Romancing the Holidays: Twelve Christmas Romances - Benefits Breast Cancer Research

by Crista McHugh

  Christmas Eve. Four days without pay. Would she have enough for rent and groceries in January? Happy New Year to me.

  Rena looked around the room at her fellow jurors. Most were in the gallery section like her, but twelve occupied the actual juror box. They all looked tired too. Wait a minute. Was that Ryan? She blinked. Had she forgotten to put in her contacts? But no. She had put them in that morning. It was him. Ryan from the Chase building where she worked. Her pretend boyfriend.

  Ryan was juror number six.

  Ryan was right in front of her, sitting in the jury box. She saw him every day, Monday through Friday, and now here he was in the same jury pool. How was that possible? She knew next to nothing about him, other than, like her, he almost always arrived at the building at 7:30 and went straight to the Starbucks on the second floor. Around 7:37 the barista called out, “Americano with room for Ryan.” God knew Rena would never actually speak to him. But that didn’t keep her from making up wild fantasies.

  On the same jury. What were the odds?

  The defense attorney with the baby cheeks, Steve Carson, strutted back and forth in front of the jury box like he’d learned to be a lawyer from television. He asked them to raise their card if they could answer yes to the following questions: Who was excited to be here? Had anyone ever been robbed? Did anyone have family members who were police officers?

  Focus on the questions. Not Ryan. But he was so handsome, dressed in fashionable jeans and a black sweater that hugged his muscular chest. He wore his caramel-hued hair on the longer side, attractively tousled. A narrow face and high cheekbones, plus a straight, long nose made his face a smidge shy of sharp. How that smidge mattered. He looked noble and intelligent. She’d never gotten close enough to see the exact color of his eyes. Maybe today would be the day.

  By the end of the morning, the jury pool had been reduced to forty potential jurors, after ten presented cases for undue hardship and were let go. Ryan was not one of them. Her heart raced. Would she finally have the chance to meet him? Would she have the courage to actually speak to him? Unlikely. But a girl could dream.

  After a break, the attorneys from both sides began to ask questions of the remaining jurors. “Please raise your jury number card if you can answer yes to any question.”

  Rena held tightly to her laminated card, ready to raise it if needed.

  Defense Attorney Carson spoke into the microphone. “Please raise your card if you believe in God.”

  That was a little personal. But okay. Rena raised her card. Roughly three-quarters of the room did the same, including Ryan. Where did he attend church? Never mind that. Pay attention.

  Carson tugged his Clark Kent glasses from his face. He polished them with a cloth from his pocket as he asked the next questions. “Keep your cards raised if you believe in modern day miracles.”

  Rena kept her card raised. Half of the raised cards lowered.

  “How many of you have seen a miracle up close?”

  She held her card up, as did a dozen others, one of which was Ryan.

  “Juror Six. What miracle did you witness?”

  Happy day. She would get to hear him speak more than his coffee order and a quick thank-you to the barista.

  “It’s trite to say, but the birth of my daughter.” Ryan had a daughter. A daughter. She hadn’t seen that coming. No ring, though. Was he divorced? Or maybe he was with a woman, but not married. Stupid, stupid pretend life. This was a perfect example of why she shouldn’t let her mind get carried away with fantasies.

  “Yes, most of us with children would agree that their births were a miracle,” Carson said. “But what about something more unusual. Anyone?”

  Me. But there’s no way I’m saying it out loud. Her card shook, like one of those Ouija boards at a slumber party. She set it in her lap.

  It was too late. The attorney’s gaze had shifted to her. “Juror Seven." What miracle have you witnessed?”

  Her heart hammered in her chest. Why hadn’t she put her card down sooner? “Um. It’s a little hard to explain.”

  “Please, try. This is important.”

  Was she supposed to tell the truth in a courtroom even if she didn’t want to? She hadn’t taken an oath. Oh, well, here it went. “When I was eight years old our roof collapsed. The force knocked over an armoire, pinning my mother’s legs under it. I lifted the armoire high enough that she was able to slide out from under the weight. It was as if I suddenly had superpower strength.” Warmth flooded her face. “And I was a skinny kid. Normally, I could barely lift a milk carton.”

