by Teresa Hill
"How could anyone leave a five-year-old and a baby in a motel room for three days with a little girl?"
"Emma," Miriam said. "She's eleven. Almost twelve. The boy's Zach, and the baby's name is Grace."
Rachel's face began to crumble. "How could you bring me a baby?"
"You and Sam are still on the list of approved foster homes, from when you took Will. I know you said you didn't want to do this anymore, but I'm desperate, Rachel. You know how strained the whole system gets this time of year. People just fall apart over the holidays. If you could just help me out until after Christmas..."
"No," Rachel said.
"I can't bear to separate them. If it weren't for that, I would never ask this of you. But I don't think I can look Zach and Emma in the eye and tell them they have to say good-bye to each other. I don't think I could tear them away from each other, and that's what I'd have to do. I'd have to physically tear them from each other's arms."
"Don't do that," Rachel said. "Don't put that on me."
"It's been hard for you. I understand. Life has been unfair to you and Sam. But you can't give up. You can't shut yourself up in this house and hide any longer either. It isn't healthy."
"Don't tell me what I can and can't do, Miriam."
"Now you listen to me. I didn't want to do it this way, but if that's what it takes, I will," Miriam said. "If you don't take these children, I will call your father and all three of your sisters and your brother, and I will tell them that I'm worried about you. That I think you might be seriously depressed and that you've been sitting here in this house all alone every day for the past few weeks. I will make sure they don't give you a minute's peace trying to save you from yourself."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me," Miriam dared.
Rachel paused, considering the seriousness of the threat. Her family, hell-bent on saving anyone, was something to behold. They could make her life utterly miserable. Even worse were the other things Miriam had said.
"You don't really think I'm depressed, do you?"
"Not yet," Miriam said. "But I think it wouldn't take much. Sit here worrying and feeling sorry for yourself for a few more weeks, and you will be."
Rachel stood there, scared and feeling trapped.
"It's Christmas," Miriam said. "Give them a decent Christmas. Give me some time to find someone to take them all or to find their mother."
"I can't."
"It won't be like it was with Will. Don't let it be. Don't even think that someday these children might be free for you and Sam to adopt. Just take them into your home, take care of them for a few weeks."
"I can't do that."
"What if it was Will, Rachel? What if we need to place him in foster care again? If it weren't for people like you, I'd have no place to put him."
"Will should be here already," she said. "He would have been safe here. We loved him, and we would have taken good care of him."
"Then take care of these children instead. Do for them what you can't do for him anymore. Give them everything you wanted to give him."
"It's not the same thing," Rachel argued.
"It's exactly the same thing. They're every bit as lost as he was."
"It's too hard, Miriam. It hurts too much to lose someone I love."
"Then don't love them. Like these children a lot. Give them the best you can, temporarily."
How could anyone take a lost child into her home and not love that child? Especially children who needed so desperately to be loved?
"This is what they need, Rachel. This is what foster care is. It isn't perfect. I know that. But it's all these kids have right now. It's what's going to keep them safe and warm and well fed and not quite so lonely. You can do all that for them. Staying together means everything to them. Emma begged me to take them back to the hotel and leave them there. She's sure she can take care of them herself, as long as they can stay together."
"I just can't."
"No, you won't. Because you're scared and you're thinking of nobody but yourself."
Rachel gasped, hurt. "Miriam?"
"Life hasn't been fair to you, Rachel, and I'm sorry, but life isn't fair to anyone. Everyone gets hurt along the way—some more than others—but don't you dare think you're the only one." Miriam shook her finger under Rachel's nose. "Let me tell you something, you always had a safe, warm place to sleep at night and food in your belly and someone to take care of you when you were little. You had a whole lot of somebodies. Two parents and me and Aunt Jo and your grandparents and a whole host of other people. You still do. You've never been where these kids are now."
Rachel was shocked and a bit ashamed.
"I can't think of you right now," Miriam said. "I have to think about these kids. I'm all they have, and I'm going to make sure they're taken care of. That means their needs outweigh the fact that I know you and love you and hurt for you, for all the bad things that have happened to you. I know this will be difficult for you, but you have the time to take care of these kids, and I know you have the love."
"But—"
"I'll find out where they belong or I'll find someone else to take them. Right after Christmas. I promise."
Rachel sat there, stunned. Miriam took advantage of that, too. She put the baby back in Rachel's arms. Baby Grace snuggled, all warm and soft, against her neck. She made a little rumbling sound as she breathed, and she was surprisingly sturdy, the way one-year-olds were. Rachel hadn't even looked at her face, but she knew it would be perfect. Absolutely perfect.
"Sam will never agree to this," she said, a weak protest at best.
"Don't ask him. Tell him. Or better yet, I'll tell him."
Rachel laughed, giving in. Oh, God, she was giving in, because she had a baby in her arms and she couldn't stand to think of these poor children scattered from one end of town to another. "I've never seen this side of you before," she told her aunt. "I never knew you could be so fierce."
"Tough love." Miriam grinned. "We had a seminar at work last month. I've been nice too long."
