MY CHRISTMAS ANGEL
by
Debra Salonen
Copyright 2013 - Smashwords edition
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a reputable retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Cover by Rogenna Brewer
Dedication
For Daisy Bagby Robson, my mother, and the kindest woman I ever knew.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Dear Reader
A Hundred Years or More
Chapter One
"Read me your story, Mommy. Please. Before you go. Plee...ase."
Abby had popped into Ben's room to kiss him good-bye before dashing across town to her ex-sister-in-law's annual Christmas Eve Eve party. Janine would give her a hard time if Abby told her why she was late. Janine claimed divorced parents overcompensated by giving into their kid's every wish. But Janine was "childless by choice," and she wasn't looking into the sweetest, most heart-tugging brown eyes on the planet.
"Laying it on a little thick, aren't you, cutie?"
Her son scrambled upright, positioning himself with shoulders against the single bed's headboard. Shaggy blond hair framed his thin face as he tried to look angelic--hands folded prayerfully in his lap, flannel pajamas mis-buttoned.
He's me thirty years ago, she realized.
She'd been a worldly eight when she met Dickie--her Christmas angel and the subject of the story Ben wanted to hear.
"I know we usually read it on Christmas Eve," Ben said gravely. "But that's--" He looked at the digital clock on his beside table. "--just four hours away."
Her son paid attention to time. And schedules. A bi-product of shared custody, she was certain.
"Oh, what the heck," Abby said, shrugging off her coat. "Let's live dangerously and read it early. Aunt Janine will forgive me this once." Maybe. Her ex-sister-in-law liked to tell people that when Abby and Drake divorced, Janine got custody of Abby. But that was two years ago, and since Drake's recent wedding to a lovely woman Janine liked, Janine's loyalty had started to shift. She'd even invited the newlyweds to her party. Another reason Abby was dragging her feet.
She draped her coat across the foot of her son's bed and squeezed into the tiny space he'd made. Ben was getting so big. It seemed like only yesterday when she held him in her arms on Christmas Eve and told him the story of the little boy who made such a big impact on her. The storytelling became a family ritual until two years ago--their first holiday as a broken family--when Ben asked, "Why isn't your story a book, Mommy? It sounds like a book."
Out of the mouth of babes, as her mother often said. Abby spent her remainder of her vacation writing and editing the story. At her small, boutique publishing house's January editorial meeting, she introduced her proposal. Her boss loved it and exclaimed, "I know the perfect illustrator." He'd been right. Over the next few months, Dickie's story morphed into a book. Its beautiful cover was an immediate draw and the story garnered enough buzz to sell out. My Christmas Angel recently celebrated its ninth printing.
"Where's the book?" she asked, playing into their long-standing game.
"Right here." He whipped it out from under the covers and presented the large, well-loved copy to her with a flourish.
Abby lightly ran her fingers over the raised imprint of her name on the book jacket. She still felt like a fraud when people referred to her as an author. She'd gone to college to study literature because books had been her refuge after her parents divorced. She'd planned on becoming a librarian until she met Ben's father and moved to New York. Somehow, her adopted city seemed to require her to think bigger so she'd shopped her degree from publisher to publisher until she found an assistant editor spot at a small, erudite press. She loved her job and harbored no illusion that she was a thwarted author. Not for a minute. But Dickie's story was different. Telling it was only natural...since she'd lived it.
Did that mean she believed the reviewer who claimed the story "...addressed that moment of awakening in a child's life when he or she realizes they are part of a bigger world?" Not for a minute, but she was glad for the book's success, even if secretly she felt a tiny bit disappointed. Ever since its publication, a part of her had hoped that the living, breathing Dickie Daniels would see the book, buy it, start reading it to his children and suddenly realize, "Hey, this is me."
She'd received a steady flow of email from fans of the book, but not a single inquiry asked, "Are you that Abigail? From Pittsburg? Was your mother our family caseworker? Did she bring me to your house on Christmas Eve?"
"Mommy," Ben said, drawing her back to the present. He opened the book to the first page. "Start right here where it says, 'Little Dickie Daniels is a Christmas angel.'"
Abby turned her chin to look at him. "Is it time for you to start reading to me?"
"Maybe next year," Ben said seriously. "You do it."
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Reading the words aloud always brought back the scene as though it were happening for the first time.
"Little Dickie Daniels is a Christmas angel."
That's what I heard my mother tell my dad, and since I'd never in my whole lifetime of eight years known my mother to lie, I took this statement as the Gospel truth.
"His mother has to work tomorrow night. I told her we'd love to have him join us. He's turning six, and it broke my heart to think of him stuck in that small apartment with a babysitter on such a special day. Besides, it will be good for Abigail to have him here," she added.
Why having another kid in the house on Christmas Eve would be good for me made no sense, but I recognized a winning argument when I heard it. My father could deny me nothing. And, I'll admit I was curious. I'd never met a real life angel of any kind. I started to add my support to Mother's cause when I remembered where I was--eavesdropping on a grown-up's conversation instead of asleep in bed.
