But maybe this fight wasn’t entirely about Romeo. Or his mother.
And that realization turned her silent, the wounds searing.
John’s voice was quiet. “I was trying to protect us. I did what I thought was best.”
Maybe he wasn’t talking about Kari either.
“I’m sure you did,” Ingrid said softly. “But the best thing for Romeo is for us to find him and care enough to listen.” She watched the waves turn the shore frothy.
“Let me just find him first. Where are you?”
“I’m in the—”
He drove up beside her in his truck, cell phone to his ear.
She hung up.
He let his truck run, and they stared at each other through the windows.
Her phone rang again and she looked at the screen, frowning at the number for the vet clinic. “Kate?”
“Hey, Ingrid. Uh . . . I have a situation here, and I was hoping you could come down—”
“What’s going on?”
John had gotten out of the truck.
“I caught Romeo breaking into my office today, and the police are here—”
“We’ll be right there.”
Ingrid grimaced as she relayed the information to John, then followed him in her Caravan the two blocks to the vet’s office.
A cruiser, with lights flashing, was parked outside.
Oh, Romeo.
She got out and followed John in. Romeo sat, handcuffed, on a bench by the door. Shoulders slumped, head down, hands in his pockets, wearing just a thin sweatshirt. Ingrid made a note to dig up a warmer jacket for him. Kyle Hueston, their local deputy, was taking a statement from Kate, who gave Ingrid a pained glance.
“What happened?” John said, and to her eyes, Romeo paled at the sight of him. His expression made Ingrid want to cry. He looked thirteen, lost, even afraid.
“I’m not sure. Nothing is broken, but I heard the dogs barking in the back, and when I turned on the light, I found Romeo in the outside kennels,” Kate said.
“You broke into an animal shelter?” John said, his voice rising. Ingrid gripped his arm.
Romeo looked away, his jaw tight. “I just wanted to see the dogs.”
“Listen, I don’t want to press charges,” Kate said. “But—”
“I have an idea,” Kyle said. “Maybe we could work something out. A work exchange?”
“Yeah, what if Romeo helped clean the kennels? Maybe assisted me with some of the dogs after school?”
“He has football,” John said, and Ingrid said nothing. “But he could donate his Saturdays.”
He turned to Romeo, who wore such a drained, almost-incredulous look that Ingrid wanted to put her arms around him. In a blink, his face closed up. He lifted a shoulder in a shrug.
“Okay, then. Saturday, 9 a.m.?” John said.
Romeo nodded, and Kyle uncuffed him.
“Thanks, Kate,” Ingrid said as she followed John and Romeo outside.
But John stopped him by the truck. “Romeo, you have some explaining to do. What’s going on?”
“Leave me alone. I want to see my mom.”
His words landed like a blow.
“You know she can’t see you right now,” Ingrid said.
“I don’t care. I . . . I don’t want to be here anymore.”
The words hollowed Ingrid out. She shoved her hands into her pockets, fighting the bite of the wind.
“You missed practice.” John stepped in front of him. “Listen, you don’t just start something, then quit. Your team needs you.”
Ingrid reached out, wanting to press her hand to John’s arm. Because in Romeo’s world, people did start things, only to quit.
And that’s when truth appeared in Romeo’s eyes. His voice turned sharp and raw. “I know you don’t want me around really, so what do you care if I play football or not?”
Ingrid wrapped her arms around her waist. “What are you talking about?”
But Romeo turned away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I do care if you play football,” John said quietly. “And we do want you around, Romeo. You’re our responsibility.”
Romeo didn’t look at him. “Not for long. I checked into the GED. I’m taking the test if you’re still signing the papers.”
Ingrid stilled. “What is he talking about, John?”
John ignored her. “That’s your decision, son. But until then, you have a couple of games left and a team you made promises to.” He put his hand on Romeo’s shoulder. “Let’s go talk to the coach and see if he’ll let you back on the team.”
Ingrid stared hard at John as he turned Romeo toward the truck. She wanted to make him stop, tell her what he’d done.