Rachel laughed a bit, looking out her window and thinking. It was almost Christmas. Somehow, she'd missed that, too. When Will left it had been hot—Indian summer—and now it was almost Christmas.
She used to think Christmas was pure magic, especially in this town, in this neighborhood, in her grandfather's house. She and Sam had lived with him the first two years of their marriage, working on the house when they could, with Rachel taking care of her grandfather until he died and left the house to them. Rachel had always loved it here. She'd always seen this as a special place. At one time, she would have said a magical place.
Her grandfather, Richard Landon, was an oddball in a little town like Baxter, Ohio, never quite able to keep a job, his family always on the brink of financial ruin. His heart had always been in his art, and Rachel thought it was the height of irony that the town had come to revere him after his death in a way no one had when he was alive.
He loved Christmas and this town almost as much as his work, and the result became pure Christmas magic. He made snow globes, big, heavy balls of glass on intricate bases of swirled pewter, and inside were exquisite scenes of Christmas in Baxter. His sense of light and warmth and wonder radiated from his work. Somehow he had managed to take the magic of Christmas and capture it in a sphere of glass, where it snowed at will and Christmas music played and even grown-ups, just by watching, felt like kids again.
Collectors now paid huge sums of money for original pieces, and his designs were mass-produced in the only factory in town. People had jobs here because of him. He'd immortalized the town in his work. All four churches, city hall, the town square, all the major historic buildings, and most of the Victorian houses in the historic district. Even this house where Rachel lived. His house. The first Christmas house in his first famous Christmas scene. Rachel lived here now, in the midst of all that Christmas magic.
Somehow she'd forgotten all about the magic.
"You've gotten
awfully quiet," Miriam said.
"I was just thinking... about Christmas. And Granddad."
She reached out and ran her fingers along the glass in the fancy window by the door. It was diamond-shaped, and filled with hundreds of tiny diamonds of beveled glass. It sat in just the right spot that the light hit it in the afternoon and seemed to dance its way across the hardwood floors in the front room. He'd always loved playing with glass and light, and had tried to teach her.
"We did this together," Rachel said, "when he was too weak to do much more than tell me how to fit it all together. Sam installed it the week after he died, but I remember him making me take him outside on the porch and making me hold this up to the sunshine so we could both watch what it did to the light. He said it would be our way of letting the magic inside."
Rachel hadn't watched the play of light across the floor in a long time.
"I used to think this was a magic place. That anything could happen here. Even miracles," she said solemnly. "Do you still believe in miracles?"
"Of course," Miriam said.
"I think I gave up on them."
"I think you've given up on everything, dear. And you just can't do that. You've got to believe, Rachel."
"Believe in what?"
"That things can change. That they can get better. You'll see."
"I told myself that for so long," Rachel said.
"Well maybe you'll just have to tell yourself a little longer." Miriam gave her a gentle smile. "Without hope, you have nothing, Rachel, nothing but the life you have right now, and I don't think that's enough for you."
"No. It isn't." But she'd hoped for so long. She'd prayed, and it didn't seem as if anyone were listening. "I've been patient. I've waited so long."
"The good Lord doesn't work on your timetable. He has one that's all His own. You shouldn't forget that. Shouldn't try to rush Him, either."
"I want to believe. It's just so hard," she complained. "I feel like one of those little blow-up punch-toys we had when we were kids, with the clown faces. You hit it, and it bounces right back up. I feel like I've been bouncing back forever, and there's just no more bounce left in me."
"Then you know what?" Miriam asked. "You get to lay there on the floor, Rachel. Are you ready to just lay there on the floor forever?"
Rachel smiled a bit. "Tough love, huh?"
Miriam nodded. "I think I like it. People aren't going to mess with me anymore."
Chapter 2
Sam would not be happy. Rachel left her aunt in the house with the children and with great trepidation made her way through the backyard to his office, in what was originally the carriage house.
Long ago, Sam had wanted to be an architect, but instead he'd spent the last twelve years doing construction work in Baxter, Ohio, a little town of eight thousand people on the banks of the Ohio River, west of Cincinnati. A place he had never wanted to stay. He had worked with a local construction company and later started his own business. People were restoring the old places in record numbers in Baxter these days and willing to pay top dollar for quality work. The business had thrived in the past few years, when everything else had seemed to go so wrong, and Rachel was proud of what he'd accomplished.
She opened the door, smelling sawdust and wood, missing the old days when he worked in the basement, when he was closer, and she saw more of him. He wasn't in the shop, but he had a small office in the back.
As she got closer she heard him talking. Peeking in, she saw that he was on the phone and decided to wait until he was done to give herself time to think of what to say.
She hadn't taken the kids upstairs to get them settled because she didn't want them or Miriam to see, but some of Sam's things were in the front bedroom.
Because he wasn't sleeping in her bed anymore.
Rachel wasn't even sure why. She just knew she hurt, that everything hurt. She didn't know if Sam did or not, because they didn't talk about it.
