It was three minutes to five now. No one had been in for a last-minute onion or bottle of rubbed sage or can of chicken broth in half an hour. He'd sent Evelyn home with the last three packages of cranberries and Leo with a goose to take to his daughter's tomorrow. He'd just swept the floor and wiped out the meat display case and put everything into the refrigerated locker. He'd closed out the register and noted the totals and was just reaching for his jacket when the phone rang.
He made a bet with himself on his way to answer it. Nettie Wilbur, he guessed. She had been in three times today for things she'd forgotten. Or maybe Earlene Love, who had ordered a turkey and had gone to Red Lodge to her sister's instead, was calling to tell him he could sell her bird. Or—happy thought—it was Erin telling him to hurry home, that she could hardly wait until he got there, that she loved him, that—
It rang again.
Deke picked it up. "Malone's."
"Thought you might've left," his father said.
Deke's teeth came together with a snap. "We close at five," he said through them. "I was busy."
"Wanted you to stop by on your way home."
"Why? Does Mom need something?"
"Your mother is at the old folks' home visitin' Mrs. Pace." Their former next-door neighbor, he meant. Mrs. Pace didn't have family in town anymore, so Deke's mother made it a point to visit her on holidays.
"Then why—"
"I'll see you in a few minutes," his father said and hung up.
The adolescent, rebellious Deke, who was still alive and kicking deep down in his thirty-seven-year-old soul, ground his teeth at the peremptory summons.
He took his time. If the old man thought he could run everything his way, he was wrong.
But, in the end, of course, Deke went. He had intended to stop by, anyway. He had a stack of presents to deliver from himself and Zack and Erin and her kids.
And maybe, he told himself as he drove over to his parents' house, that was all his dad wanted—to have him stop to pick up gifts for them.
Yeah, right. More likely the old man had heard a few complaints about the store since he'd been out of the hospital and wanted to make sure Deke heard them, too. Just one more way to enhance his holiday.
His father's bed was still in the family room. But he was dressed and sitting in his recliner when Deke arrived with a stack of presents in his arms. It was half past five—the clock was just chiming as he came in the room. John glanced at it, then at his son. Deke half expected the old man to complain that he'd dallied too long on his way over. But he didn't. He just nodded.
"Merry Christmas, ho ho ho," Deke said, setting the presents on the table, then turning around and pasting a determined smile on his face.
"Merry Christmas yourself," his father said. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't scowling, either. He nodded his head toward some gifts beside their small tree. "Those are for you to take. Your mother wrapped them."
"Right. Thanks." Deke started toward them.
"That's not why I asked you to come," his father said.
Deke stopped. He looked at his old man.
A muscle was ticking in his father's temple. His knuckles were white as he gripped the arms of the chair. Deke tried not to think about what was coming next. Didn't want to know how he'd failed this time. Couldn't even guess.
"Want to go up to the attic," his father said.
"What?" Deke stared.
The old man was shoving himself to his feet, the knuckles whiter than ever with the strain. "You deaf?" he snapped. "Said I wanted to go to the attic."
"You can't go to the attic," Deke said as his father shuffled toward the hall. "You can't climb stairs!"
"Well, flyin's out. You got any better ideas?"
"Dad!" Deke went after him, but stopped just short of touching him. There was no way he would physically restrain his father from doing anything. "Dad, the doc said you're not supposed to exert. He said you have to take care of yourself."
John turned on the bottom step, so that he and Deke were eye to eye. "That's just exactly what I'm doin'. Now are you comin', or are you just goin' to stand there flappin' your jaw?"
"Fine," Deke muttered. "Lead on."
Slowly, excruciatingly, his father began to mount the stairs. It took an effort for him to make the second floor. He stopped and held on to the newel post when he got there. His skin looked gray.
"Tell me what you want," Deke insisted. "I'll get it for you."
But his father shook his head. He didn't waste his breath on words, just opened the door that led upstairs and began to climb again.
