My Christmas Angel

by Debra Salonen

  He didn't answer right away then he laughed and said, "I just did the math. It has been thirty years. Tomorrrow."

  Although a voice in her head said this could be a scam or a practical joke, her gut said otherwise. "How'd you find me?"

  "An early birthday gift from my sister, Latisha. I didn't ask how she got your home phone number--there may have been bribes or arm-twisting involved. My sister gets what she wants. Always has."

  Dickie has a sister? Then, she recalled her mother explaining his family dynamics to her father. "Your mom had older children before you were born. Mother said you were a surprise, as well as a Christmas angel."

  "A surprise. Yes. The diplomatic way of putting it."

  His sisters had been with their birth father the night Dickie visited. Abigail had learned first hand about mixed families over the years. "You asked for my number as a present?"

  "Not exactly. Latisha overheard me say something about how interesting it would be to meet you again, and she started the wheels rolling. She claims I'm impossible to buy for, so this made the perfect gift for the guy who has everything."

  Abby shook her head. Was she really speaking with a living, breathing memory she'd been reading about moments earlier? "Tomorrow's your birthday. Happy birthday."

  "Thank you. I...wondered if you might be free to meet for lunch tomorrow. That sounds presumptuous, I know, but according to the bio on your publisher's website, you live in New York. So do I."

  "Seriously? Manhattan?"

  "Six blocks from Central Park. Which sounds more prestigious than it is, believe me." His self-deprecating chuckle seemed to fit the man she'd often imagined him to be.

  Lunch with Dickie. It sounded like a title to another book. Mystery? Fantasy? Romance? She was both tempted and terrified. So many of her dreams had turned out far different from what she'd imagined. Her marriage, for one. "I've thought about you often over the years, Dickie. I have so many questions. Is your mother still alive? What do you do for a living? Are you married? Do you have kids? Where did--"

  He interrupted her with a good-natured, "Whoa. I tried speed dating once and even it was slower than this. Are you sure you're an editor and not a police interrogator?"

  He knew what she did for a living.

  As did anyone who read her published bio.

  "I'd planned to cover all this at lunch tomorrow. Would you settle for a condensed synopsis tonight?"

  A little editor humor. Clever and smart. She'd always been a sucker for quick-witted men. "Yes."

  "Okay. First, my mother died of breast cancer when I was fourteen. We might have had her longer if she'd had health insurance, but the working poor usually don't. Her death sealed my fate, in a way."

  Abby didn't know what that meant, but she mumbled, "I'm so sorry."

  "Me, too. I loved her very much. Luckily, Latisha and her husband took me in. He's a successful plastic surgeon...retired, now. They lived in White Plains at the time, and both their children attended a private school. Latisha enrolled me, too. I call this my second life-changing gift. I studied hard, earned some scholarships and wound up at Harvard."

  "Wow," she exclaimed. "Good for you, Dickie---I mean, Richard."

  "Dickie," he repeated, his tone wistful. "No one has called me that for a long time. What about you, Abigail? What little I know is from your online bio and the paragraph in the back of your book. Congratulations, by the way. I'm honored to know a real live author."

  "A one-book-wonder kind of author," she corrected. "I'm an editor by trade and inclination. My Christmas Angel was a fluke. A memory that stayed in my head until I finally put it on paper and set it free." Embarrassment heated her cheeks. "I was at the right place at the right time. I take it you've read the book?"

  "Yes. Last month at Thanksgiving. My niece bought a copy for her daughter and couldn't help noticing some similarities to the story I tell of my most memorable Christmas." He laughed. "Actually, her exact words were, 'Uncle Richard, some lady stole your story. You should sue her.'"

  The thought had crossed Abby's mind, too, but her publisher had assured her nobody could copyright an idea. "You remembered that night? Enough to tell people about it?"

  "Yes, although my version is a little different. My hardworking mom couldn't afford to pass up the tips at the local diner on Christmas Eve, so, even though it was my sixth birthday, she sent me off with a Good Samaritan white social worker to celebrate with strangers at a strange house."

