He grunted.
“How much could someone expect to get from an old baby Jesus anyway?”
“Yeah.” He’d turned to look at me. I met his gaze and got a little uncomfortable. He was staring at me in a funny way, the furrowing of his brow creating dark lines across his forehead in the shadows of the night. “Eva?”
“Hmmm?”
“I really can cook. I can make a mean omelet.”
A wide grin spread across my face, and I bit my lips to try to soften it a bit. “I’m a pretty critical omelet judge. You’ll have to be on you’re A-game if you want to try me out.”
“I’m not worried. I have complete faith in my omelet-making abilities. They are absolutely superb, even if it has been a while since I made one.”
We stared at each other for what seemed like minutes, though it was surely no more than seconds. I knew good and well neither of us were talking about omelets anymore. I wanted to lean over and kiss him, to finally taste those lips of his. I wondered about his new beard and how it would feel against the soft skin of my face.
“Let’s go talk to Father Bertaut.”
Just as I might have made a move, he turned away and exited the car. A curse was on the tip of my tongue, but I just rolled my eyes and followed him inside. There were candles lit all over the huge cathedral, and the smell of incense was heavy. A choir was practicing against the far wall, finalizing holiday hymns before the midnight Mass began in just a few hours.
Father Bertaut noticed us as we entered, a kind hint of a smile in his eyes as he inclined his head and motioned that he would be right with us. We waited near the nativity without speaking as the songs of Christmas echoed on the walls of the church.
“Thank you for waiting,” Father Bertaut said as he got close. “There always seems to be some last detail as we get ready for these special celebrations.”
“We understand, Padre,” Guillory told him, and I thought the way he said the moniker had a tone of reference.
The priest glanced at both of us, then to the empty crèche behind us and dropped his head, probably to hide his disappointment. When he brought his eyes up to us again, he sounded resigned. “I knew it was a long shot, to hope you might find the statue of the Christ child before the service. I’m sorry if you’ve wasted your Christmas Eve looking.”
“We’re sorry we couldn’t help you, Father,” I said, my chest feeling heavy. “You were right about Collins. He didn’t steal the statue.”
“We checked some of the pawn shops,” Guillory added. “Nothing there.”
“The church truly appreciates your help.” His smile looked so wholesome and true that it hurt my heart a little more. “I’ve got a parishioner who’s on standby to bring a replacement for the nativity. A child’s doll, I believe. It’s all about the spirit of the season, anyway, right?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but the sound of the heavy wooden doors of the church opening caught our attention, and all three of us turned in that direction. A man stood there a moment, and I saw him turn back and down where a little girl of about seven peeked around his legs. She had a big backpack which she pulled up on her shoulders, then he motioned to her, and she started down the aisle towards us.
The man, her father presumably, followed close behind, his steps slower as he was using a cane. Both the girl and her dad had black hair, though his was cropped very short on the sides and hers hung in thick waves down her back. They were the spitting image of each other.
“Mark!” Father Bertaut exclaimed. “You’re home. We thought you still had several months left on your tour.”
“Got an early ticket, Father. Thanks to some shrapnel.” He took hold of the pew beside him for support and tapped on his booted leg with his cane.
The priest shook his hand, then glanced down at the little girl and placed his hand gently on her head. “Merry Christmas, Annabelle.”
“Anna’s got something she needs to tell you, Father.”
I watched as Annabelle let her bag slide down her arms where she gently took it and opened the zipper. She reached her tiny hands inside and emerged with a bright pink blanket wrapped round the statue of the baby Jesus.
Father Bertaut knelt down to her level and waited. Annabelle hugged the statue to her chest, kissed its cheek, then handed it reverently over to the priest.
“Where did you find this, Annabelle?”
Tears welled in her big brown eyes, and she looked up at her father. He nodded, then she brought her gaze back to Father Bertaut. “I prayed to baby Jesus, Father. Just like you said.”
“That’s good. Jesus loves for you to talk to him.”
“I wanted Daddy to come home so we could go see the Christmas lights. Mommy said he wouldn’t get here in time. But I asked Jesus to please let him come early. And I promised that if Daddy took me to see the lights that he could come with us.”