  Carson drew closer. “But couldn’t you explain your sudden strength another way? It’s a known fact that adrenaline kicks in when a loved one needs help. This sort of thing has happened before. There are tons of instances where women lift cars off their children.”

  This is what people always said when she told the story. However, she knew differently. She knew the truth. “I suppose it could be explained by adrenaline. But who’s to say adrenaline isn’t a miracle, granted to us from a higher power? Einstein said, ‘There are two ways to live: you can live as if nothing is a miracle or you can live as if everything is a miracle.’ I choose to live as if everything is. I know what I know.” Where had that come from? She sounded almost eloquent. That was a miracle.

  “Isn’t that kind of hocus-pocus type stuff?” Carson asked.

  When you say it that way. She pushed up the sleeves of her coat. Someone must have turned on the heat in the courtroom. “If you believe in miracles, you start to see them everywhere. All you have to do is step out of this courtroom at lunch to see one.” Why wasn’t she capable of deceit? Why did the truth spill from her like an erupting volcano?

  A rustle from the defendant’s table stole her attention. John Smith beamed at her. She looked away. Fake Santa looked as insane as she sounded. She glanced across the room to Ryan. He met her gaze and smiled. Confidence surged. He smiled. At her! A kind smile. A gentle smile that conveyed I’m on your side.

  Be yourself, her mother had always told her. You lighten the world with your special heart.

  Rena sat up straighter and took in a shaky breath. “I suppose miracles are the same as magic. I know what happened. How and why I know this can’t be explained to anyone who doesn’t believe. I just know. I just believe. That’s why it’s called faith.” She didn’t dare look at Ryan. It would break her heart if his generous expression had turned to one of horror.

  The judge dismissed them for lunch. Rena ate her peanut butter sandwich in the first-floor jury room. A nagging weight glued her to the chair. She was laughable. Ridiculous. Why had she said all those things? Her sandwich was lead in her stomach. Soon she would be back in her office where she was warm and safe, where people needed her and didn’t think she was crazy. All she had to do was get through the next few hours and she could go home. The attorneys would dismiss her that afternoon. Her confession about miracles had surely sealed her fate.

  Dammit. She didn’t want to be dismissed. Not just because she wouldn’t be able to meet Ryan, but because it was a symbol of her life. She was a reject, a loser, invisible. She lived alone in this giant city, broke and without purpose. The dreams that had kept her company through art school seemed as if they belonged to someone else. A younger person full of hope, not the ghost of a person she was now. Jury duty was just like her life. Disappointing.

  She knew it was time to give up on Seattle and go home. But where was home? Her mother had been her home and she was in heaven with the other angels. All she knew was that she needed a miracle. And a big one.

  * * * * *

  She was wrong. She was chosen. And so was Ryan.

  She had her miracle.

  There wasn’t a seat left on the bus home that afternoon. She wrapped her gloveless hands around the cold metal pole and held on for dear life. The bus was often fraught with adventure. If she hadn’t given her gloves away to the homeless woman near the courthouse this morning, she wouldn’t have to use the frayed
ends of her coat sleeves. She didn’t regret it though. That poor woman didn’t have a place to sleep tonight, and the cold snap was supposed to remain through Christmas at least. A man stood and motioned to her. “Miss, take my seat.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Happy holidays,” he said.

  Rena gazed out the window. Icicles sparkled from leafless trees. A line for the Santa at Nordstrom wrapped around the corner. A choir sang carols in the Westwood Square. Hope gushed through her. She was right. Miracles were everywhere, if one looked through the eyes of an innocent. The Christmas spirit was here on this bus. It was outside on the cold, hard streets of Seattle, in the voices of the choir, and in the sweet faces of children who still believed in Santa.

  Could this jury duty be the beginning of a new chapter in her life? A tingle at the ends of her chilled fingers hinted that it just might.

