by Annie Jones
“That's what this is about?” Nic rolled her eyes. “You think Park keeled over from eating bad casserole?”
“I can't reach him by phone. I called the neighbors, and they can't rouse him by knocking on the door.”
“Oh, well, call the undertaker and book the church basement for the post-funeral dinner.”
“Don't be smart with me, Nic.”
“If you really believe something that awful has happened to Park, why not go back home and check?” Sam stood back and waited humbly for the acknowledgment of his brilliant and logical solution.
Both women looked at him like he had that bowl of killer casserole under one arm, a spoonful of the deadly dish in his mouth, and had just said, “Hey, this don't taste all that bad to me.”
“Parker Sipes is a grown man, Sam Moss.” Petie huffed and rolled her eyes.
“But you just said—”
“If he has been sent to his heavenly reward by rancid mayo, stinky tuna, and slimy noodles, what good would my going back there do?” She put her hand to her practically sculpted hairdo. “Comes a point in every marriage when a woman may love and honor her husband and feel great concern if she thinks something is amiss with him. But she'll be switched if she'll hop in a car and drive the breadth of the entire country just to see if he has survived his own stubborn stupidity.”
“Gotcha.” He nodded. “Then I guess the best I can offer is to put Parker on my prayer list.”
“Would you?” she asked, then without waiting for his affirmation added, “I appreciate that.”
“Anytime.” In fact, Sam pretty much had already decided he might ought to grant ol' Park a permanent slot on the prayer list.
“That made me feel a whole lot better, Sam.” She gave his arm a squeeze as she passed by on her way toward the archway and the rooms beyond.
“Then that's the most productive thing I've done all afternoon.” He gave Nic a pointed glare. “But that could be about to change.”
“Absolutely, it could. There's still enough daylight left for you to get quite a lot done.”
He could not read her face, but her tone put him on guard. His goal, the only goal he had since he'd seen her car whiz past earlier, was to get her alone, to talk to her, to clear the air with her, and to listen to her. He could not do that in this house with most of her family around. To have this discussion, to give them the chance to begin to heal the rift between them, they had to get out of this house if only for a while.
“Here's an idea for something productive, Nic. Why don't we grab a couple of sodas at Dewi's, then walk over to the church and have that talk.”
“Fine by me.” She laced her arms over her red sweater and leaned back against the door again. “I'll wait.”
“Wait? Wait for what?”
“For you to pack a bag. No need for anything big, an overnight case will do. You can come back and get the rest of your things tomorrow.”
“Very funny.”
“Not joking. You cannot stay in this house another night, Sam Moss.”
Not stay? Judging from the determined look on her face, he did not dare leave, not even to go to the church office, for fear he'd return to find his belongings boxed up on the porch and the doors locked against him. “I can and I will stay here, Nic. Another night, another week, at least until my lease is up this spring. And you can't do a thing about it.”
“Don't be so sure.”
“But I am sure.”
“Fine, let's go have that talk in your office.”
“Actually, I've changed my mind. Think I'll stick around here this afternoon.”
“Stick around? What for?”
“Put up Christmas decorations.”
“Christmas decorations?”
“That's what The Duets are doing, isn't it?”
“Yes.”
“So, I think I'll join them. A tinsel rope here, a lighted snow globe there.”
He lowered his gaze to hers, leaned in, and touched his finger to her quivering chin. “It’s the little touches really, Nic, that bring on the holiday mood, isn't it? The little things that will make your house my home?”
He did not see the salt shaker pig as it flew by what had to be just inches from his back. But when it bounced safely on the carpet a few feet ahead of him, he laughed out loud. Neither of them had gotten what they wanted today, but these were the holidays and who knew what surprises lay in store?
Six
Nic laid her head on the kitchen table. She would have banged it on the table if she thought it would have cleared her mind and helped her see what to do regarding that awful man—who did not seem to be quite so awful after all.
Her chest tightened and she squeezed her eyes shut. Still, the memories flooded back of that December when she and Sam had made big plans for their future. She could see him as he was then, lean as a stray dog with the snarl to match. And a quick scowl that never really concealed the fear and longing underneath the facade of toughness. Even then there had been a presence about him, a sense that there was something more there, something good, almost golden under the hard exterior.
A boy, really, yet so fearless and bold. Or was it reckless and foolhardy? Looking back through the filter of time, with the lessons learned and the supposed wisdom of growing older, Nic realized it was the second. He had been reckless with his life, with his actions, and with her heart. She had taken a long time to forgive him for that and now...
Now this man for whom she had been ready to surrender everything—her home, her family, her better judgment—was like a stranger to her. Worse yet, a halfway decent stranger. It did not improve her disposition to think that from that one pivotal point in their past, Sam had gone on to build a good and meaningful life while she had taken one miserable misstep and detour after another.
She thought of her sweet Willa and made an instant correction, a few missteps and detours that had redefined her life but had not robbed it of its meaning. She was Willa's mama and that counted for something.
