by Anna Schmidt
The simple truth made her sigh inside. “Yes.”
“I don’t want to be sent away, Karen.”
Her heartbeat spiked at his words. His look. “You don’t?”
He shook his head and halved the already narrow distance between them. “No. Not ever. And you know what else?” He drew her into his arms for a big hug, a warm embrace, the kind she’d love to treasure forever. “I’m glad the army helped you. No matter what the circumstances were, I’m so glad that they were here, helping take care of you in your time of need.”
“I’m not a war widow, Mike.” She pushed back and faced him square. “And I shouldn’t have pretended I was, because it wasn’t fair to you.” She shifted her gaze to the girls clustering around the tree inside. “Or to them. And while I don’t want Laurie bearing the brunt of my mistakes, I can’t live a lie any longer.”
“Would you be open to a new truth, then?”
A new truth? She met his gaze, and her heart did a silly dance in her chest. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this.” He took a knee before her and grasped her hands in his. “Will you marry me, Karen? Share the people lights of my neighborhood? Spend your life with me and maybe give Laurie some little brothers and sisters?”
Mike’s move had drawn the attention of those gathered within. Karen couldn’t hear them through the thick glass doors, but she felt them watching. “Mike, I—”
“If I throw in the great kitchen, does that help?” he interrupted her with a smile. “Because this floor is rather cold and hard.”
“Yes.” She laughed and threw her arms around him as he stood. “Yes, I’ll marry you. I’d be delighted to marry you, Mike.”
His arms surrounded her.
A cheer erupted in the room beyond, loud enough to be heard through the solid doors.
“I love you, Karen. And Laurie, too. And I will bless God all the days of my life for bringing you into my life. Into my heart. Showing me the way to truly come home.”
Home.
The thing she’d longed for all her life, a sweet, clean place, filled with love. A dream come true, a place to call home. She laid her head against his chest, his strong heart muffled beneath thick wool. The steady beat was a beacon of hope, not unlike the soft chime of a little bell on a dark, city street.
She’d come full circle, from God’s forgiveness to forgiving herself. And now . . .
The door burst open and a caroling of good wishes surrounded them.
Now began the first day of her new life. A life with Mike and Mary Lynn and Laurie, a life renewed and anew.
Church bells chimed nearby, the melodic call to worship reminding Karen of the reason behind this blessed holy day. “For unto us a child is born, unto us a Son is given. . . .” Isaiah’s prophecy, fulfilled in a manger, a child of the poor born to redeem mankind.
She gripped Mike’s hand, not for strength but for solidarity. Together they would face the challenges of life, a family bound by faith and love, the family she’d always longed for. Through God’s love and grace, it now was hers.
About the Author
• • • • • • • • • • • •
RUTH LOGAN HERNE loves to write about small towns, big cities, and the family and folks inhabiting both. Born into poverty, she embraces the opportunity to spread warmth and cheer by living Mother Teresa’s sweet quote, “Peace begins with a smile. . . .” Married to a very patient man, and a mother of six seven children (she may or may not have stolen a niece, who became a daughter of her heart), Ruthy lives in a big old farmhouse in upstate New York surrounded by small children, cats, dogs, chickens, and delightful young families.
Since publishing her Carol Award finalist and Holt Medallion finalist debut novel in 2009, Ruthy has published thirteen “4-Star” and “4½-Star” novels (RT Book Reviews), with more under contract. You can e-mail her at [email protected], visit her at ruthloganherne.com, cook with her and a bunch of great authors at the www.yankeebellecafe.blogspot.com, or chat with her and dozens of author friends in “Seekerville” www.seekerville.blogspot.com.
Dedication
• • • • • • • • • • • •
To the city of New York: I consider you my second home in spite of the fact I have never lived there. More times than I can count, it has been your diversity and energy that have helped me meet some of the biggest challenges of my life. Thank you!
Every time you smile at someone, it is an act of love, a gift to that person, a beautiful thing.
MOTHER TERESA
Chapter One
• • • • • • • • • • • •
New York City, Upper West Side, Thanksgiving Eve
Present day
Parades were not exactly Max Wolzak’s thing. And in his opinion, any parade that featured giant cartoon character balloons making their way down Broadway was the height of absurdity. Having received his discharge after serving his third tour of duty in the chaos that passed for normal life in the Middle East, he was hardly in the mood for crowds, a giant balloon turkey, or Santa Claus. It was impossible for him to reconcile such frivolity with the reality of life in the villages he’d just left. For most people there, simply getting home safely in broad daylight was an adventure in survival.
“Where’s your Christmas spirit, Scrooge?” His sister, Grace, delivered her question with a teasing tone, but her eyes reflected her concern. She had stopped by to check on him, as she had several times a day since he’d come home. “Just to see how you’re settling in,” as she liked to say.
Max reminded himself that it was only because she cared so much that Grace kept pushing him. “Hey, it’s only Thanksgiving,” he reminded her. “I’ve got a month to find my Christmas spirit. And stop looking at me like you think I might go postal on you any minute. I’m fine—just need some time.”