  * * * * *

  Ryan Scott sprinted toward the courthouse. He was supposed to be in court by 8:45 and it was 8:49. Icy roads and busy holiday traffic had the city in a quagmire of epic proportions, even for Seattle. At the corner of Third and James, he narrowly avoided a homeless man sprawled on the sidewalk asking for change. The scent of urine infused the sidewalk. Must be a recent deposit. Everything was frozen. A homeless woman crouched by a store window rubbing her hands together. At least she had gloves. Clean ones, even. Another woman screamed obscenities at an imaginary foe. Several cops surrounded another woman outside of a coffee shop. This part of town, just six blocks from his office building, grew more dangerous and depressing every year. Drugs and poverty had pervaded the downtown streets of Seattle, despite the wealth that made it one of the fastest growing cities in the country.

  How was anyone to remain hopeful?

  He felt like hell this morning. Scrooge had officially taken possession of his body. A throbbing pain at his temples pulsed like a tiny hammer pounding again and again. He’d been up late last night, finishing up work that he should have been doing during the day. To add to his pain, Morgan’s school concert had gone on and on. Clearly the teachers didn’t think less was more. He and Morgan hadn’t gotten home until after nine, which meant she was tired and grumpy and did not want to go to school this morning, even though it was the last day before holiday break. And her hair. How strands of fine hair could become that tangled on one little girl’s head, he would never know.

  Ryan stepped inside the entryway of the courthouse. He placed his bag and jacket on the security scanner. The guard waved him through. The scent of the “daily special” besieged him as he walked by the courthouse café. It smelled of equal parts grease and canned peas, even though today the sign said chicken teriyaki and yesterday it had been macaroni and cheese. The smell reminded him of the hospital café seven years ago. For weeks he’d eaten there while his wife was in a coma in the ICU. He would never forget that smell. The cereal he’d eaten for breakfast gurgled in his stomach.

  He slumped against the wall of the elevator. The jury summons couldn’t have come at a worse time. His office was swamped with the biggest campaign of his career. Christmas was in three days. He didn’t have gifts for Morgan ordered. They hadn’t gotten a tree. His mother and sister were coming for Christmas dinner and he hadn’t done the shopping yet. He was screwed.

  During the first round of jury selection, when they’d asked if anyone felt they could not serve due to undue hardship, he’d meant to stand and plead his case. I’m the CEO of an advertising firm with a deliverable to a big client by the end of the year. I’m a single dad to a seven-year-old girl. But it was as if he were glued to his chair and his legs were made of lead. He could not stand. He could not get the words to come out of his mouth.

  Now, he went straight to the jury room, as instructed by Judge Warren before they’d left for the day yesterday. No lingering in hallways. Use only the bathroom in the jury room. No one looked up as he entered. Everyone was always on their phones these days. The chairs around the long conference table were filled, so he sat on the armchair near the small refrigerator. Thank goodness he hadn’t kept anyone waiting.

  They were a mix of young, medium, and old, as well as gender, race, and—he presumed—sexual orientation. One of the younger men wore dark blue nail polish and was dressed all in black. He reminded Ryan of a few of the young creatives at his firm. Another man, probably in his late twenties, was heavily tattooed and had a deep, gravelly voice that hinted at heavy cigarette use. An older woman, who walked surprisingly fast with the use of her cane—so fast, he’d noticed it as they exited the room yesterday afternoon—had a paperback book open in front of her. A young man with a pink complexion, masses of freckles, and plump arms that reminded Ryan of italian chicken sausages, sat at the head of the table. This and other assertive acts had Ryan convinced he would volunteer to be the jury spokesman when it came time to deliberate.

  Two of the men in the group were around Ryan’s age, early thirties, and dressed in business casual attire. Yesterday, during breaks, they’d both typed furiously into their phones. He assumed they were professionals in high-tech firms, like Amazon or Expedia, given their blanched complexions and the dark smudges under their eyes that came from endless days inside with only coffee and immense pressure to sustain them.

