by Anna Schmidt
“I get to be Woodstock!” Molly announced. “And I get to just walk along with Mom. This is my first time actually being in the parade. I’m still too little to hold one of the wires. Daddy says the balloon would lift me right up into the sky.”
“And, Sarah, you must remember my brother Max,” Grace continued. “As I recall, once upon a time you two had a bit of a thing going.”
Sarah felt her cheeks flame as she met the gaze of the tall man she had assumed was Grace’s husband. Now she saw the boy she had once thought beyond good looking, all grown up and more handsome than ever in a dark, brooding, fictional hero kind of way. He was wearing jeans and a desert camouflage jacket. His hair was dark and close-cropped in the military style. He acknowledged the introduction with a polite nod but did not smile.
Mary cleared her throat as she studied Max closely and then glanced at Sarah, eyebrows raised as if expecting a more complete explanation. Later she would want to know all about this past crush since she spent a good deal of the time they were together these days bemoaning Sarah’s need to find a “significant other.”
Sarah hurried to make introductions, and as the group continued on their way across the park to where the Snoopy balloon was being covered with netting that would anchor it to the ground through the night, she found herself walking with Max. Ahead of them Grace, Mary, and Ned kept pace with Molly—the child chattering away about the parade, the party that would follow at her great-grandmother’s house, and her certainty that the Santa Claus whose arrival would be the grand finale of the parade was the real deal. “My great-grandmother told me so herself,” she announced in a tone that dared anyone to disagree. “A long time ago she used to collect money for the Salvation Army outside Macy’s, and she knows Santa personally.”
“How is your grandmother?” Sarah asked Max, desperate to find some topic of conversation that might break the man’s silence. He didn’t appear to be angry, and he certainly did not give off the vibes of a man who was shy. Shyness would not be at all in keeping with the confident, popular teenager she’d known. But there was something. He moved through the park with all the reluctance of someone about to face a firing squad.
“She’s well. Thank you for asking.” He shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket. “My grandfather died and . . .”
“I remember,” Sarah said softly. “Mrs. Wolzak moved in with your parents after that.”
“My aunt Laurie offered her a place with her out in California, but Gramma Karen said she could never leave New York.”
“We were so very sad to see the house sold after all that time that our families had been neighbors. And of course, I missed running in and out and talking to your grandmother and the times that Grace would stay over and we could be together. And then when I started college at NYU and was working at Macy’s, imagine my surprise to run into your grandmother and . . .”
She was babbling like a teenager who had suddenly found herself walking alongside the football quarterback. She forced herself to be silent for at least ten seconds then asked, “So, what’s your costume?”
He grimaced. “Schroeder.”
Sarah couldn’t help it—she burst out laughing. The image of this tall, muscular man with his military posture and buzz-cut hair as the piano-playing Schroeder was ludicrous. “Whose idea was that?”
The suggestion of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and for the first time his features softened. “Gramma Karen volunteered me for the part,” he admitted. “She thinks I’m too serious.”
“Like Schroeder?”
She saw a flicker of surprise and realized the irony of his grandmother’s choice had not yet hit him. But she could almost see the image of the popular cartoon character sitting at his piano, a scowl on his face as he practiced and tried to ignore Lucy’s chatter. “Yeah, like that,” he murmured.
He seemed to really look at her for the first time. “And you are?”
She grinned mischievously. “I am your worst nightmare, Schroeder. I am Lucy.”
He groaned, and this time the smile that definitely struggled to break free of his more serious demeanor nevertheless was in full bloom in his eyes. The corners crinkled into lines that proved he had once smiled often. She couldn’t help wondering why that might have changed.