It was cold and drafty in the attic. His father was breathing hard by the time he got there. Shivering, too.
"Wait," Deke said, bolted back down the steps, grabbed his father's fleece jacket from the closet and raced back up again. "If you're going to be a damn fool, at least be a warm one."
Something flickered in his father's face. Deke wasn't sure what. But the old man pulled on the jacket. "Thanks." Then he looked around, got his bearings and nodded toward the far end. "Over here."
The attic was stacked with boxes, with old furniture, with racks of summer clothes and used sports gear. He spotted his old hockey skates, his sisters' prom dresses under plastic, his mother's knitting machine, stacks and stacks of empty canning jars. There was his grandmother's old curtain stretcher and the photo of his grandfather at the Denver Stock Show when he'd bought the prize beef back in 1947. There were things Deke recalled and things he never remembered seeing before.
"What are you looking for?" he asked when his father started moving boxes out of the way.
"It's here," John said. "Back here. Give me a hand."
Shaking his head, wondering how he was going to explain to his mother that his father had wanted to die in a drafty attic on Christmas Eve, Deke began to move boxes, too.
"What—?" he began to ask again.
"It's for Zack," his father said. He slumped in Great-grandpa's old rocking chair and watched as Deke moved the last boxes.
"For Zack?" They were looking for some old toy?
"There."
It wasn't a toy at all. Not really. What John was pointing at was a child-size easel. Maybe a little bigger than for a boy Zack's size, but a real easel. One Deke had certainly never seen before.
"Boy likes to draw," John said. "He should have it."
"Where'd it come from? I don't remember it." Deke stared at it, baffled, then looked around at his father.
Blue eyes just like Zack's, just like his own, looked back at him. "It was mine."
Deke simply stared. He tried to put the two together—the child-size easel and the pragmatic hard-bitten man.
John leaned forward from the rocker and picked up a large flat folio that was leaning against one of the boxes. Silently he handed it to Deke.
It was dusty and musty. Deke wrinkled his nose as he unfastened the flap and opened it. In it were sketchbooks, drawings, paintings. He set the folio down and one by one began to draw them out.
The earliest sketches and paintings were childish and awkward. But there was intensity in them, passion, determination. Later ones were strong and daring and bold. Not tutored, but promising.
Deke went through them slowly, noting the raw energy, the undisciplined but clear talent at work.
His first instinct was to ask who'd done them. But he didn't need to. And if he hadn't already known, the artist's initials were at the bottom of each page. JTM.
John Thomas Malone.
He swallowed. He studied. Then slowly Deke looked up and stared at his father again, as if he'd never seen him before. "Why did…" No. More important, "Why didn't…?"
His father had had so much talent, such an obvious gift—one that Deke had never even dreamed existed—and he'd never pursued it.
John shrugged. "I got married, had you. Other things mattered more."
There was no rancor in his words, and if there was a hint of regret, there was no resentment.
"Responsibility," Deke said slowly.
His father nodded. Their gazes met. And for the first time, Deke began to understand the man his father had become.
He was a father himself now. And if he had to choose between his art and his son, he knew which he would choose. And he wouldn't regret it, either.
He smiled, blinked back wholly unexpected tears, and knew the gift was his as much as Zack's. "Thanks."
A faint smile touched his father's face, too, as he nodded. "Takes one to know one, isn't that what they say?" He held out a hand to his son.
Deke took it—and drew his father to his feet. They stood inches apart. It was so cold he could see their breath mingling. Then he stepped closer and hesitantly, tentatively wrapped the old man in a hug. A bare second later, he felt his own breath squeezed out of him as his father hugged him back.
Then John stepped back and cleared his throat. He didn't look at Deke, but at the pictures he had painted and the sketches he had drawn. "I was right," he said, his voice raspy, "doin' what I did. It was my responsibility." He drew a breath. "But I shouldn't have expected you to do the same. You didn't have the same responsibilities."
Deke stared. Had his father just admitted he'd been wrong?
"Dad?"