  "Oh, my," Abby said. "I never thought how scared you must have been."

  "I wasn't scared. Not after I met you."

  "Me?"

  "You. A little girl with long braids and a big heart who gave me a gift that changed my life."

  She swallowed hard. "I hate to break this to you, Dickie, but I didn't give you that bear. My mother did."

  "I know, Abigail. I wasn't stupid, just poor. And I could see how much you wanted it, which, not surprisingly, made it all the more special. As I tell my grandnieces and nephews, that bear was the first gift I ever received from someone outside my immediate family. It became my most treasured possession. I slept with it every night until I went to college. It went with me, then, too, but never left my drawer."

  "Wise choice."

  "I thought so."

  There was a slight pause. She sensed he was choosing his words with care. "I still have him, of course. On a shelf in my office. He's a little worse for wear, but obviously well-loved and when I look at him I'm reminded of your true gift."

  Abby couldn't find the breath to ask.

  "That night, you saw me, Abigail. Not some poor little black kid your father tolerated and your mother felt an obligation to feed. For the first time in my life, I felt special. Unique. In your eyes, I was a Christmas angel. If you and God believed that, then anything in the world was possible. Can you imagine what a gift unfettered hope could be for a child from the projects?"

  Her throat was tight with unshed tears. "No," she whispered, intending to set the record straight. How could he possibly attribute his grace and goodness to her when he'd shared those gifts with her--not the other way around?

  Chapter Three

  Before she could speak, Dickie went on.

  "Although it took years to understand and articulate what happened that night, I came to realize children possess an inherit generosity of spirit that most adults lack. Adults make business decisions about which charities to support. We might volunteer at a neighborhood soup kitchen during the holidays or buy gifts for needy kids, but we rarely get to see--to feel--how our gift touches another person."

  She looked at her hand--the one Dickie had held so tightly that night--and pressed it to her chest. At the time, she'd lacked the words to explain their connection. She still wasn't completely sure if what she felt was real or an elaborately embellished memory. But, even at eight, she'd known something special--something transcendent--took place at that moment.

  "You asked what I do," he said, breaking into her thoughts. "After college, I got into the stock market. My goal was to make enough money to effect change so people like my mother didn't have to die because they couldn't afford medicine. Now, I run a non-profit called Angel Outreach."

  She sucked in a small gasp. " My book club pooled our donations this year and sent you a check."

  "That's great. Thank you. It's always tough competing for money at this time of year."

  There was an awkward pause.

  Abby had so much she wanted to ask, but, really, did she have any right? They weren't exactly old friends. They shared one childhood memory, which she'd capitalized on.

  "So, Abigail..."

  "It's Abby, now. I go by Abby."

  "Abby and Richard." She heard a slight wistfulness in his tone. "We're different people. Grown-ups. We missed all those formative years when we could have been establishing and building a friendship. Do you think it's too late to pick up where we almost started?"

  "For most people? Yes," she said, making what for h
er was a rash decision. "But nothing's impossible for a Christmas angel."

  His laugh was as perfect, as real, as she remembered.

  "So, catch me up on your life. Are your parents still alive? Are you married?"

  She told him about her parents divorcing. "And wouldn't you know? I did the same thing when my son was two. We didn't have what it takes to make a marriage last, but we get along pretty well where our son is concerned. We share custody. This is my year to have Ben for Christmas."

  "Y...your son's name is Ben?"

  Something in his tone gave her pause. "Yes. Why?"

  "Hum...well, this is very strange. My bear--the one you gave me--is named Ben."

  Abby felt a shiver run down her spine. "Hmm...that is an odd coincidence. Did you tell me his name that night and I squirreled it away in my memory?"

  "I don't think so. I'm almost positive I didn't come up with his name until the next afternoon when my sisters tried to convince me to name him Smokey. Even at six I knew that was a lame name. He's been Ben ever since. Any chance your son is named after his father?"

  "None. I always loved the name and knew if I ever had a son he'd be Ben."