Chapter Two
• • • • • • • • • • • •
Thanksgiving Day—parade day—came earlier than Max remembered. It was still dark as they all made their way to the park, but Max was unwavering in his resolve to do whatever was required of him. He was that determined not to disappoint his grandmother—or Molly. His niece was so excited about what she kept referring to as the “magical season” that it was hard to hang on to his usual cynicism. Finally, after what seemed like hours—and was—the signal sounded and the parade began to move forward. Molly was instantly in constant motion, bouncing from her mother to Sarah Peterson to him as they made their way along the parade route, past crowds of smiling adults and wide-eyed children. At seven years old, she still was a firm believer in the tale of Santa Claus. Max wondered if she would still believe by this time next year.
He looked ridiculous, of course. He was dressed in a kind of jumpsuit that made him look like an exaggerated version of the cartoon character—striped T-shirt over black pants, and on his head a blond wig. He glanced over to where his sister and Sarah Peterson were walking along together. Sarah looked twenty years younger than her age in the dark Lucy wig that framed her face and highlighted her best feature—large blue eyes that had always seemed to Max to reflect what was good and decent in the world. At the moment, she was listening intently to his niece’s chatter—giving the child her undivided attention. At one point he saw Molly slip her hand into Sarah’s, and something about that seemed so very natural. He had a sudden vision of Sarah with children of her own. She had always had a knack for nurturing and would no doubt be a fabulous parent.
Max shook off the thought and focused on holding onto the guide wire in his hands. In a couple of hours they would reach Macy’s, and soon after that he could ditch the ridiculous Schroeder jumpsuit costume and wig and lose himself in the masses of people still buzzing about the parade. He would reverse the parade route on his way back to the house and some of his grandmother’s renowned cooking. By now he knew the turkey was in the oven, and she was up to her elbows in flour and sugar preparing at least three different kinds of pies for the party she traditionally hosted following the parade. The door to the brown-stone would be open to anyone who had no other place to be on this Thanksgiving Day, just as it always had been at that small house in Brooklyn all those years ago.
He heard Molly let out a shrill cry and saw her take off running ahead toward the crowd of people straining to snap photos of the Snoopy balloon. Instinctively he went on alert as he assessed the facts—he could not release his guide wire to go after her without upsetting the careful balance that was keeping Snoopy upright and safe. He saw his sister and Sarah calling out to the child, urging her to stay with them. And then he saw where she was headed. Grace’s husband, Jack Watson, stood with his back to the passing parade as he and other NYPD patrolmen scanned the crowd, watching for trouble.
Molly reached her father and tugged on his uniform jacket. Jack turned, his wide smile making his pleasure at seeing his daughter obvious to everyone around. He hoisted Molly high in his arms and returned her to Grace. Then he placed a quick kiss on his wife’s cheek, gave Sarah a wave, and returned to duty.
Duty.
It had been Max’s mantra most of his adult life. And now he faced a decision that he wasn’t prepared to make. Grace had asked if he planned to return for a fourth tour of duty. That was one option. He could also apply to the police academy as he’d intended before 9/11. But then maybe he was too old. . . . He felt too old. Most mornings he felt a hundred and five, so battered was his mind and body after years of the physical and mental stress of his job in special forces, working behind enemy lines, trying
to end whatever conflict was the focus of the government’s latest plan to thwart terrorism.
Of course he could always go back to college and get his degree, then go into business with his father—his mother had mentioned that several times when the family had visited via Skype over the last few months while he was overseas. He did have a start on a degree in business. But the idea of sitting in an office or in front of a computer screen for hours every day was not a career move that held the slightest appeal for Max—no matter how much money he could make doing it.
No, he would not work for his father. He was sure about that. He was less sure about whether or not he might make the military his permanent career. It was the life he knew best, but there had to be something else.
“Maxie!” His sister’s childhood name for him rang out above the din of the crowd as they reached Times Square. When he glanced her way, she gave him an exaggerated grin. “Smile,” she instructed.
“I’m Schroeder,” he shouted back. “Remember?”
But when Molly danced over and grinned up at him with a gap-toothed smile, showing off her latest tribute to the tooth fairy, he couldn’t help laughing.