  Juror Seven was the only one not on her phone. Man, she was pretty. Stunning Seven. She sketched into a notebook with a mechanical pencil. What did she draw? Another juror? Hearts with his name in it? Right. Like she’d notice him. She was young. She probably took one look at him and thought: Old guy with a kid. No way.

  Seven wore black skinny jeans and tall boots. A striped blue and white sweater flattered her slender frame. Today, she wore her long hair in a low ponytail. He knew about the subtleties of ponytails now that he had a little girl. High ones, low ones, two dog tails. Dewdrop earrings dangled from her delicate ears. An escaped curl teased her cheek.

  What was wrong with him? My God, dude, stop staring at her. She’ll think you’re a stalker.

  Yesterday, during jury selection, he’d noticed her right away, even before she’d answered the question about miracles. Masses of glossy brown hair shone under the dim lights of the courtroom. Her dark blue eyes, the color of the sky on a summer’s evening at twilight, had conveyed intelligence and sensitivity. And that mouth. Those full lips. He’d wanted to pull them between his own and test his theory that they tasted of peach nectar.

  Stunning Seven’s answer had wrecked him—made him want to weep right then and there for the incompatible brokenness and redemption of the world. He’d had to look at his own hands and bite the inside of his lip to keep his face from betraying emotion. In a few poignant sentences, she’d managed to portray the essence of everything good in the world. He yearned to meet her. Talk with her all night. Listen to her husky voice over a bottle of wine. He suspected he knew her from someplace. Maybe he’d met her at one of the endless networking events he’d attended. Try as he might, he couldn’t place her.

  When had he noticed a woman last? Like really noticed one. He couldn’t remember. What did he notice? Nothing. All he did was worry about the next task on his list, which meant he missed the here and now. So much for his New Year’s resolution from last year. To be more present. That had been a major failure after two days. The minute he was back in the office, the deadlines and commitments had crashed onto his shoulders and crushed every good intention.

  He hadn’t slowed down enough this past year to take in his surroundings. Stuck in the jury box yesterday, he had no choice but to be still. That stillness had brought him right over to Stunning Seven.

  It may not seem so from his actions, but he ached to meet someone. Raising Morgan was the center of his heart, but he wanted more. He wanted a best friend to play with, a partner to go through life’s struggles and joys with, and a woman to share his bed. In equal proportion, he wanted a mother for Morgan. All that was too much to ask of most women. A woman didn’t want a guy with a kid. They wanted a clean slate. A man untarnished by a wife w
ho died of an overdose. A man who hadn’t already changed diapers and sat up all night with a sick baby and watched first steps. None of those events would ever be firsts to him like a woman wanted.

  Rosie thought he should look for a single mother with kids. Someone who understood what it was like to raise children alone. Someone who would get it that his little girl’s needs had to come first.

  Where was this perfect woman? In the middle of the night, when he couldn’t sleep and darkness invaded his every thought, fear crushed his hope. What if she didn’t exist? Maybe God hadn’t made anyone for him. Perhaps he was destined to take care of his mother and sister and Morgan. When he thought about that, it made him laugh. Maybe it was true that God didn’t give you more than you could handle. Maybe God figured he had enough women in his life. One more might send him over the edge of sanity.

  A few of the women at his office were attractive, but he was the boss. They were off-limits. Rosie wanted him to try online dating but he’d rather shoot himself in the foot than endure awkward coffee dates with women ten years older and fifty pounds heavier than their profile photos.

  Now, the bailiff entered and pulled him from his onslaught of self-pity. She asked them to line up in their juror number sequence. They complied in silence, like lambs to the slaughter. Seven rose from her chair and scooted around the table to stand behind him. She moved with grace and held her head high, like she was raised by someone who loved her and made sure she knew it.

  In the jury box, he grabbed the yellow pad of paper from the chair and waited for the judge to tell them it was time to sit. A waft of Seven’s sweet perfume reached him. She smelled as good as she looked.

  “Please be seated,” Judge Warren said.

  He concentrated on writing the date on his yellow notepad. Anything to deter him from thinking about Seven.

  “Good morning, Six,” she whispered.