Father Bertaut’s face split with a smile, then he reached out his hand and placed it against Annabelle’s cheek. “Did you and baby Jesus get to see those lights?”
She nodded. “I’m sorry I took him from the church. Stealing is bad.”
“Yes, Annabelle, stealing is bad. Did you know that you were stealing when you took the baby Jesus?”
This time her head moved side to side.
“Did Daddy explain it to you? Do you understand?”
The small head went up and down this time.
“Good! It makes Baby Jesus so happy when we learn. And I’m sure He loved watching the Christmas lights with you.”
Then the priest took the little girl in his arms and gave her a big hug. Taking her hand, the two of them walked together to the Nativity, Father Bertaut talking to her in soft tones so that the rest of us could no longer hear.
Mark hobbled a little closer to Guillory and I. “We didn’t know she had it until we got home from seeing the lights. I felt so bad for the church that we got in the car as soon as we could to bring it back.”
“All’s well that ends well,” Guillory said. The only thing I could do was nod. My own eyes were filled with tears, and I was trying not to break down and cry. For the first time this holiday I was suddenly missing my family. With my schedule, I wouldn’t get to go down South to visit until after New Year. It felt like an eternity right at that moment.
Guillory took a few steps to get next to me, then slowly dropped his hand down and took mine. I slipped my fingers between his and squeezed. With a swallow to force away the lump in my throat, I turned to look at him.
“Omelets?”
“Omelets.”
Trivia from Olivia
The hubby and I just love to listen to the old dramatic programs from the 40-50s on satellite radio. Dragnet is one of our favorites. There are two familiar Christmas programs from that early Dragnet series: one called “A .22 For Christmas” is a tragic story, and hubby and I have a hard time listening to it because it is so sad. The other, “Big Little Jesus,” makes me cry, too, but in the way that any good holiday story does when it touches your heart.
This story is a fanfiction of sorts based on “Big Little Jesus.” If you’d like to hear to it, click this link to access it on Spotify.
“The Big Little Jesus” aired on December 24, 1953 on television, and according to my research, it is the only Dragnet episode based on a case outside of Los Angeles. This particular case took place in San Francisco. If you’d like to see rather than listen to the episode, you can see it here on YouTube.
Enjoy and Merry Christmas!
Have you read the other Rawley Family Romances?
All for Hope (The Rawley Family Romances – 1) FREE
Justice for All (The Rawley Family Romances – 2)
All for Family (The Rawley Family Romances – 3)
Acknowledgments
It’s funny how things work when you’re a writer. I penned this story, passed it on to my editor, and it wasn’t until I was going through those edits that I realized I knew Father Bertaut! He is very much the priest who s
aw me through my childhood. I will always have affection for Father Joseph Daleo’s beautiful temperament, his soft-spoken manner and his patient willingness to teach his flock. When I was probably no more than 8 years old I wrote him a letter because some of my friends weren’t being kind to another girl in our circle. I was having a hard time standing up to the temptation of “following the crowd.” To this day I still carry his response in my bible. His words gave me the strength to stand up to that temptation and even now I lean on them to me to remind me of the lesson of true friendship and discipleship. Thank you, Father Daleo.
Of course none of my stories would be what they are without my good friend Tawdra to help me polish them up. And as always thank you to my husband, Danny for being my steadfast support.
About the Author
When Olivia Hardin began having strange movie-like dreams in her teens, she had no choice but to begin putting them to paper. Before long the writing bug had her and she knew she wanted to be a published author. Several rejections plus a little bit of life later, and she was temporarily “cured” of the urge to write. That is until she met a group of talented and fabulous writers who gave her the direction and encouragement she needed to get lost in the words again.
Olivia’s attended three different universities over the years and toyed with majors in Computer Technology, English, History and Geology. Then one day she heard the term road scholar and she knew that was what she wanted to be. Now she “studies” anything and everything just for the joy of learning. She's also an insatiable crafter who only completes about 1 out of 5 projects, a jogger who hates to run, and she’s sometimes accused of being artistic.
A native Texas girl, Olivia lives in the beautiful Lone Star state with her husband, Danny and their puppy, Bonnie.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
All for a Little Christmas Page 3