“Are you sad, Uncle Max?” Her smile morphed into a frown of concern.
He rallied for this child he loved. “Now, how could anybody be sad on a day like this? Just look at that blue sky.”
She looked up past the towering skyscrapers to the patch of clear blue above them. “It’s magical, isn’t it? I think Santa Claus is going to be more jollier than ever when he sees what a beautiful day it is.” She skipped along at his side. “I’ll tell Mom you’re okay,” she announced. “She told Sarah that you were sad. I like Sarah. Mom invited her and her two friends to come to Gramma Karen’s for turkey dinner after the parade.”
Max glanced at Sarah. Like Molly, she was practically dancing down the avenue, her eyes glowing almost as brightly as Molly’s were, looking all around like she wanted to memorize every detail of the experience.
Molly was still talking. “. . . really nice, and did you know that Sarah was like Mama’s very bestest friend when they were my age? But I don’t think Daddy knew her because when Mama was telling him about her last night he didn’t seem to ’member her at all.”
I remember her, Max thought.
Molly’s slender shoulders rose and fell as she released an exaggerated huff. “Well, I should get back to Mama,” she said almost apologetically as if she needed to keep track of the grown-ups in her life and the task could be exhausting. “We’re almost to Macy’s and Mama said . . .”
He didn’t hear the end of her sentence as she headed back toward Grace, but he was pretty sure she had been about to remind him they would be done with their part of the parade in plenty of time for them to double back and see Santa arrive.
Santa Claus. For a kid like Molly, that character—like many of the characters represented in the parade—represented an American childhood. Whatever happened to celebrating the birth of the Christ child? On the other hand, Max couldn’t help thinking about the kids he’d seen as he traveled throughout the war-torn lands of the Middle East. Those kids had no illusions about what was real and what was fantasy. He couldn’t help but believe that a kid from Afghanistan or Gaza would have serious doubts about the concept of a jolly old elf running around the world handing out gifts. For that matter, Max couldn’t imagine those children buying into the whole birth of a Savior idea—not in the world they knew.
* * * * *
Sarah was having such a good time that their unit reached Times Square almost before she realized it. Between chatting with Grace and exchanging observations with Mary and Ned, she had lost track of time and just how far they’d come along the route. Grace’s daughter was a delight—a little chatterbox who skipped from one subject to the next with lightning speed.
“Well, he’s not sad,” Molly reported as soon as she returned from walking part of the route with her uncle. “I think he’s just worried.” Molly had the self-assurance of a child born and raised in one of the world’s most sophisticated cities, and yet there was an innocence about her that was so very touching.
“Worried about what?” Grace asked.
Molly appeared to consider the question. “I think probably he’s worried that Santa might not remember him. He’s been gone away for a very long time,” she said. “And he is a grown-up, but Gramma Karen says that where he was all those Christmases, life was really, really hard, and sometimes even Santa couldn’t make it all better.”
Sarah glanced at Max, who was trudging along with eyes straight ahead, not looking at the crowds of happy people lining the route or at the glorious sight of a beautiful autumn day in New York City. He wasn’t exactly scowling. It was more an expression of determination, as if he would see his current task through, no matter what. Grace had mentioned that he’d only come back from his service in the Middle East a few days earlier. Having been in that area of the world more than once, Sarah could certainly understand how it would take some time to adjust to a world where people laughed and cheered and seemed to have no worries.
“He’s doing this for Gramma Karen—and Molly,” Grace explained when Max had deliberately taken his position with the balloon unit at a distance away from family and friends. “But he has what he likes to refer to as his ‘ground rules,’ and apparently they include marching along without looking left or right or engaging in any conversation with his fellow balloon wranglers.”
“But if he dislikes being in the parade so much, then why do it?”
“Oh, he used to love the parade as much as anyone—more, actually. But lately, not so much. I think all the hoopla surrounding Christmas gets to him. He’s seen far too much misery.”
