by Annie Jones
“This is where I came in.” Sam stood.
“I'm going to go try to call Park again.” Petie shot out of her chair and rushed off.
“I'll come, too, in case you need someone to catch the receiver when he answers and you fall into a dead faint.” Collier took off on her sister's heels.
Nic mouthed a thank-you to Sam. Heaven help her, she was still too proud and too mad at him to say it aloud.
He offered his open hand to Willa. “As I recall your mom said we should put your snowbird away until we can hang it on the Christmas tree. Want me to help you do that?”
“Oh, she won't—”
Sam put his hand on Nic's shoulder. She instantly knew he'd done it to keep her from saying anything that might make her daughter shy away.
Willa slipped one hand into his, then grabbed Nic by the fingers with her other hand. She looked up, and smiled.
For one moment, no longer than that really, they formed a tight circle—mother, child, and...old friend. There was no reason for this sweet passing interlude. Nothing had precipitated it. Nothing had prepared her for it. It just happened. It seemed so right and yet so entirely apart from her reality.
Nic tried to make sense of it all, but her mind and senses reeled.
Willa's soft voice finally broke the almost reverent hush between them. “Can we wrap my snowbird up in your cloth to keep it warm until we get a Christmas tree?”
“I don't actually have a—”
“That's what happened with a snowbird we found when I was little. It got cold and sick and went to sing for Jesus on His birthday.”
“I see.” Sam curled his fingers around Willa's hand.
“I want Jesus to have a happy birthday, but do you think He'd mind if we kept Big Hyde's snowbird here, wrapped in your God cloth so I can have this one for always?”
“I think...” Sam took in a deep breath and lowered his head. “I can't think of anything more wonderful than wrapping up the ones we care about in God's love.”
“God's glove?” Willa blinked. “It's not a cloth?”
Nic opened her mouth to try to explain, but Sam spoke first.
“Love. God's love. It's not a cloth like this.” He reached into his back pocket and tugged free a white handkerchief. “But we can wrap ourselves those we love in it.”
Willa pulled the hankie from Sam's hand. “Birds, too?”
“Birds and beasts, all God's creatures.”
“Then I'm going to put my snowbird in God's cloth.” Willa stared down at the stark white square covering her open palm, never taking her eyes from it as she walked toward the table where her snowbird lay among a flock of ceramic sheep. “So God will always look after him.”
“Sam...” Nic looked up, but he didn't take his eyes from the small, determined girl tackling her task.
He asked no questions, made no assumptions, and most importantly offered not a single recrimination about her fragile, broken child. He just watched and waited. Like a kind man. Like an old family friend. Like a faithful minister. Like...
Nic's throat closed. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She clenched her jaw and tightened her fists, but she could not close her heart and mind to that final frightening, unimaginable insight. Sam watched and waited for Willa. With that one look he wrapped her more securely in God's love than most members of her old church had done in a lifetime of promised prayers. He watched the extraordinary and sometimes heartbreaking child in a way no one had ever looked at her before—like a father.
And that fact nearly scared Nic half to death.
Eight
Claiming a headache, Nic steered clear of everyone the rest of the evening, shuffling Willa off to bed early. Nic, however, did not actually get to sleep until late so she wasn’t exactly in the best of Christmas spirits the next morning.
“What are we planning to do about a Christmas tree?” Petie stood at the picture window in the living room, the morning sun warming the spot always reserved for the tree in a lifetime of Christmases past.
“We did not come here to put on some kind of Dorsey family holiday extravaganza.” Nic tidied the pillow on the love seat. “We came down here to sort out the situation with our new boarder and to put this house on the market.”
“Sam wants to go with us,” Collier announced as if the whole tree thing was a done deal.
“Why should he go with us?” Nic punched the pillow she had just fluffed. “What place does he have horning in on our family celebration?”
“Some family celebration.” Collier crinkled her nose and ruffled her fingers through her short hair. “Mom and Wally-boy are spending the holidays with his kids. Your kids aren't coming in until a few days before Christmas, Petie. And poor old Park has probably wolfed down one too many spoonfuls of your rotten casserole, stumbled into the bathroom to be sick, pitched forward, and clunked his head on the sink.”
“Collier!” Nic held the pillow close to her chest.
“Most likely he's lying in some hospital bed right now suffering from amnesia and can't remember who he is much less where he's supposed to spend Christmas.” Collier laid the back of her hand over her forehead and leaned back in the wooden rocker at the side of the window, her face the picture of dire drama.
“That s enough.” Nic dropped the pillow into its proper place.
“What? My version's a whole lot better than Petie's. She had poor ol’ Parker sprawled out dead on the kitchen floor, a spoon in one hand and greasy potato chip crumbs from the casserole on his cold, cold lips.”
Petie spun on her the low heel of her fabulously cute, naturally, house shoe. “Sure, make a joke of my misery.”
“What misery?” Nic rolled her eyes. Petie would not know true misery if it bit her on her perfectly pedicured big toe. “You've only tried twice in the last twenty-four hours to get him with no luck. That hardly qualifies you to play the lead in some made for women’s TV tragedy.”