Ben snickered as he pointed to the image of a little girl in a high-neck nightgown and bunny slippers backing out from behind a sofa.
"You'd never do that," Abby stated, as she did every year.
"Never," her son answered gravely.
A blatant fib, of course. Like mother, like son.
Abby resumed reading:
"As I tiptoed toward the staircase, I heard my father say, 'Next, you'll want me to feed all the homeless people down by the river. Isn't it enough that my tax money goes to support that woman and her brood? I don't want you to get in the habit of bringing your work home with you.'
Her mother was a social worker. Abigail didn't know exactly what that meant, but Mother said she helped needy families. "People on welfare," Father had clarified in the same tone he used when he and Mother argued about Uncle Eddie --Mother's lazy, worthless, user brother.
A Christmas angel on welfare? Abigail shook her head, distracted for a moment by the way her braids danced back and forth. Surely Daddy was mistaken. Angels were beautiful creatures with long, wavy blond hair and white wings. Their feet never touched the ground. They glowed with love and goodwill, and they gave stuff to people, not the other way around.
Poor Daddy, she thought as she tiptoed back to bed.
"Poor little Dickie will need your help to feel welcome, Abigail," her mother said the next morning. "You'll be kind to him, won't you, dear?"
She got her answer when she and her father returned home from some last minute Christmas shopping. Mother liked to say that Daddy was a procast..prostra...he waited till the last minute to do things.
"What's the word she's looking for?" Abby asked Ben.
"Procrastinator." Ben liked big words, just as Abby always had.
"Outstanding," she said with a wink.
"Mother and our guest were waiting beside the Christmas tree--one of their best ever. Abigail had made a few adjustments that morning so the majority of her most special ornaments were at eye level for a child, instead of being up high where they'd been for years thanks to an unfortunate incident with Abigail's tricycle. Now she wondered if that decision might have been a mistake.
That scruffy-looking kid is one of God's chosen? No way. He doesn't look anything at all like an angel.
For one thing, he was small--a whole head shorter than her and really skinny. And even if she hadn't truly expected him to have wings, she sure as heck didn't imagine he'd be black. On closer inspection, she had to admit his clothes were neater than hers--she couldn't stay clean for love nor money, her grandmother liked to say, but his pants were a good inch above his ankles, exposing too much of his thin white socks. And his hair was cut super short like maybe he'd had lice and it hadn't had time to grow back.
Abby pointed to the thought bubble above Abigail's head. "What's she thinking?"
Ben's young girl impression sounded eerily like Abby's mother. "It's winter, people. Kids need hair. Or, at the very least, a warm hat. I'd give him one of mine if he'd wear pink."
Abby pressed her lips together to keep from grinning. "Very nice. Thank you."
Ben turned the page for her and tapped the text. "Go on. Her mother is introducing them."
Abby cleared her throat.
"Come and greet Dickie, Abigail," Mother said. Her tone clearly added the warning: Do anything to embarrass me and no TV for a week, young lady.
Abigail looked at her father. His shoulders lifted and fell. She knew what that meant, too. He'd humor Mother for the moment, but there would be loud voices and angry words later...after they thought she was asleep.
"Hmm, hi?" she said, stepping closer.
Dickie didn't look dangerous. If anything, he looked in awe. In fact, he stared at her as though she were the Christmas angel. His eyes were big and seemed to swallow up the light. Afraid they might swallow her, too, she rushed to the hutch where Mother kept her games.
"Wanna play...Candyland?" she asked, choosing her oldest and least favorite game. That way if he broke it she wouldn't be too upset.
She put the box on the coffee table and motioned for him to join her. She quickly realized she'd worried for nothing. Dickie handled each piece as if it were a treasure, and he followed her directions to the letter--even when she cheated and went out of turn.
Wow. He must be really poor, she thought with a twinge of sympathy.
Trying to picture Dickie's life made her tummy hurt, but luckily Mother called them to supper just then. "Come and get it. I made some of your favorites, Dickie."
Abigail raced to her chair, curious to see what poor people ate. Roast beef? Potatoes and gravy? Corn? Everything looked pretty ordinary except for a bowl of cooked green leafy stuff and a plate of biscuits. Mother used to bake a lot--before she started working full time.
"Looks good," Father said. "Sit down, Abigail."
Abigail glanced at Dickie and was shocked to see big, shiny tears in his eyes. Mother seemed surprised, too, because she spun around and rushed to the kitchen for something. But I noticed when she returned her hands were empty, except for the tissue she dabbed at the corners of her eyes.
All this fuss over a little feast? Abigail didn't get it...until she remembered her father saying that people on welfare squandered their money. Abigail didn't know that word, but she assumed it meant they left their money in their pockets when they washed their clothes and then couldn't find it when it came time to buy food.
Abby looked at her son. "Do you know what squander means?"
Ben nodded. "It's like when you buy candy when you really needed batteries for your remote."
She laughed and gave him a one-arm hug before continuing.