She tried to reconcile the tall, lean man who had come through her family's door with the scraggly youth who had pitched pebbles at her window to get her to talk to him. Even now in his early thirties there remained a boyishness about Sam that made it hard for her to hang on to her anger toward him. His dark blond hair might not have that devil-may-care look of his teens, but it still had more of a wayward streak than most small-town Southerners were inclined to want in a minister's hairstyle. His eyes held a mix of compassion and humor that somehow got beneath her well-hewn defenses. He'd always had that way about him, at least where she was concerned.
And now they were back where they'd begun. Only things had changed dramatically. Instead of wanting to go off with him, she wanted him to just plain go. How could she accomplish that while stirring up the least amount of trouble for everyone?
Her original plan, to sell the house without coming back, had suited her needs to a tee. Uncomplicated, tidy, quick, and guilt free. That's how she had planned the transaction. The Duets and Sam had seen to it that that was now impossible.
A banging on the back door startled Nic out of her musings. She leaped up and, seeing her younger sister's face in the window, yanked the door inward.
Collier balanced a brown paper bag on one knee and clutched another under her arm. “Whose truck is that in the driveway?”
Nic took one bag, turning her back before she answered in her best matter-of-fact tone, “Sam Moss.”
“Ha, ha, very funny. Who is it really?” Collier clunked the second bag on the table. “One of The Duets have a boyfriend?”
“No, it's—”
“Oh, I'll bet it's the new boarder. Right?”
“Bingo.”
“Bingo?” The door slammed shut with a wham that rattled the glass in the windows. “Bingo who? Any relation to Mango Potter?”
“Bingo you got it right, not Bingo as a name.” Why did talking with her family too often resemble living in an Abbott and Costello routine?
“I told you.” Nic grabbed up the cans as fast as Collier could set them down and shoved them into the cupboard where they belonged. “It's Sam Moss.”
Collier froze with a can of pork and beans in one hand and a container of dried onion rings in the other. “You're kidding.”
Nic frowned. “Some things even I won't kid about, baby sister.”
“Sam Moss.” She said it like someone who had to get the name out there, had to hear it aloud to make herself believe it.
Nic understood exactly how she felt. “Sam Moss,” she repeated for her own benefit as well as Colliers.
“B-but Aunt Bert said they'd rented out rooms to the new minister. Surely that can't be? Oh, Nic.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Collier, it’s...” Nic sank her fingers into her hair and temples and massaged the aching muscles there. “Let's just say it's complicated and leave it at that, okay?”
Clearly, Collier did not want to leave it at that, but she did not cross Nic. She did clench her jaw and made far too much fanfare out of folding up the paper bag she'd finished emptying.
“Where is he now?”
“Putting up Christmas decorations with The Duets, Petie, and Willa.” Nic put the milk away and turned toward the table.
“Willa?” Collier stepped in Nic's path. “Do you think that's wise?”
“Sure. Why not? He met her a minute ago and was very sweet to her.”
“Don't play it coy with me, Nic. You know what I'm driving at. Everyone thinks they kept me out of the loop because I was so young back then, but you know better than anyone there is no such thing as keeping secrets in this town.”
Nic clenched her teeth and every muscle in her body seemed to follow suit.
“I heard the gossip back then,” Collier pressed on. “Time and again people have seen fit to question me about Sam and you and the New Year's he stood you up and you spent all night out at that party—”
“Stop it right there, Collier.”
“My not talking about it won't make it go away, Nic. With Sam back in town and you here and the holidays upon us—people will speculate.”
Her lips pulled tight against her teeth. The bag in her hand crinkled as her fingers curled into fists in the brown paper. “That's nothing new.”
“Yes, but this...this situation is new. It's bound to draw attention, especially if you make a show of throwing Sam out of the house he rented from The Duets. Of course if he stayed, some would take that as a sign that there was a reason for him to be with our family, with you and your child, over the holidays....”
“Condemned if I do, condemned if I don't.” Nic put her hand over her eyes. She wished she were the kind of person who could sit right there and weep and wail and get it all out. But self-pity over her plight was a luxury she had not allowed herself since she first found out she was carrying Willa. Her daughter s disabilities only strengthened her resolve never to give in to that vulnerability. “Well, I have to do something.”
“You can start by telling Sam that he's—”
“No.” She held her hand up to stop Collier midsentence. She could feel the fierceness of her beating pulse all the way up into her throat. Still, she swallowed hard and raised her chin. “I am not going to sit here and allow you to repeat that unfounded snippet of mean-spirited gossip.”
“Nothing mean-spirited about it. Honest.” Collier slid the crumpled paper bag from Nic's shaking hands. “I just think a man has a right to know—”
“Don't finish that sentence.” Nic stood up. All her life she had despised, or at least disdained, the dramatic flair that seemed to come so naturally to the women in her family. Now she found she had no other choice but to employ it—or let this pointless and hurtful debate with Collier rage on. Head high, she flipped her hair over her shoulder and moved to the door. “You don't know because I don't know myself. But I will tell you what I believe with my whole heart. What I have had to believe in order to go on with my life every day of these last nearly nine years—Sam Moss is not Willa's father.”