But they had to talk today. She had to find a way to talk him into this. Sam hadn't wanted to take Will at first. He'd been willing to adopt, although that had never worked out for them. But he'd been strangely reluctant to even consider foster care. He said they could never know for sure what they were getting into with a foster child, what kind of environment the kids came from, how much damage had been done. He'd argued that some children were just too far gone to ever be saved.
Unsalvageable children, written off completely. Rachel hated that idea.
But after twelve years, she and Sam had tried everything else. She didn't see how they'd ever have children any other way, and now she feared they never would. When Will left, Sam said that was it. They were done trying. They weren't going to get their hearts broken like that ever again.
Which meant she'd just have to talk him into this, just until after Christmas. She'd promised Miriam.
Rachel forced a smile across her face and had to brace herself, just for the sight of her husband, the man she loved and had wanted from way back before all the bad times. But just before she opened the door, she heard something odd.
"So the place'll be ready by Christmas?" Sam asked.
That was odd. She didn't know of any job he was finishing by Christmas. In fact, he'd been at loose ends since he finished the Randall house five days ago, a full week earlier than he was scheduled to, and his next clients weren't about to let him start renovating their house until after the holidays. Sam did not like to be at loose ends. He didn't know what to do with himself.
"Okay," she heard him say. "A few days later? Hell, Rick, you know I'm not picky. If anything's really wrong, I can fix it. Christmas is on a Monday this year, right? How about the Tuesday after Christmas?"
What in the world? Rachel wondered.
"I'll take it. A bed, a bathroom, and a kitchenette is fine. I don't need anything else."
A bed? Why did Sam need a bed?
"Yeah, I'm sure," Sam said. "This is what I have to do."
Oh, no, Rachel thought, sinking down to the floor, her back against the wall. Oh, no.
"No, I haven't told her," Sam said. "Her whole family was just here for her father's sixtieth birthday, and now it's almost Christmas. If I move out now, nobody'll talk about anything but that. It'll ruin the holiday, and there's just no point, especially if I can't get into the apartment until after Christmas. I'll wait to tell her. We'll do it nice and quick. That'll be the best thing for everybody."
She couldn't hear what Rick said, but Rachel thought, Please. Please let him try to talk Sam out of it.
"No. I'm sure. It's over," Sam said. "Look, I've got to go. Thanks."
And then there was nothing but silence. Rachel shoved her hand against her mouth. She was breathing too hard, and her chest hurt, but she managed to muffle the sounds and somehow she wasn't crying. She was too stunned to cry.
Sam was leaving her.
The Tuesday after Christmas, he'd be gone.
And he wasn't even going to tell her.
Sam. Leaving.
They'd been married for twelve years. He'd seen her through the most awkward years of her life and, later, the hardest ones. She'd believed he would always be by her side, no matter what.
Apparently, he had other ideas.
Rachel stood up to go. She didn't want to know his secret. Maybe if he could live with the pretense, so could she.
She'd taken three steps toward the door when she bumped into a stack of wood on the floor, making an awful racket.
Sam called out, "I'm in the office. Come on back."
She closed her eyes and swore softly. She just wanted to hide somewhere, until she wasn't so shaken, so stunned. Until it didn't hurt to breathe.
But he knew she was here, and she had to talk to him about the children. She'd promised to take care of them. They were only staying until after Christmas, too. Sam and the children might well leave her on the same day.
Rachel closed her eyes and pulled open the door at the same time he came out. They nearly ran into eac
h other. He caught her, his hands on her arms; it was the first time he'd touched her in days, maybe weeks, and they stood there awkwardly staring at each other, too close and way too full of hurt for two people who were supposed to love each other forever.
Sam let go almost immediately and backed away.
He looked guilty, and she wondered if she looked guilty herself.
"Hi." She forced the word out, looking down at his cluttered desk, at his phone, at his window, anything but him. Then lied without one twinge of guilt. "I didn't think you were here."
He looked as shook up as she was. She thought he was going to call her on that but all he said was, "I was taking care of some things in the office. Did you... need something?"
"Yes." She needed so very much. She couldn't begin to tell him now, so she concentrated on the children. "Miriam's here—"
"Is it Will? Did she bring Will back?" he asked urgently, and for a second the old Sam was back. The one who cared. The one who didn't live behind all the walls they'd erected.
She missed him, she realized. She missed her husband a great deal.
And he was leaving her.
Right after Christmas.
"No," she said. "Not Will. He's fine, she said. So far, so good."
Sam made an exasperated sound. So he was still angry, she thought. He still hurt, too. She hadn't known that, and he probably didn't know how angry she still was, either. They didn't share much of anything anymore.
"Rachel? Are you all right?"
"Yes. I just have to tell you something, and you're not going to like it."
He paused, his gaze narrowing on her face. He didn't even seem to breathe. She wondered if he thought she was leaving him, or asking him to leave. Truth was, it had never even occurred to her. She felt so foolish now, but the thought had never crossed her mind.
"Miriam found some children in trouble," she blurted out. "Two girls and a boy, all from the same family. They don't have anyplace to go."
"What does that have to do with us?" he asked carefully.
"We're still on the list. Of approved foster homes—"