Petie ignored her sister. “I should have set the alarm and tried calling him in the middle of the night.”
“Yes, you should have. If you really wanted to get ahold of him.”
“You're implying I don't?”
She hadn't intended that, but now that she thought about it, maybe she was. Petie had a way of milking her imaginary woes long past the point when anyone, even her family, cared about them. The oldest of the sisters had always loved attention, and when the spotlight strayed, she found a way to draw it back to her.
Sam's appearance in Persuasion, his very presence in this house, had become the new focal point. With him living in the master bedroom downstairs, and Nic and Willa occupying her old room on the second floor, everyone in town was bound to hone in on that and forget all about Petie.
To tell her so would cross a line. But then the sisters had never really paid any attention to lines. “Maybe I am saying that Petie. Maybe I am saying that if you made a point of calling Park at a time you knew you would reach him, your drama would come to a quick and ridiculously dull end.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, maybe… maybe…” Petie's eyes flashed. “Maybe, deep down, I don't think that Park has died of food poisoning brought on by my indifference and his total inattentiveness.”
Finally Nic understood something of what prompted her older sister's moods of late.
Petie fidgeted with the small rhinestone buttons on her pink quilted robe. “My concern over not reaching Park is very real.”
She believed her sister. Indifference, inattentiveness, concern, and not reaching her husband, those posed the real problem behind Petie's drummed-up drama over the lethal leftovers. Nic saw it now plain as the daylight streaming in through the picture window onto the faded living room rug. Too bad Petie didn't see it or wouldn't admit to it.
“Obviously your concern about Park is real, but let's not play games about what's really going on here, okay?” Nic folded her arms.
“C'mon, you two, let's not do this now.” A glint of pleading filled Collier's eyes. The baby of the family
never could stand much dissention between them. “There are so many things we need to take care of.”
Collier had a point, and Nic had enough to worry about without alienating both her sisters by shooting off her mouth.
“Tell it to Nicolette. She's the one who started it.”
“Well, of course she is. She's always the one who starts it.” Collier grinned like she meant it as a joke, but underneath the jab, they all recognized the kernel of truth in her accusation.
Always the one who starts it, and always the one who finishes it. That was her, Nic thought. While it went against her nature to rein in her opinions and she certainly would not want to lie, Nic cleared her throat and shook her head. “I was just saying, that's all, Petie. If you're really concerned about reaching Park, make a point of calling when he just has to be home to answer.”
“Which is what I said I needed to do, thank you.”
She did not look Nic's way. But then she didn't have to for Nic to look right into her heart. Petie needed support. She needed comfort. She needed someone on her side. No matter how ridiculous the story she spun to ask for those things, Nic should have responded. They were sisters. If you couldn't count on your sisters to understand you, who on earth could you turn to?
How she wished Willa had that kind of support system. If she did, maybe the whole residential program would not be the only option. If there were a team of family members to help, maybe they could keep her home and help build the kind of future Nic longed to secure for her child.
“Come on, you two, no sulking.” Collier leaped up from the rocker. “It's Christmas, after all! Don't forget that's why we're down here.”
“It is not!” Nic clenched her jaw, her mind freshly fixed on what she must do for Willa. “We are down here to get this house ready to sell so I can take care of my daughter.”
“Maybe if you weren't so tense, you'd figure out there could be another way to take care of your daughter without selling our family home.” Petie's tone never even hinted at harshness.
“She's only tense because of Sam.” Collier grinned.
“Won't even let the poor man come with us to pick out a Christmas tree.” Petie gleefully joined the teasing.
“I never said he couldn't come with us.”
“There's a word for that kind of reaction, isn't there, Collier?” Petie put one finger to her cheek.
“Denial.” Collier pronounced it with slow emphasis.
“Okay, maybe I did, but it's because we can't let ourselves get sidetracked. We are not here for Christmas; we are here for business.”
“Right. And the whole family is supposed to just ignore the wonder and joy of the season because it doesn't fit into your plans this year?” Petie folded her arms.
“No.” That hardly sounded convincing, even to her. Nic wet her lips. “No, of course not. Let's just not go overboard.”
“This family?” Collier put her hand to her chest. “The last bastion of good taste and subtlety in the greater Bode County area and all parts north to Chicago and east to New York City? Go overboard?”
“Nevah!” Petie cried in an accent straight off a movie set.
This was a battle she could not win. Nic knew it. Why waste her time and energy squabbling over trees and decorations and things when she had so many demands on her already? She sighed. “Okay. All right. One last big, sparkly, over-the-top, too-many-gifts and way, way-too-much-food blowout of a Christmas in this house.”
“The voice of reason at last.” Collier laughed.
“But on December 26th?” Nic put her hands on her hips. “This house goes on the market.”
Saturdays were the worst for Sam. That hadn't always been so. He used to like them. Used to relish them. Used to consider them the calm before the storm, the quiet before the hectic, fulfilling demands of the large, energetic church he'd left behind.