  Neither spoke for a moment. Did they accept this connection as a sign from the Universe? Or chalk it up to one of life's inexplicable coincidences? Her mother believed that things happened for a reason, and for whatever reason Dickie had returned to her.

  "I promised Ben we'd go ice skating tomorrow. I have to work in the morning then we have a quick office party. Mom's bringing him to Rockefeller Center about three. Would you be interested in meeting us there?"

  He didn't hesitate. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

  "Great. But there is one condition."

  He waited.

  "You have to bring Ben the Bear."

  "To prove I'm me?"

  "No. Because I need to know if he's as soft and wonderful as I've built him up to be in my memory."

  His chuckle was low and...well, um, sexy. It made her heart do a funny little dance step she didn't recognize. "I'll bring him, but just like me, he's thirty years older."

  Her cellphone began blasting her sister-in-law's ring tone. She told Dickie...Richard...she had another call, but she remembered to give him her mobile number before she hung up. She let Janine's call go to voice mail. She'd call her back in a few minutes and make up some excuse for missing the party.

  Abby wasn't going anywhere. She needed time to digest what just happened.

  Her Christmas angel had returned.

  She tried to tamp down the giddy buzz of childlike joy that clambered up her throat and made her squeal with delight. Was it foolish to get her hopes up where human relationships were concerned? Yes. But when she closed her eyes to replay their conversation she felt a sense of peace--as irrefutable as an angel's hug--telling her this was as it should be.

  Chapter Four

  The morning finally came, but Abby's mind remained distracted and preoccupied. Her friends at work attributed her spacy-ness to having Ben for the holiday. Her Mother chalked it up to work. "What's wrong with a company holding your feet to the fire on Christmas Eve? Were they too cheap to throw a party on the weekend?"

  Abby tried to explain that small publishers didn't have the means to bestow lavish gifts on their employees--especially these days. A number of their top authors had started self-publishing. Even if they continued to write for the company, their contributions would come in further and further apart as they devoted time to their self-pubbed projects.

  "When can we skate?" Ben asked, his tone that annoying combination of bored and whiny.

  "Soon," she promised. "I didn't think there'd be so many people here."

  "I don't know why you're surprised," her mother commented sourly. "This is New York, after all"

  Abby scanned the crowd hoping to see the face that matched the photograph on the Angel Outreach Facebook page. But since nearly every person present was wearing a hat, scarf or ear muffs, she gave up. Instead, she grabbed her phone and punched in the number Dickie had given her last night. Richard.

  The ringing in her ear matched a jingling sound a few feet behind her. She turned and inhaled a gasp. Tall and thin--an adult version of the boy she once knew. She'd towered over him, then. Now, he was easily a foot taller than her. His skin a lighter shade of mocha than she'd pictured. Without a hat, she could see the abundance of silver in his hair. More than she had--not that anyone would know since her hairdresser kept it expertly highlighted.

  Her mother caught her arm. "What's wrong? Who died?"

  Mom. Ever the optimist.

  "Nothing. No one. I was hoping to meet a friend here today. And there he is." Did her voice really sound as girlish and giddy as she thought?

  "Richard," she called, waving her free arm. Into the phone she said, "We're straight ahead. Do you see us?"

  His grin lit up the immediate vicinity. Even the grouches who didn't want to let him through smiled grumpily when he apologized. "Sorry. Forgive me. Meeting someone. Merry Christmas."

  "Who...who is that?" Mom whispered. "Oh, my goodness. It's Denzel Washington."

  "Where?" Ben demanded to know, scanning left and right.

  Abby burst out laughing at the same moment Richard reached them. He grinned but looked from Abby to her mother to Ben, obviously as confused as they were.

  "Sorry," she said. "Hello. It's so good to see you again." She held out her gloved hand, but he ignored it and pulled her into a hug. She stiffened with surprise...for half a second. Then something crazy happened. She hugged him back. As if they'd hugged a million times over the years.

  "He's too young to be Denzel, isn't he?" Mom asked Ben.