“I can certainly understand that. Perhaps in time he’ll find a way to embrace the season,” Sarah said. “Not the materialistic side of things—although it’s hard to deny the charm of at least some of that. But the feeling of hope—that peace on earth is possible . . .”
Grace smiled at her. “You always were intent on saving the world, Sarah. How’s that working out for you?”
“Step by step,” Sarah replied and illustrated the point with an exaggerated marching step.
When they had passed Macy’s and the crowds of people packed into bleachers there, they moved on to the de-staging area, where the balloon was deflated and packed up for storage until the following year, along with the costumes. Knowing that Ned and Mary would expect to follow their Thanksgiving tradition of meeting friends in the Village for a potluck meal, Sarah declined Grace’s invitation to come for Thanksgiving dinner with her grandmother. “Besides, yours is a family thing, and as you mentioned Max just got home, and—”
“Okay, here’s the deal. This thing goes well into the evening, and by the time we put out the turkey sandwiches and leftover pie around seven, we are pretty well talked out. New blood counteracts the turkey’s nodding-off effect. So bring Mary and Ned and come whenever.”
“I’ll try,” she promised.
Their role as balloon handlers complete, they stepped out of the jumpsuits depicting their characters and straightened the regular clothes they’d worn underneath. As Sarah turned in her costume and waited for Mary and Ned to do the same, she caught a glimpse of Max in street clothes walking away, his shoulders hunched although the day was mild, and his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jacket.
“So, tell me more about this teenage crush on the hunk,” Mary said as she followed Sarah’s gaze to where Max was jaywalking across the street, dodging traffic the way he had once threaded his way through oncoming defensive players on the football field.
“It was one date,” she assured him as Ned joined them. “A kid’s fascination with her best friend’s older brother.”
“Right,” Mary murmured, and Sarah knew that she didn’t believe her.
“I’m telling you there was nothing to it. Our date was on September the tenth, and the next day the planes hit the towers and by that night
Max had enlisted,” she continued. “I haven’t seen either Grace or him for years.”
Ned and Mary exchanged a look. “And he went off to save the world and you pined for him,” Ned said. “And now here he is—a soldier come home to be reunited with the girl he never forgot—the girl whose smile and kiss kept him going all those years . . .”
“Do not start with this,” Sarah admonished them as the subway doors slammed shut and the train jerked into motion. “I am perfectly happy with my life. Right now at this stage of my life relationships like that are . . .”
Mary laughed. “I believe the word you are searching for is nonexistent.”
Sarah grinned at the two of them. “I have both of you, don’t I?”
“Not the same thing, my dear,” Ned replied as the train reached their stop and they lined up at the doors. “Not the same thing at all.” He gave Mary a kiss on the cheek and then interlocked his fingers with hers.
Of course her friends were right. Ever since she received her master’s degree in social work, Sarah had dedicated herself to her job. She traveled overseas constantly, first as a team member and then lately as the leader of relief missions for various groups connected with the United Nations. She loved the work but had to admit that sometimes she longed for the kind of romantic companionship many of her friends had found—like Grace had with her husband Jack.
They certainly made a handsome couple, and in the brief encounter they’d had during the parade it was obvious that the two of them were crazy about each other. Stir in their daughter, Molly—a real charmer—and they were the picture of an all-American family. If Norman Rockwell were alive and still doing magazine covers, he would simply have to paint them.
Not that Sarah hadn’t had her chances. There had even been one romance that came close enough to marriage that the man had given her a ring. George Hampton had appeared to be the perfect match for her, but she ended it when she realized he wanted her to leave her job—the same job he had—and stay at home with the half-dozen children he announced they would have while he continued to travel the world. She had been so certain that she loved him—and perhaps in one way she did. After all, love came in many guises—friendship, parental, romantic . . . But just in time, she had realized that what she felt for him was a deep respect and admiration for his courage and dedication. Any lingering doubt ended when, after she tried to explain why a marriage between them would not work, he had become angry and accused her of leading him on.