“I’ll see you at home, Ingrid,” he said.
“John!”
But they got into his truck, and Romeo shut the door, not looking at her as John drove out of the parking lot.
She stood there, watching him pull away, shivering as the cold twined through her body, the wind turning her brittle. She stiffened, forced a smile.
Even though, in the air, she could smell a winter storm brewing on the far-off horizon.
John had found himself again by the time he finished loading the dishwasher, scraping the remains of beef brisket into the sink, washing the Crock-Pot, and sweeping the floor.
The simple tasks helped him untie the knot in his chest, or at least breathe freely.
Whatever reason Ingrid had for keeping Romeo’s behavior a secret, he wanted to hear it. He’d be patient. And then he’d fix the jagged rift between them that seemed to have ripped open this afternoon.
If he hadn’t recognized signs of trouble when he left Ingrid at Kate’s office and marched Romeo over to Coach Knight’s house to apologize, he recognized it when he arrived home to find the table set, food on the stove, and a note on the counter indicating that she’d already eaten.
She left out a birthday card and a plate of cookies for Romeo, who had stared at them as if he’d just taken a hit to the gut.
John served Romeo and himself, and they ate in strained silence. He hoped Romeo spent supper pondering his second chance.
Although he would have to sit out Friday’s game, he’d be allowed back for the play-offs if they won.
But Romeo had destroyed the fragile trust between them, and John informed the sullen kid that after football ended, he’d spend every afternoon helping to build Darek’s house. And Saturdays at the animal shelter, cleaning up after the dogs.
In fact, John intended to keep the kid in his sights until the moment his brother knocked on the door. He wouldn’t put it past Romeo to go AWOL, hitchhike his way to Duluth, and get murdered on the side of the road. Not on his watch, thank you.
Romeo had headed upstairs with his backpack full of homework immediately after supper. John noticed Butter following him, heard the door close upstairs.
Once he’d cleaned up and emptied the dustpan, he slipped on his boots and took the trash outside. The wind carried the sting of sleet, and it bit into his skin as he opened the gate to the trash area, dropped the bag into the Dumpster. Overhead, a pitch-black sky blotted out the stars, and in the distance, a lonely wolf—or perhaps one of the sled dogs from nearby camps—howled in mourning.
He hustled back inside, thankful for his warm, dry home, and slipped off his boots. Flicking off the lights in the kitchen, he headed upstairs.
Light streamed out from under the door to his room. He took a long breath, then eased the door open.
Ingrid sat on the floor, her craft supplies scattered around her, a tall light pulled close to illuminate her stocking project. A dozen white, brown, and red shapes—cut out and organized into piles—surrounded her, along with tiny containers of sequins, colored thread strung around cardboard, and various pieces of stocking already constructed. She had her earbuds in, swaying to what he supposed was music as she worked a needle and thread.
She wore black yoga pants and a red T-shirt over a long-sleeved white shi
rt. He recognized the tee as one of Amelia’s, the one with Rudolph on the front. A stocking cap—red and fuzzy—held her hair back, letting it curl out the bottom.
So Ingrid. No one did Christmas like his wife, and in an instant, the final vestiges of his frustration vanished.
He shut the door, and she looked up, popped one of her earbuds out. “Is he in his room?”
“Yeah.” John sat on the edge of the bed. Took a breath. “I think we’re in for a storm tonight.”
She looked back at her work but nodded.
“Do you think you’ll finish by the time his brother arrives?”
She lifted a shoulder, then reached out and handed him the kit cover. “I know it’s a little young for him—Santa on a sled, holding a bear—but it’s very northern Minnesota, and . . . well, it’s what I had.”
He stared at the picture. “I know . . . I know it was Benjamin’s.”
“Yes. But Benjamin doesn’t need it, does he?” She swallowed, looked away. “He’s with Jesus.”
John frowned, nonplussed at her words. “We need to talk about what happened today, Ingrid. You should have told me Romeo skipped practice.”
She pulled the other earbud out. “I just found out today. But maybe you want to tell me what he meant about getting his GED?”
