“I’m sorry,” he answered. His mind reeling at the surprise of the statement, thinking of how to tell Samantha. She would probably be hurt by the news after spending so much time absorbed with Bette Hydberg’s story.
Cindy reached down and lifted a box from the steps. “I brought you some of her things,” she said. “I know it seems strange, but none of the relatives we contacted wanted them. There was no one else who cared about her story but you two. So I boxed up the things that meant the most to Bette.”
She placed it on the coffee table. “Bette would be glad to know that somebody was still interested in her life. So I think she would want you to have these things.”
Shocked, he raised his eyebrows. “You’re giving me her things?” he said, looking at the box on his table. A few days ago, he held the hand of the woman whose life it held. He had looked through her photographs, even read the words her husband had written over sixty years ago. Now her most treasured earthly possessions were in his keeping.
Cindy nodded. “If you’re interested,” she said. “But I thought you would be, after you dropped by on Christmas Eve. I have a family event a few miles from here, so I looked up your address online and brought the box with me.”
He lifted the top, spotting photo albums tucked inside, the framed pictures of Bette and Mac, the scrapbooks containing their mementos. A folded layer of army green fabric: Private Mac Hydberg’s uniform. He touched the sleeve, imagining the soldier who wore it. The solemn face in that photograph Cindy gave them, of a young man risking everything for his country, including the possibility of losing a future with the girl he loved.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said. “I mean, I’m amazed you would take this kind of time for someone.”
She shrugged. “You did. Bringing a letter to a total stranger like that.” She turned towards the door, then paused.
“One more thing.” She reached into her pocket and drew an envelope from it.
“The letter you brought to Bette on Christmas Eve,” she said. Placing the envelope on top of the box.
He opened the door for her, stepping onto the porch with a slight limp that he hoped she didn’t notice. “Thank you again for dropping this off. Sam–Miss Sowerman will be really grateful you took the time for Bette.”
“Tell her I said hello,” said Cindy. As she unlocked her car door, she gave him a friendly smile. “You two make a cute couple.“ Giving him a knowing smile before closing the door.
He waved goodbye, feeling as if he was trapped in a dream. A surreal awakening, the end of the story that made the last few weeks so vivid and alive. The closest thing to a mission he had known since his return to the U.S.
Would the missionary girl call this a sign? A box of reminders showing up on his doorstep, connecting him in every way to the experience he shared with her. Things which Bette Hydberg let go of even as she clung to the memories of her long-ago love.
He closed his eyes. Lord, show me what comes next. Show me the future you want me to have. Teach me to trust you again, because I don’t know what to do next.
*****
Samantha’s mother always allowed her to stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve. Sometimes they wore paper hats, playing Chinese checkers and watching the television until the ball dropped in Times Square.
Some people had fireworks, some had glasses of champagne. Samantha and her mother had paper whistles to blow at the stroke of midnight.
She was thinking of this as she packed the Christmas ornaments in their padded box again. New Year’s morning and she was cross-legged on the floor, packing up someone else’s ornaments for their trip back to the attic. Where she supposed they would remain until Mrs. Lindell cleaned out the space or the new renters grew curious about what was upstairs.
They would probably still be there when she was in Brazil, translating the Christmas story into local dialect for children at the medical mission. A holiday spent with a hand-molded clay creche, a tree decorated with paper chains and flowers. A spicy bowl of rice with chicken for Christmas dinner.
Stripping the tinsel from the branches, she slipped it into the crumbling box again, beside scattered Christmas cards from years ago. The sight of them made her think of Bette Hydberg. And something else, although she couldn’t admit to Ty’s memory without a pang. He had never returned her calls, even after a week of waiting.
She had taken a crock of soup to Flora Davies’ house a few days before, spending some time with the neighbor who helped her find the answer.
“And so they got married,” said Flora. “I’m glad to hear it. So many boys didn’t come back. Others came back to not much, you know.”
“I know,” answered Samantha. With a slight pain as she thought of Tyler Lars returning to a desk job and an empty life.