“You’re so quiet these days. When you came over to our place the other night to watch the game with Jack, he told me you hardly said two words. I’m worried. We all are.”
“Well, don’t be. All I’m asking is a little space to figure out my next step.”
Her eyes widened in horror. “You aren’t thinking about going back for a fourth time, are you? Because Gramma Karen would—”
“Hey, I just got home less than a week ago. I’m still half in that world and half in this, okay?” He forced a grin and tweaked her nose the way she’d hated when they were kids. It worked. She ducked away as she had hundreds of times before.
“Stop that.” But she was giggling and for the moment seemed to have forgotten that she’d been about to remind him—again—of how everyone had worried and prayed and finally released a long breath of relief when they heard that Max would be home for the holidays.
“I’ve got to shave,” he said as he ran his hand over the five o’clock shadow that had arrived an hour early. He headed for the stairway that curved itself up to the top two floors of the brown-stone mansion where he and Grace had grown up. He took the stairs two at a time, as he had throughout his youth to his mother’s dismay, then walked toward his room, down the hall lined with one of the expensive Oriental rugs his father had collected over the years, past the modern paintings his mother preferred. Any one of those rugs or paintings could feed a family in Afghanistan for years.
Actually the lavish home was a far cry from the little house in Brooklyn that generations of his father’s family had called home. Their old neighborhood was one where most women, including his grandmother, had raised the children and kept the home fires burning as they waited each day for their men to return safely from their jobs as officers in the New York Police or Fire Department. “Soldiers for the city,” Grampa Mike had called them, proudly pointing to the framed photographs of generations of Wolzak men in blue that lined the wall along the narrow stairway in that house.
But Max’s father had broken that mold when he fell for an uptown socialite and set out to prove himself worthy of marrying her. By working two jobs while getti
ng a master’s in business at Columbia University, he had succeeded in impressing not only the girl but also her very wealthy family. Her father had taken him into the commercial real estate business—a sign that he had finally accepted his daughter’s choice in husbands. In those days, the young family had lived in Brooklyn, just blocks away from Max’s grandparents. Then on Christmas Eve when Max was twelve, his dad had driven them to the impressive brownstone on the upper west side of Manhattan and told Max and Grace that this was to be the family’s new home. Max remembered how proud his dad had been that day and how thrilled his mom had been. Even Grace had been excited at the idea of this new life. Only Max had seemed to realize that this was more than a change in address. This was a change that would affect his whole life—school, friends, everything.
He’d had little choice but to move, but he made sure he spent every spare minute in Brooklyn. He had sat with Grampa Mike, listening to stories of the older man’s years on the police force. He had dreamed of the day when he would join the force and continue a family tradition. He was determined to make up for the breach in family tradition that his father—also named Mike and for years referred to as “Mikey” to distinguish him from his dad—had caused.
And then Grampa Mike had died—struck down by a massive heart attack while doing the job that he loved. Max had just started high school when his world changed yet again.
After the funeral—complete with a long line of police cars with their lights flashing and dozens of NYPD men and women marching solemnly behind the hearse—Max’s parents had insisted that his grandmother sell the Brooklyn house and come live with them. And because Max and Grace had pleaded with her to do just that, Karen Wolzak had agreed. Life had improved after that. With Gramma Karen in residence to stay with Max and Grace, Max’s parents had begun to travel more often and for longer periods. More often than not, it was Gramma Karen who showed up for parent-teacher conferences or school plays and sporting events. It was with Gramma Karen that he and Grace shared the highlights and lowlights of their lives. And, since once again his parents were out of the country, it had been Gramma Karen who was the first family member to learn that Max had enlisted in the military the day after the planes crashed into the World Trade Center. For Max, enlisting seemed so very right. Once his parents were finally able to get a flight home and were told of his plans, his mother warned him that he’d just made an enormous mistake—one that could change his life forever. As for Gramma Karen . . . well, he was never really sure, but he thought perhaps she was proud of him. He knew that his father was.
Now, as he wiped away the last residue of shaving cream with a towel, he studied his face in the mirror. He looked older than thirty-two. His eyes held that weary, seen-too-much-suffering, haunted look so common to those who had served in war zones. Max ran his fingers lightly over the scar that remained from when the doctors at the field hospital had removed a piece of shrapnel from his shoulder. There were other scars as well. He’d been wounded at least once on each tour of duty. But it was not the outer scars that troubled him. It was the emptiness he felt inside.
* * * * *
Sarah Peterson loved Thanksgiving, and she especially loved the parade that wound its way from Central Park down Broadway to Macy’s Department Store and Herald Square every year. During high school and college, her part-time job at Macy’s had given her a front-row seat to all the preparations for the big parade. And every one of those years, she had marched in the parade holding tightly to the guide wire for one of the incredible balloons. For the last several years, her job heading up relief missions for the United Nations had kept her in other parts of the world during the holidays, but this year when she’d called her former supervisor and now chair of the parade committee to volunteer, Roger Evans had been delighted.
“Absolutely,” he had replied. His familiar gravelly voice triggered memories of the days when she’d first started at Macy’s in the toy department, when Roger was far from convinced that she could manage a full course load at New York University plus the demands of extended holiday hours at the store. But she had proved him wrong.