His father looked at him. A corner of his mouth lifted a fraction. "You take good pictures."
Then he reached out and took the folio from Deke's hands. Carefully, neatly he put the sketchbooks and paintings back in it. He wrapped it back up and put it on the shelf where it had been for years and years. Then he turned his back and stumped toward the stairs.
"Cold up here. Like to freeze my ears off. What're you waitin' for? Bring the easel for the boy and we'll go down."
Deke put the easel under the Christmas tree that night after the kids were all tucked in their beds.
"Where'd you get that?" Erin asked when he brought it in from the truck.
"My dad gave it to me. It's for Zack."
She looked at him quizzically, and Deke smiled. He'd been smiling all evening, still bemused, still amazed, still holding on to the astonishing events of this afternoon as his very own secret—as his greatest source of hope.
If his father could change—if John Malone could see things differently after all these years, if he could unbend, admit he'd been wrong—well then, as far as Deke was concerned, anything could happen.
Erin could love him.
He hoped. He prayed. And soon—tomorrow, on Christmas—he would ask.
But tonight he would be like a child again, living in anticipation. The children had been bouncing off the walls this evening—especially Nicolas, whose enthusiasm was contagious and who kept telling Zack all about Santa coming down the chimney and putting presents out for them to open in the morning.
"Santa?" Zack's eyes had grown wide and wondering. "Presents?"
And Nicolas had nodded, eyes like saucers, too. "He puts them under the tree in the dark and we'll get up really early and when we put the lights on in the tree, you'll see he's been here."
Getting Zack to sleep after that had been a trick. "See presents?" he'd said. "See Santa?"
"You can't see Santa. But you'll see that he's been here in the morning," Deke had told him. "You just have to wait."
Now as he watched Erin playing Santa, putting gifts under the tree, filling stockings, then turning and smiling at him, he was waiting, too. He thought this anticipation was even better.
She stepped back and surveyed the room. "There now." She sighed her satisfaction. "Now it looks like Christmas."
Deke nodded. "It does." And he dared to slip an arm around her and draw her under the sprig of mistletoe that Sophie had hung in the doorway.
Erin's eyes grew wide now, and he felt her tremble. He didn't want to ruin things. Didn't want to push. So he swallowed his desire and settled for giving her a gentle kiss.
"Merry Christmas."
Deke wasn't sure what woke him.
A noise? The faint glow of light from downstairs? Reindeer feet on the rooftop?
Might have been. He didn't know. The clock on the bedside table said 3:18. Automatically he looked toward Zack's mattress to see if the little boy had rolled off as he often did during the night.
Zack wasn't there.
Groaning, Deke sat up and looked around the darkened room. His son had been known to roll halfway across it in his sleep. But he didn't see any sleeping bodies anywhere. Raking his fingers through his hair, he stumbled up and padded out into the hall.
There was, in fact, a light coming from downstairs.
Erin had gone to bed at the same time he had. Had she got back up because she couldn't sleep? Because she was missing Jean-Yves? Because she had forgotten to put something under the tree? Or had Zack awakened her?
Deke headed down the hallway. As he reached the stairs, Erin came out of her room.
She started sleepily and frowned at him. "What're you—"
"What are you—" he countered.
Her eyes narrowed as she looked down the stairs toward the soft glow. "If Nicolas is up already—"
"I can't find Zack."
"Come on."
They crept down together.
A soft golden glow spilled from the multicolored tiny lights of the Christmas tree. And there, in the middle of the carpet, gazing up in rapt wonder at the sight knelt Zack in his blanket sleeper.
Zack had come downstairs in the middle of the night? Zack had plugged in the tree lights?
Deke looked at Erin. Erin looked at Deke. Then quietly together they went and sat down beside him. He turned to look at them each in turn. Then he smiled.
"Look," he said, pointing at the tree. "Light."
"Light," Deke agreed.
"Light," Erin echoed.