“But what about you? You’ll be all alone when you go to South America, won’t you?” said Flora, remembering Samantha’s upcoming trip. “But I suppose you’re used to that, aren’t you? As a missionary.” Her face brightened. “But then you’ll have your fellow missionaries. Sort of a band of brothers in Christ.” She patted Samantha’s arm.
Another parallel with the life of a soldier. As Samantha forced herself to smile in reply.
She placed the lid on the box of Christmas balls and stacked it with the others by the stairs. As she straightened up, the door’s buzzer sounded.
The mail was due; probably a package delivered, a late present from one of the relatives who remembered her around this time. She opened the door, expecting to see the blue jacket of a postal worker.
Instead, she saw a faded coat with a military insignia on the sleeve. The arm wrapped around a big cardboard box.
“Ty?” she said. Staring at a pair of blue eyes peering above the folded cardboard flaps.
“Can I come in?” he asked. As the door opened wider, he crossed the threshold, glancing around at the worn entryway, its lamps dim from low-watt and missing bulbs.
“Um, your apartment,” he began. She gestured towards the open door to the old dining room.
“This way,” she said. “It’s um, kind of messy I’m afraid.” A shower of pine needles visible beneath the tree on the table, a torn piece of wrapping paper from a Christmas present from her landlady.
He placed the box on her coffee table. Stuffing his hands into his pockets as he turned towards her.
“Sam,” he began. “Bette Hydberg passed away. A couple of days after we met her.”
A look of shock crossed her face. “Dead?” she said. “Then we–then I guess we were just in time.” Her mouth trembled slightly as she glanced towards the photo on the fridge.
Crossing her arms, she met his eyes. “So why did you drive here to tell me?” she asked. “You could have phoned. I left you messages.” Her gaze traveled towards the box.
“Those are her things,” he said. “Cindy–from the nursing home–brought me this box a couple of days ago. Bette’s photos and things.”
As she opened the lid, he added, “I wanted you to have them.”
She stared at the objects inside, touching the photograph album on top, the same one she opened when they were in Bette’s room in the nursing home. For the first time, tears gathered in her eyes.
“These are her and Mac’s possessions,” she said. “Their whole lives are here. But why–” She glanced over her shoulder at Ty, confused.
He shrugged. “I was the only person Cindy could think of who would want them. They would’ve ended up in a donation box somewhere otherwise.”
He stepped closer, closing the distance between them. “I’m glad she did. Because if she hadn’t, I never would’ve come back here to apologize to you. To tell you that you were right. About me, about my feelings ...”
“You mean about us,” she said, looking away, not daring to hope that it was anything else. Her voice choked with emotion as he grew closer. Her palms pressed into her arms, fingers trembling.
“I mean about my faith,” he said. “I asked Him for a
sign, something to make me move on with my life instead of ending up stuck between two lives. And He sent you, but I was just too blind to see it.”
Reaching for her face, he touched her cheek. “So I guess He had to wait until I was ready. Only this time, He sent it to me in a box of stuff instead.”
She couldn't speak; her heart was pounding, knowing what he would say next.
“If I’m ready to change,” he whispered, “will you help me, Sam? Whatever it takes, I want to follow that path with Him again.”
Her fingers touched his hand, taking it in her own. "You know I will," she said. Her eyes meeting his with a gaze as intense as his own. “I’ve wanted to from the moment we met. You knew that.”
“No matter what it takes,” he said. His voice shifted to a teasing whisper as he added, “even if I find myself in Brazil, helping roll bandages in a mission hospital."
"Do you think that's God's plan for you?" she retorted, half-teasing, half-curious.
His face grew serious for a moment. "Maybe. Since I think He wants me to start over with you.”
Leaning down, he pressed his lips against hers, cradling her face. She kissed him back, her arms wrapping around his shoulders tightly.
A long moment passed before he drew back, giving her one of those rare open smiles. The kind of smile she had wanted to see on his face since that day they met in the cafe.
“One more thing,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small package, wrapped in Christmas paper. Slipping it into her hand, watching with a smile as her fingers tugged at the string.
Inside was a familiar envelope, the spidery veins of black ink in Mac Hydberg’s handwriting. A glimpse of blue and white visible beneath the open flap.
