still does, but she’s got to be the exception. “What about Una?” They’ve neglected to include her again.

  Steven’s tone drops. “Una can’t come, Mom. Jack Jr. and I don’t think that’s wise. If, after you settle in, you still feel that you need her, we’ll arrange something.”

  I slowly lift my eyes to meet his. “Promise?”

  He squeezes my hand. “You got my word.”

  I hear last-minute groundwork under way outside of the plane. Melissa had seated me next to Gwendolyn, and she now checks my belt. “Too tight?” she asks.

  “Just fine—everything is fine now.”

  “This is cool,” Gwendolyn says. “We’re roomies.”

  I really wish I recalled that particular conversation—but friends are good.

  “I’m scared of these death traps.” Frances shifts in her seat, rechecking her seat belt.

  “Please refrain from calling the plane a ‘death trap’ while were in flight.” Eleanor snaps her belt closed. “Has my lipstick worn off?” She fumbles for her purse.

  “You’re not afraid of flying, dear. You’re afraid of crashing.” Gwendolyn slips a piece of gum in her mouth. “Here, this prevents you from going deaf during the flight.”

  “Not deaf,” I correct. “Chewing gum helps to clear your ears.”

  “Of what?” Gwen asks.

  “Never mind.”

  Jack Jr. calls from the pilot’s seat. “Ready to go, ladies?”

  Melissa moves back and heaves the door closed and locks it. She gives me a little squeeze as she walks to her husband, bends to give him a tender kiss, and then takes the copilot’s chair. The touching exchange makes me cry harder—and laugh at the same time.

  Here I was, thinking that God might be neglecting me.

  And then the private jet is screaming down the runway, and suddenly I feel liftoff. Lighter than air, a mere bubble dancing through clouds, I soar up… up toward the heavens.

  The plane climbs through layers of fluffy clouds, bright, intense splashes of blue, and I imagine that I see angels waving to me. Gwendolyn’s leather seat and mine face the cockpit, and I can see every movement. The air is as smooth as melting ice cream. The craft gently levels off, and my journey home begins.

  The pilot turns slightly in his seat and asks, “Are the ladies comfortable?”

  Voices speak up. “Great!”

  “I’m going to be sick. This thing got barf bags?”

  I hear the distinct sound of retracting landing gear then a lipstick cap being replaced. “This sucker can go, can’t she?”

  And then the pilot focuses on me, and a veil drops away and I am looking into my Jack’s eyes, eyes that I have adored for most of my adult life, the eyes of love. “And you, Milady?”

  Milady. A slow, probably slightly naughty smile spreads across my face, and I can’t stop grinning. My gaze locks with his, and I nod. “I’m perfect, Jack. Now.”

  “Good.” He winks. “Let’s go home.”

  Lori Copeland is a popular bestselling author of both historical and contemporary fiction. Her books have been nominated for the prestigious Christy Award, and she received two Romantic Times Lifetime Achievement Awards. Lori makes her home in Missouri with her husband, Lance, three sons, and ever growing family. Her hobby is knitting prayer and friendship shawls and baking chocolate chip cookies.