And when, half an hour later Deke carried his sleeping son back to bed, he stood for a long moment and stared out the window at the night sky—at the stars overhead and thought about light and hope and promises and miracles.
He thought about Erin. About family. About the past and the future. He thought about Thanksgiving and how he'd wondered what coming home would bring.
More than he'd ever expected. More than he'd ever hoped for.
Then, smiling with anticipation, he slept.
Of course it wasn't the best Christmas ever.
But it was close. It was warm and filled with joy and togetherness and memories and hopes. Nicolas got them up at six-thirty. Erin sent him back to bed with his stocking and told him eight was a more reasonable hour.
He lasted until seven. Then Gabe awakened and Sophie, and Zack went toddling down the hall announcing, "Santa come!"
Santa had indeed come. He'd brought Gabe and Nicolas hockey skates and Sophie a saddle. He'd brought Zack a wooden train set and some toddler-size Legos. Gabe had given him paints and Sophie had got him a roll of paper. Nico bought him big fat brushes and lots of stubby colored markers. And, of course, there was the easel.
"From Grandpa," Deke told him, clipped the paper on it, gave him the paints and let him go to it.
Who knew what he painted? Who cared? Someday, Deke guessed, it would be obvious.
But for now the intensity was there. The focus. The passion.
The Legos sat. So did the trains, while Zack painted picture after picture.
"Imagine your father thinking of that," Erin said, smiling fondly as she watched Zack attacking yet another piece of paper with single-minded vigor.
And Deke just smiled. "Will wonders never cease?"
They went to church in the morning, all six of them together. They ate dinner at home in the afternoon as if they were a family. Then they made the rounds—visiting her parents and his, then his sister's family and her brother's family. It was late and the kids were exhausted by the time they got home. Zack fell asleep in the car.
"Don't wake me up early," Nicolas mumbled when he fell into bed, his new hockey skates under his arm.
Erin laughed. "What a difference a day makes." She kissed him
good-night, then went to kiss Sophie.
"C'etait magnifique, n'est-ce pas?" Sophie murmured when Erin bent to kiss her good-night.
"Mmm," she agreed. "It was."
"It was good, wasn't it?" Gabriel said to her. He didn't have his skates in his bed, but they were on the bookshelf alongside.
"It was good," Erin agreed. But Gabriel leaned up on one elbow. "Not just Christmas," he clarified. "Good we came."
To Elmer, he meant. To America. Erin nodded.
"Yes."
She brushed a hand over his dark hair and smiled wistfully. It had been far better than she'd ever expected. And yet … she wanted more.
She peeked into Zack and Deke's room on her way past. Zack was fast asleep. Deke wasn't there. She tiptoed in and dropped a kiss on Zack's soft cheek, whispered her love to him, and then, still wanting—still hoping—she went downstairs.
Deke had built a fire. The only light in the living room came from the fireplace and the tree. The room was warm and welcoming and Deke, straightening up in front of the fire, looked warm and welcoming—and serious—too.
Erin smiled and held out her hands toward the fire. "Wonderful. It's been a wonderful day."
"It has," Deke agreed. He paused, then rocked back on his heels and forward again. "It's been a wonderful month. Season, I mean—Christmas." He sounded strained. Nervous?
Erin's heart quickened. "Yes," she said. "I've enjoyed it. It was a lot better than I thought it would be," she added, wanting to give him some encouragement.
He took it. "So," he said, "why don't we get married?"
Erin's heart leaped. It soared. It did triple axels and somersaults and a dozen high-flying loops. "Married?" She felt breathless.
"Married," Deke said firmly. "It makes sense, doesn't it?"
"Sense?" Erin echoed faintly.
He nodded. "Absolutely. It would be good for your kids and good for mine. We can help each other out that way. It's worked out well this month, hasn't it?" He didn't stop for an answer, just went right on. "And it can be even better when I'm not at the store anymore," he told her. "When we're both shooting, we can help each other out there, as well. Compatible interests and all that? Right?"
The Cowboy's Christmas Miracle Page 18