She kept her tone light, but he could spot an ambush. Although he wasn’t quite sure what he’d done wrong. “I offered to agree to his emancipation. I figured it’s the least I could do for him. Help him have his future.”
She put the earbud back in. Nodded.
“Ingrid, I’m not sure what’s going on here—”
“I got an e-mail from Casper today. He’s staying in Roatán for Christmas. I admit I was holding out hope that he might come home. . . . Can you imagine? The Caribbean for Christmas.”
Uh, yeah. In fact he’d imagined a lot for them. And frankly he couldn’t figure out why those dreams felt so far away.
He slid off the bed and moved to sit facing her. She didn’t look at him.
“Honey, are you angry with me?”
She gave him a tight smile that didn’t meet her eyes. “Why would you think that?”
Why would he—? “Because I’m not an idiot. Because it feels like no matter what I do, it makes you angry. Because even though I’ve let Romeo into our home, you still act like I don’t want him here.”
“Do you?”
“I just don’t want you to get hurt. The more you grow attached to this kid, the more it’s going to hurt when he leaves.”
“Motherhood is about letting go, John. I’m not ignorant of the fact that my children are leaving me. In fact, I want them to. I’ve spent my entire life preparing them to leave me. I’m ready to get hurt. What I don’t want is to spend every moment that Romeo is here guarding my heart. I want to savor him being here.” She put down her sewing. “We can’t live our lives trying to protect ourselves from getting hurt. And you can’t live your life trying to protect me.”
But . . . wasn’t that his job?
He reached out, touched her face, let his fingers run down her cheekbone. He expected her to lean into his touch, to meet his eyes, perhaps offer an invitation.
Instead, she focused on her sewing. He watched her fingers make one tiny stitch after another.
He dropped his hand. “I’m supposed to protect you, Ingrid. That’s my job.”
A tear dripped off her chin onto the felt. She swallowed, pressed her thumb into the moisture.
He stared at it in horror. “Tell me what I did, and I’ll fix it. Please.”
Only then did she look up at him, her eyes red. She shook her head. “I don’t think you can ever fix it, John.”
Then she put down the stocking, got up, and headed to the door.
He stared after her, his breath hot in his chest. What—? He couldn’t help but follow her.
She went to Romeo’s room and cracked open the door. The light streamed in over Romeo, curled up under the sheets of Owen’s bed. Butter lay at the foot of the bed, and she lifted her head as if to say, I got this. All is well.
Ingrid closed the door. “I was hoping you could fix Romeo. But now I’m not so sure you can, even if you wanted to.”
Then she walked away and left him standing in the hallway, her words like fists in his chest. Even if you wanted to.
NO ONE TOLD JOHN that he couldn’t fix something. Not his marriage. Not Romeo. And certainly not the decrepit box for the Nativity scene the community called a stable.
“Hold the door open. I just need to grab this wood, and we’ll be out of here.”
Romeo held open the door to the shed behind the community center as John pulled out another section of the manger scene he’d finally tracked down.
Nate had only mentioned that the stable might need some work, but what did John expect from a Realtor?
“What is this thing?”
“It’s a barn. Sort of.” John would have to rebuild the entire stage. The structure fell apart as soon as he and Romeo pulled it from the shed. The roof hung in pieces and the ends of the display sagged, unable to hold up anything.
He set the boards on the ground, stood back to survey the damage. “It’s where we host the Nativity scene. But it’s not looking too good, is it?”
Romeo gave it a kick. He wore one of the boys’ old work jackets and an orange stocking cap. In the week since football ended, he’d helped John every day after school, as decreed, and they’d managed to get Darek’s house under roof, tarping it off for shingles in the spring. In the meantime, Darek would work inside.
John had taught Romeo how to run a table saw, a Skilsaw, and a nail gun, how to measure twice and cut once, and the basics of framing a house.
The kid listened as if he were preparing to appear on Surviorman, asked to live in the wild.