Of course, in his wayward youth he'd slept away most Saturdays, only crawling out of bed or off the couch in time to launch himself headlong into another round of self-indulgent misbehavior.
Now the realities of his small church and doing the right thing preyed on his mind almost constantly. Saturdays most of all. For the first time in his life in the ministry, he had begun to worry over things he'd taken for granted before. Attendance. The offering. Plumbing.
He spent far too much time, time when he should have been contemplating the needs of his flock, wondering instead if the groaning pipes would last the hour or if they would burst and recreate the great flood in the Noah's ark-themed nursery. If anyone had ever told him in seminary that he would expend so much energy tending to things like worn-out washers and clogged fixtures, he would have...
He wouldn't have changed a thing. Handling hardware had proved a far easier and more rewarding task than winning over the hard hearts of the church’s congregation. The coldness that greeted him day in and day out grew worse on Sunday when the church sat nearly empty. What had made him think he could make a difference here? Why did he even care if he did or not?
This town didn't mean anything to him. He'd had to go far, far away from this place to find real success and the greater truth of God's love. What was so important about trying to bring what he'd learned elsewhere home?
Home? Is that what this anemic excuse for a town was to him? His home? Hardly. He snorted and cinched the belt of his thick terry cloth robe more tightly around his middle. He had on a T-shirt and sweatpants. He slept in those out of a sense of decency at having so many women in the house, even though none of them had any reason to come near his rented rooms. Still, he felt compelled to throw his robe on over his sleeping clothes. Having to take that kind of precaution in his own home, first thing Saturday morning before he'd even had a cup of coffee, only darkened his already grumpy mood.
Sam bypassed the living room where he heard the distinct buzz of intense feminine conversation. Barefoot, he padded silently through his private bathroom and out into the hallway that led to the kitchen. He only had to step lively once as he dashed past the doorway into the living room. From the fleeting looks he got from the sisters' faces, he doubted they would have noticed if he had paraded past with a drum strapped to his chest and cymbals clanging on his knees. Still he sighed in relief as he slipped by the door and his feet hit the cold kitchen floor.
Coffee. That would do the trick. A couple of cups of good, stiff brew. Coffee and quiet. Time alone to think and draw on his inner strength. That's all he asked for a few minutes this morning.
“Hi.” The small, sober voice startled the living daylights out of Sam.
“Don't do that,” he said, shutting his eyes and pressing his hand over his thundering heart.
“Sorry.” The apology came out before he'd even finished speaking. The child was that ready to accept the blame for his overreaction though she hadn't been even remotely at fault.
Instantly, Sam felt like a total heel. “No, I'm sorry, sweetie. Your sitting there took me by surprise. My mind was somewhere else.”
“That's okay. Sometimes my mommy says my mind is wandering. I don't think it's such a bad thing, but it scares her sometimes on account of it's a scary world.”
Sam had no idea what to say to that. He rubbed his fingertips back through his hair. “Yes, it can be at that. I always think that praying helps make it less scary, though.”
“Mommy prays for me every day.”
“I'm sure she does.” Only knowing this child less than twenty-four hours, Sam had already added her to his own list.
“And angels.”
He smiled. “Angels?”
“Angels to watch over me, to go before me and to guide me, to lift me up and to shelter me, and to help me find grace and gratitude in all that God has given me.” Willa must have heard those words many times before. So many times she carried them in her heart and in her mind that sometimes might wander but already knew how to focus on what was true and right.
“And angels, for all those things,” Sam murmured.
; She pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose and gazed expectantly at him.
He had no idea what she wanted. Aside from children's sermons and visits to vacation Bible school, he really didn't have a lot of interaction with children. And almost none with children who were as special as Willa.
He cocked his head to study her. She looked positively lost in the stark sun-brightened kitchen with its floor to ceiling white cupboards and bare countertops. The big table came up to just under her heart-shaped chin. Her red-and-green-checkered robe bunched where the buttons had been fit into the wrong slot. Her feet, swinging back and forth as they dangled a foot above the floor, sported one purple crocheted house shoe and one pink ballet slipper at least two sizes too big.
Her straight dark hair lay matted against one side of her head with her bangs falling forward like a tangled mop over the top of her blue glasses. He thought of how his own hair had always been in disarray as a child, and how kind people like his teachers and even occasionally Big Hyde had helped him comb it out because his father could not be bothered to get up and help him with it.
Willa yawned, and it finally dawned on Sam that she had probably just gotten out of bed and come down here without a soul in the house even knowing she was up.
“Does your mother know you're awake?”
Willa shook her head.
He reached up into the cupboard to pull down the coffee filters and the can of special roast blend he indulged in on weekends only. “Should I go get her for you?”
Again, a soft shake of her head was the child's only answer.
With the smell of fresh grounds still in the air and the gurgle of the coffeemaker at work in the background, Sam leaned back against the counter. “I make oatmeal for breakfast during the week, but on Saturdays it's nothing but sugar-coated junk cereal. Does your mom or dad let you have that?”