“Sam? Willa? Don't ya'll want to come into the living room and help The Duets set up the crèche on top of the coffee table?” Petie held on to the door frame and leaned into the room where a wooden crate and countless smaller containers of all kinds littered the floor, the lowboy, and the high antique bed.
Willa looked up at her aunt for only a moment then took a slow, methodic turn and stared at the bounty filling the room around them. “You can set the crash up, Aunt Petie. I'm not done looking.”
“Can't hardly argue with that. There is a powerful lot to see here.” Sam paused from his job of pulling smaller boxes out of big ones to make his own survey of the room.
Strands of tinsel glittered on the chenille bedspread, beaded ropes in gold, silver, and braided red and green lay in pools or spilled over the top of storage boxes. Old Christmas cards dribbled glitter on the floral carpet. Handmade ornaments of pinecones and paper peeked over the top of silk holly, plastic candy apples, and packages of ribbons. A snowman of painted macaroni and colorful buttons glued to a cardboard cutout and several small, delicate angels of crocheted yarn dipped in sugar to make them stand stiff cluttered the top of the dresser.
“You sure, Willa, honey? We could use your vote in deciding where to put the animals, you know. You always do a good job with that.”
The odd edge in Petie's voice finally broke through Sam's dense hide. She didn't care all that much about the child participating in the setting up of the manger scene. She wanted the child with her, to keep watch over her. Though he could not explain exactly why, Sam understood that feeling. It was the same feeling a good-hearted person had when he found a wounded bird, the need to help, to be God's hands on earth. This fragile little girl had that effect on most people, he suspected, but most profoundly on the family that loved her so dearly.
“She'll be all right with me, Petie.”
Her eyes met his. “Sam, you might not realize this, but Willa is a...special girl.”
“How could anyone take one look at that precious face and not realize what a special person she is?” He smiled then watched as the child picked up a large, tinfoil star with a cutout of Jesus taped to the center. Sam recognized that picture from the programs he'd found of last year's Christmas Eve service. “You can go on, Petie. She's in good hands.”
Hesitance, then relief washed over her face. “Well, all right, you two carry on with your treasure hunt. We're just in the living room if you need us.”
Sam nodded without looking back to see if Petie had gone. He took a deep breath and found the mingling of dust, old pine needles, and cinnamon-scented candies more appealing than he had ever imagined. Of course he would. They smelled like home—a place filled with traditions and laughter and holidays and love. A place that he had never really known, even after he'd moved away and gotten his life straightened out.
Funny how a man could get more sentimental over the things he never had than he could over the many real experiences that had made him who he was today. Funny how until today he had not ever really felt that. Being in this home with the Dorsey family babbling and bickering in the background, the decorations that told of a lifetime of memories—being so close to Nic again and to her sweet, extraordinary daughter—he suddenly missed the life he had forsaken so many years ago.
The creak and jounce of the mattress springs just over his left shoulder broke his introspection. He shifted his legs on the hard floor and craned his neck in time to see Willa dump a plastic tub full of bread dough ornaments onto the bed. Stretching out, she rummaged through the pile before her with both hands.
“Are you looking for something special?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Yes, I
'm looking for something special.” She raised her head, then tipped it to one side and blinked as she added, “Sir?”
Sam smiled. “Okay.”
She pushed the shellacked bread bears and rocking horses aside. She grabbed an old candy tin and popped off the lid. Concentration colored her face, and just the tip of her tongue stuck out the corner of the determined line of her mouth as she peered inside.
He laughed at how much she reminded him of her mother, and though he had no idea what he was searching for felt compelled to join in. He sank his arms elbow deep into the crate in front of him on the floor to see what he could come up with.
“My birdie! That's where Mommy put my birdie.” Willa scrambled off the bed so fast she almost took the fluffy white bedspread with her.
“Birdie?” Sam rotated the dusty pink shoe box in his hands until he saw the illustration of ballet slippers on the tan lid mended with yellowed masking tape.
“My birdie. I remember now. I wanted to take it home with me, but Mommy said that wasn't a good idea.”
“Oh?” A cold sensation crept low in Sam's gut.
Willa stood beside him now. “She put it in that box so it would be safe forever.”
“I see.” A vision came to mind of a dried-up parakeet in a coffin of cardboard accidentally packed away with the decorations in the rush to put things up and go home. He had no reason ever to believe Nic or any of her family would be so careless as that. Still, something about this dark-eyed child reaching for the object in his hands put him in high protective mode. “You sure this is a birdie? It looks like ballerina shoes.”
Instead of the smile or gentle laugh Sam expected, a tenseness he could only describe as controlled panic came over the child's entire body. Her shoulders rose slightly, her leg jiggled at the knee, her arms drew in tight to her body, and her hands jerked upward and began to flutter as quick and light as bird's wings themselves. But it was her eyes that got to him.