Ingrid’s words settled into John’s brain like glue. I was hoping you could fix Romeo. But now I’m not so sure you can, even if you wanted to.
If he wanted to. He couldn’t deny the fact that he enjoyed Romeo’s company. And the boy worked hard, without complaint, at home and at the animal shelter, according to Kate.
Slowly, over the past three weeks, John had seen the kid emerge from his shell. John even got him behind the wheel for the first time in his life and took him driving on the back roads.
Yeah, he could admit he hoped this mystery brother didn’t show up anytime soon. Ingrid had managed to contact the social worker regarding a visit to Romeo’s mother, but she reminded them there could be no visits until after Thanksgiving. And by her tone, apparently even that might be too soon.
E-mails to Matthew remained unanswered.
Ingrid’s hopes just might materialize—Romeo in their home for Christmas.
John secretly began to hope for it too. In a couple weeks the ice would be thick enough to skate on, and maybe he’d even take the kid snowmobiling.
As for his wife . . . I don’t think you can ever fix it, John.
Fix what? Their fractured family? A lonely Christmas? Perhaps, but he could try. The live Nativity display he drew up would be legendary, and if that didn’t prove to his wife that he could buy into her need to stick around, celebrate Christmas even without their family, he didn’t know what would.
He glanced at Romeo. “Grab that end. We’ll get it up to the resort and see what we can salvage.”
Romeo leaned down, grabbed the edge, lifted. They dragged it over and tossed it into the back of the truck, went back for the rest of the pieces. As John closed the tailgate, Romeo climbed into the cab, blowing on his hands. “I can’t wait for that turkey.”
Him, either. Ingrid had been in the kitchen basting the Thanksgiving bird when they left. Ivy and Darek wouldn’t be heading over until this evening, but still, he had to wonder how he’d landed right here, dragging around a busted barn in the middle of a football Thursday. He had an idea who might be the real turkey.
But he refused to let his marriage—or Romeo—go down on his watch.
> “You suppose the Lions are winning?”
John glanced at Romeo. “Let’s not think about it.”
A hearty two inches of snow blanketed the ground. Winter had gusted in last week with slate-gray skies, an ice storm, and below-zero temperatures on the eve of the second play-off game of the season.
The Huskies lost by one touchdown, and even John couldn’t hate the fact that the cold hours in the stands had ended.
He pulled out, headed home. If he worked hard, he could get the frame rebuilt by tonight and have the structure constructed in parts by Sunday. Then he’d have to shingle it—he had some shakes left over from the cabins. Finally he’d paint it, string lights, and—his brain child—install heaters along the base. He’d heard Ingrid on the phone and knew the prospect of standing in the cold for an hour scared off any potential Nativity family.
But if he could offer them warmth . . . he might not just save his own marriage with his stable, but someone else’s as well.
“Why a barn?” Romeo asked.
“Well, I guess it’s more of a stable, and in real life, it was supposedly a cave, but we work with what we have.”
Silence.
He looked at Romeo. “What?”
“Tell me again why we’re building a barn?”
“Because that’s where Mary gave birth? She put the baby in a manger?”
“Oh.” Romeo looked away, tucked his hands under his arms.
“You do know the story, right?”
Romeo offered one of his signature shrugs.
Seriously? “Romeo, did anyone tell you the real story of Christmas?”
“I thought it was about Santa.”
John cut down Main Street. Already holly and pine boughs decorated the lamps along the street, a holiday glow upon the crystalline snow. This weekend, a glittering tree would appear in the park off the harbor.
“Santa is an add-on. The real story is about God sending His Son to earth to save us from ourselves. We celebrate His birth at Christmas.”
“Oh, right. Mary and Joseph and some angels. I thought it was a fairy tale.”
The story, the gospel, embedded John’s bones, as familiar as breathing. He tried not to take offense at Romeo’s almost-mocking tone. “It’s not a fairy tale, and that’s what this live Nativity is all about—to make it real. To put ourselves in Mary and Joseph’s place and get a new perspective. Imagine you’re about to get married and the girl you love tells you she’s going to have a baby.”
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