“The card,” said Samantha. “She brought you the card, too?”
He nodded. “She said that Bette would want us to have it,” he said. “But I think she was really thinking of you. The girl who would travel all those miles to deliver a Christmas card mailed to her house.”
She touched the fragile paper with her fingertip. “I guess it’s home now,” she said. Her smile growing sad for a moment as she spoke. “Part of Bette and Mac’s story, like the photos in the box.”
Ty slid his arm around her shoulders. “We’ll find a place to keep them safe,” he said. “Some place where you can store them until you’re ready to give them a home.”
“All except this,” she answered. “This one stays–no matter where we end up.” She held up the envelope in her hand. “After all, it’s what got us here, right?”
“No,” he corrected her, ruffling her curls softly. “That would be God, remember?”
“I remember,” she answered. Her hand slipping inside his, fingers intertwined as she leaned against him.
Gently, her other hand slid the envelope between the pages of her cracked leather Bible. Where it lay cradled like the pieces of her past, the photographs and postcards of her servant’s life. The promises for her future and the future of the prodigal soldier who helped her deliver a forgotten Christmas card.
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Excerpt from Ghosts of Christmas Past
"Slee-py time, comes to you, on wings of white and blue." The girl sang softly as she rocked the bundle in her arms. Strands of dark hair plastered close to her face above the collar of her hospital robe, a face thin and young beneath its pallor.
"While you sleep, dreams will come, on stars so clear and true..." As she sang, her fingers tucked aside the striped blanket around the sleeping infant's face, revealing tiny flushed cheeks. The slow rocking motion of the nursery chair lulled it closer to her body. The room was silent and dim, except for the winking lights of a Christmas tree in one corner.
The door opened, a nurse on the other side. Beside her was a woman in a business suit carrying a sheaf of papers in a portfolio.
"Miss Libby Taylor?" she said, reading a name affixed to the portfolio. "Are you ready?" She offered her a sympathetic smile.
The girl nodded. "I'm ready," she said. Her mouth pressed inwards as she loosened her hold on the bundle, the woman's arms sliding between her and the child.
"Hello there," crooned the woman, shifting the bundle gently against her shoulder. "Ready to see your new family?" The baby stirred slightly and whimpered.
"There's some papers you'll need to sign, Miss Taylor," the woman continued. "And if you want to talk to them–"
"No," the girl interrupted. "No, I don't. Thanks." Arms now empty, her hands rested on her lap. She watched as the woman turned towards the waiting nurse, carry the baby in her arms. The door closed behind them, two shapes disappearing from behind the square of glass at the top.
The girl closed her eyes. "It's for the best," she whispered. Once, then again, as if to convince herself it was true. Her chair began rocking again, her arms wrapped against her body.
Slee-py time, comes to you, on wings of white and blue ...
Eleven Years Later
The crash of percussion beat a slow tempo from the cordoned-off portion of the club. Chords from a steel guitar throbbed as a woman's voice rose above them.
"Sweet dreams keep haunt-ing me," she sang, "let me be free of all these cares. I don't have time, to lose my mind in the em-brace of what we shared." An aching, tender tone as her hand beat time slowly against her denim-clad thigh.
Her sultry gaze swept the gloomy interior with indifference, beneath a long curtain of black hair coaxed into gentle waves. A short denim jacket over her fitted blouse, tight jeans paired with cowboy boots that had seen more than one season of performances in bars and booze halls.
"Why can't I leave it all behind? The way your touch makes me un-wind..." She slid closer to the microphone, her voice betraying no nervousness or hesitation even as one of the bar's patrons yelled something inappropriate from a table somewhere in the dimness.
Sometimes they threw bottles; those joints kept performers walled off behind a cage of chicken wire, screening them from rowdier patrons. Libby had seen it all in her time, almost twelve years on the road singing country songs in every honky tonk between here and home.
Home. There was a place she hadn't seen in a long, long time. Not that she cared to go back anymore.
Read more and find other e-Book Inspirational Romances by Laura Briggs from Pelican Book Group.
The First Book in an All-New Inspirational Romance Series from Author Laura Briggs!
Last Christmas Card Page 8