  "That's not Denzel Washington, Grams. I don't know who he is, but he's hugging my mother."

  "Ahem. Can someone please introduce us?"

  "Mom," Ben yanked on Abby's sleeve. "Are we going to skate or what?"

  The moment Richard released her Abby turned and pulled her son close. "Patience, Ben. Let me introduce you to an old friend."

  Richard didn't wait for Abby to initiate the introductions. He put out his hand. "Mrs. Riley. I'm so glad to see you again. You probably don't remember me but you were very kind to my mother and me when we lived in--"

  Mom didn't let him finish. She gave an ear-piercing cry and launched herself into his arms. "Dickie. Oh, my heavens, it's you, isn't it? I'd know you anywhere. You look just like your mother, only taller. My word, you're so big."

  He patted her back gently, his hand nearly as broad as both her shoulder blades.

  "Who? Grandma? Mom," Ben demanded. "What's going on here? I thought we came here to skate."

  Abby blushed, embarrassed by her son's demands--and the crowd pressing in on them. Meeting here had been a terrible idea, obviously. A gap at the rental window opened and she seized it, dragging Ben along. "Size eleven. Boys," she told the attendant. "The rest of us will watch."

  "Mom," Ben complained. "No fair. You promised."

  Richard, who'd been distracted by her mother's non-stop questions--nearly an exact echo of hers the night before--joined them at the counter. "I need a fifteen, if you have 'em. And these lovely ladies wear a..." He looked at Abby first.

  "An eight."

  "Mrs. Riley?"

  "Like I need a broken hip at my age. You go on."

  "I'll stay right by your side the whole time you're on the ice," Richard promised. "You can hold my hand. I won't let go."

  Abby's throat closed at the sincerity in his tone. Most men would have taken the old lady at her word and been glad to leave her behind.

  "It's been more years than I care to remember, but...I'll try a six and a half."

  Chapter Five

  Quicker than Abby ever would have thought possible, they were all four skating. She'd used the lace-up time to introduce Ben to "...my old friend, Richard." She'd decided last night not to mention the book or Dickie, unless Richard brought it up. Her mother, of course, had made the connection imme
diately, but, so far, their conversation had stayed general--family, school, jobs, losses...

  "Your mother was a beautiful soul," Mom told Richard as the three of them skated slowly, trying their best to stay out of better skaters' paths. "She was exactly the sort of person the system was set up to help. I wish I could say that was always the case, but after twenty-seven years on the job, I saw so much abuse, heard so many lies." She shook her head sadly. "I felt dirty from the greed and corruption. So many times, I thought of her and wished I could call her up and find out if her life improved, if you were able to break the cycle of poverty."

  Richard patted the gloved hand gripping his arm. "Mom never finished school, but she made sure all of her children did. She worked non-stop but never complained. My sisters and I share the same work ethic, but we had benefits Mom didn't. I know she'd be very proud of us if she were alive."

  Mom blinked back tears and dabbed her nose with a tissue.

  "Mommy. Gramdma. Watch me," Ben shouted, rising up on the pointy tips of his skates to push off and glide across an open patch.

  Abby looked up, trying to take in the splendor of the setting. The golden fountain, the holiday lights glistening on what remained of last night's snow. She'd been to Rockefeller Center dozens of time but had the plaza ever looked this magical? Abby couldn't begin to explain how alive and happy she felt. It made no sense. She was a hardcore realist, weaned on the milk of divorce and marital disappointment. Her idea of the perfect romance was a book or movie that ended happily...unlike real life.

  "This has been delightful fun," Mom said after a surprising half hour of steady--if slow--skating, "but I need a breather. Ben? Are you ready for some hot chocolate?"

  Naturally, her son--the human calorie vacuum--nodded hard, his chin bobbing in a way that was all boy.

  "Me, too," Richard said. His lovely, masculine lips curved into a smile that told her he liked kids. He'd spoken fondly of his nieces and nephews. Maybe Ben wouldn't be too hard on him. Her son never liked any of the men Abby dated...not that she went out all that often.