Now, as excited as a little kid about to meet Santa in person, Sarah prepared to attend the pre-parade party in Central Park. She was assigned to the Snoopy balloon—her favorite. The handlers were to be dressed as various other characters from the beloved cartoon family. As Charlie Brown’s nemesis—Lucy—Sarah would be dressed in a jumpsuit designed to resemble a blue dress with short puffed sleeves, a ruffle at the hem, and a round collar. But tonight—when thousands of volunteers as well as out-of-towners gathered near the Museum of Natural History on the west side of Central Park to watch the gigantic balloon figures come to life—she would dress for comfort and warmth. Jeans, a thick turtleneck, boots, and her puffy purple down vest.
She was just pulling her long brown hair into a ponytail when the buzzer rang, announcing the arrival of her longtime friends, Mary and Ned Sinclair. Together, the three of them would take the subway uptown from her Chelsea loft to Central Park. She punched the intercom. “Be right down.” She grabbed her keys, then pocketed her phone, subway pass, and other essentials and waited impatiently for the freight elevator that served the tenants of the former factory to lumber its way up to her floor. When she finally reached ground level and hefted the heavy elevator door and gate open, she started to laugh. Standing outside the secured door to the building, peering in through the glass was none other than Charlie Brown himself. And standing next to him, clutching a raggedy blue blanket, was Linus.
It was obvious that her friends had concocted their own unique version of the characters since the actual costumes they would wear in the parade would not be handed out until the following day, but they had certainly done a great job of getting the costumes right. “You two look wonderful,” she said as the three of them headed for the subway station.
Mary and Ned were two of her family’s oldest and dearest friends. They had actually been friends with her parents, and when Mom and Dad left New York, the Sinclairs had assumed the role of surrogate parents for Sarah. Whenever she returned from one of the relief missions, the two of them would have already been to her loft, cleaned it, and stocked the refrigerator with food. Mary would meet her plane and drive her back to Chelsea, where Ned would be busy preparing a feast to welcome her home. “But aren’t you—as they say—rushing the season?”
“We are simply getting into character,” Ned announced. “Is this what you’re wearing?” He surveyed her tight jeans, knee-high boots, down vest, and white mittens.
“I think Lucy requires a bit of mystery, and I plan to keep her under wraps until tomorrow.”
He shrugged. “As you wish, my dear.” He clutched his blanket tighter and stroked it fondly. “But there is something to be said for allowing time to get fully into the character.”
Ned and Mary were the very successful owners of a popular home decor boutique in Chelsea. Originally they had come to New York with Broadway on their minds. They had each gotten a couple of small parts in those early years but soon decided that earning a living in the theater was not in their future.
“I guess I’ll just have to wing it,” Sarah admitted as she linked arms with her friends and began to hum the theme from the Peanuts musical.
By the time they exited the subway at Columbus Circle and started walking along the west side of the park, Sarah could practically smell the excitement. Those in the know were well aware that this event was definitely on a par with the parade itself when it came to a good time. Sarah gratefully accepted the cup of hot chocolate Ned bought for her as they passed a row of vendors selling souvenirs, hot beverages, and snacks. Then the three of them wandered through the crowds sharing memories of past parades as they repeated the ritual they had begun years earlier of moving from the staging area for balloon after balloon until they reached the all-time favorite—the beloved Snoopy.
Sarah sighed with pure happiness. “Don’t you just love this whole scene?”
&nb
sp; “They say the weather promises to be perfect—clear, sunny skies with temperatures reaching the midforties by parade time.” Mary delivered this news with the wide-eyed wonder of a child.
“Gotta love this global warming thing,” Ned said. “Remember that year when it snowed?”
“Remember the year it poured?” Sarah replied.
“That would be plural, as in the years that it poured,” Ned said.
“Well, we count our blessings.” Sarah glanced up at the sky, where a full moon shone brighter than any spotlight on Broadway. How she loved this city!
A child near them broke away from her parents and headed across the park. “There’s Snoopy!” Her high-pitched squeal resonated with unadulterated excitement.
Something about the little girl’s mother looked familiar, and Sarah hurried to catch up to the couple, who were now calling after the girl to wait for them.
“Grace? Grace Wolzak?” As girls, Sarah and Grace had spent hours playing and gossiping and planning their lives together whenever Grace visited her grandparents in Brooklyn. Sarah and her family had lived next door to the Wolzaks.
The woman turned at the sound of her name and then broke into a grin. “Oh my stars!” she exclaimed. “Sarah Peterson! I haven’t seen you in a hundred years. How are you?”
The man had corralled the little girl and was kneeling next to her, his back to them, evidently explaining the importance of not taking off on her own in the crowded park.
Grace turned her attention to Ned with his blanket and Mary. “Are you guys working Snoopy?”
“Lucy, Linus, and Charlie Brown himself at your service,” Sarah said with a grin as Mary and Ned caught up to them.
“And with this mop,” Grace replied, running her hand through her tangle of golden curls, “who else would I be but Sally?” She turned to where the man and child were waiting and motioned them forward. “This is my daughter Molly.”