About then, Daddy started saying grace. The smell of the roast beef made Abigail's mouth water and she had a hard time focusing on his words until he said something about how thankful they all should be. She had to agree with that. She was thankful she wasn't Dickie Daniels. But when she cocked her chin to sneak a peek at Dickie, he looked peaceful and um...angelic. Head bowed and eyes closed, he communicated in silence, his lips moving purposefully, as if using the chance to thank God for more than the chance to eat.
What does Dickie have to be thankful for?
As always, the meal took twice as long as it did on a day that wasn't Christmas Eve. Abigail cleaned her plate--even the green stuff, which looked like melted leaves from one of Mother's houseplants but actually tasted pretty good. When Mother asked if anyone wanted dessert, Abigail shook her head so hard her pigtails flew. "Presents, first. Then pie."
"No pie, Abigail. We're having birthday cake."
"What? Why?"
"I thought you understood. Today is Dickie's birthday. His mother said he came into the world at the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve. That's what makes him a Christmas angel."
Abigail trailed after their guest as they moved to the tree. She couldn't quite wrap her mind around this revelation. Even being a Christmas angel wouldn't make up for missing out on a special day dedicated strictly to you. She eyed the pile of presents tucked 'round the bottom of their tree. Did Dickie get double the presents...or half as many as he might have if his birthday was...say June 1, which just happened to be her birthday?
She was still puzzling over that question when Mother reached down from her perch on the sofa to pick up a bright red box with a big white bow. Abigail had had her eye on the gift for days. She'd even tossed around the idea of picking that box to open tonight. According to tradition, they each were allowed to open one present on Christmas Eve.
"Here you go, Dickie," Mother said. "This is your birthday gift from Abigail."
From me? You mean stolen from me, she silently fumed. I hope it's underwear. Or a dress. Or a doll.
Dickie slipped off the ribbon so slowly and with such care, Abigail almost yanked it out of his hands to finish unwrapping it. But a stern look from Mother kept her hands under her butt where she put them for safekeeping.
When Dickie finally managed to get the paper off the box and pried the lid free, he reached into a thick cloud of tissue paper and pulled out the sweetest toy bear Abigail had ever seen. It was dressed in a striped shirt and the most adorable bib overalls with wood buttons. Its light brown fleece looked softer than her mother's mink collar. Its shiny black nose and soulful eyes reminded her of Dickie's.
As she watched Dickie press the bear to his chest, she had only one thought, Why him? Why did he get her bear? It wasn't fair. It simply wasn't fair...
But, then Abigail lifted her gaze to meet Dickie's. He stared at her with a look that reached into her chest and stopped her heart. His beautiful brown eyes said thank you. She could tell he loved the bear. He loved her, too, for giving it to him. But she hadn't. Not really. And that made her sad. Really, really sad.
"Oh, honey, don't cry. Please," her mother said when Abigail burst into tears. "Sweetheart, you have lots of presents. This isn't necessary."
"Abigail," her father said sharply. "Enough!"
Abigail couldn't stop the tears. She tried, but the crazy emotions bubbling inside her wouldn't quit--even if her parents punished her for being the most spoiled brat in the world. But Dickie understood because he scooted closer and took her hand.
Her mother had been right, of course. Dickie D
aniels was a Christmas angel. Christ must have known it, too. Because just like in the Christmas story they told in church, a poor mother shared her child with the world and He taught its children the power of love and the true meaning of Christmas.
The end.
Abby closed the book and let out a soft sigh. She'd never been happy with the ending. Her editor had pooh-poohed her concerns.
"Leave it alone, Abby. It fits. Every story has to end some way."
She knew that and yet...why did her ending always leave her feeling so wistful and a little sad?
Who knew? It's just the holidays, she told herself.
As she did every year.
Chapter Two
Heaving a heartfelt sigh that seemed to start at the bottom of her toes and work its way up, Abby looked at her son who'd fallen asleep, his breathing peaceful. She ignored the temptation to curl up beside him.
"You're a grown up," she muttered softly. "You can do this."
She stood, turned off the bedside lamp and picked up her coat.
Lori, her teenage babysitter, had her nose in a book or game on her tablet and didn't even look up when Abby's landline rang. "Janine," Abby grumbled. "I'm coming. I'm coming."
She snatched up the receiver without looking at the caller I.D. "Merry Christmas," she answered, reminding herself at the last second that no one liked a Grinch.
"Um...hello. Is this the correct number for Abigail Montrose?"
She didn't recognize the male voice. Deep, cultured and interesting. Not your typical telemarketer. And definitely not the voice she'd expected. "Yes, it is. Who's this?"
"Richard Daniels. I believe you know me as...Dickie."
Her lips formed the correct pucker to produce the word: what? But no air emanated from her diaphragm. Dickie? My Dickie? Now? Her knees gave out and she grabbed the closet door for support.
Her visual image of little Dickie Daniels--created in part from memory but mostly from her illustrator's pen--didn't match the voice in any way, shape or form. "Dickie? The Dickie Daniels my mother brought to dinner thirty years ago?"
My Christmas Angel Page 1