Christmas Miracles

by MacLean, Julianne

  “Good,” Bev said. “Now I have to go. See you later.”

  I remained in the doorway as she walked out, got into her car and drove off. Then I found myself looking across the street at Scott’s house, where it was nice to see lights on in the kitchen, and not just the one lamp in the living room window that was operated by a timer. I was glad he was home.

  I stayed up late that night reading the rest of the novel, and it felt odd that Scott and I didn’t exchange emails.

  More than once, I considered getting up and sending him a message, but I resisted the urge.

  He was probably doing the same.

  The following day I went to work, and came home to discover a fresh coat of paint on the trim around my front window.

  “He doesn’t waste time,” I said to myself.

  I walked in the front door to find Bev cooking spaghetti at the stove. “Hi,” she said.

  I removed my coat, hung it up in the closet and entered the kitchen. “Were you here when he did that?” I pointed toward the living room window.

  She stirred the pasta in the pot. “Yes, but I was sound asleep in my room. Leo didn’t even bark. You should call him and say thank you, and invite him over to have dinner with us, because I’m making this huge pot of spaghetti. There’s plenty to go around.”

  I grinned at her as I moved to pick up the phone. “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Never.”

  I dialed Scott’s number, and he picked up right away.

  * * *

  “So let me get this straight,” Scott said, leaning back in his chair at the kitchen table and sipping his wine while he scratched behind Leo’s ears. “The guy doesn’t even know he’s going to be a dad?”

  Bev shook her head. “No. I want to do this on my own.”

  “But surely he has a right to know,” Scott said. “And you need to think long term. What happens when your child grows up and wants to know who his or her father is, and might want to meet him? You can’t put all that on the child, to be the one who shows up at this guy’s door and breaks the news to him. No kid should have to shoulder that.”

  Bev rested her elbow on the table and cupped her forehead in her hand. “I honestly didn’t think about that, but you’re right. I wouldn’t want to do that to my child.”

  Scott shared a glance with me from across the table, and I gave him a look of gratitude. He knew how I felt about the issue—that Bev should tell the guy. I’d been trying to convince her of that for months.

  “You’re both right,” she said. “I know it in my head, but my emotions say otherwise. I just don’t want to see him again. I don’t want to invite him into the rest of my life—for custody battles over parental rights, and chasing down child support payments. I don’t want any of that. And what if he’s a total jerk? I just want to do this on my own.”

  “What if he’s not a jerk?” I asked. “What if he’s the great love of your life and you’re not giving him a chance?”

  Bev let out a breath, picked up her plate and carried it to the counter. “I don’t need a husband to have a baby, Claire, and neither do you.”

  My head drew back in surprise, because she’d never said anything like that to me before, and here she was, saying it in front of Scott.

  She immediately turned to face me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that…this is the twenty-first century and we are strong, independent women. Both of us. We have each other and I believe we can do this. I just want us both to feel empowered and not at the mercy of having to wait for the right man to come along.”

  Despite how awkward it had been with Scott the day before, I felt surprisingly comfortable with this whole conversation, because he already knew about all my setbacks and insecurities. I had held nothing back from him during our email correspondence, where it was so much easier to be revealing.

  “She has a point,” Scott said. “You can do whatever you want, Claire. There’s nothing holding you back from having a child if you want one. The doctor said you were a good candidate for IVF. Wes isn’t here to discourage you or say no to spending the money. Whatever you choose to do is none of his business anymore. You should think about it.”

  I looked up at Bev, who smiled at me. “There you go,” she said. “You have something to think about.”

  I decided in that moment that I would indeed give it serious consideration. Though it wasn’t exactly the traditional dream I’d always had of a house with a white picket fence, a husband, and four or five children, it could be the makings of a new kind of dream with a different sort of family altogether.

  Bev was right. This was the twenty-first century. and I was no longer the twelve-year-old girl who had just lost her father. Maybe I needed to let go of my old ideals and be more independent as a woman—because what if I never married again? I had no control over whether or not the perfect man might come along in the future, or any man for that matter, and I was about to enter into a divorce that might take years to finalize. Maybe I had to consider the possibility that if I wanted a child, I couldn’t afford to wait around for everything to be perfect.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Spring arrived before we knew it, and Bev’s belly continued to grow. By late May, when pink apple blossoms began to flower in the apple tree in our backyard, we used that for inspiration to decorate the spare bedroom as a nursery, in anticipation of Bev’s July 25 due date.

  Meanwhile, Scott and I were maintaining a close friendship. There had been no more awkward moments between us, probably because neither of us felt ready to begin a relationship that would, undoubtedly, be complicated. We were both still emotionally scarred from our separations and preferred to keep things platonic.

  I felt blessed to have him as a friend, because he was wonderful about lifting my spirits when I felt low. I did the same for him in return.

  He was also incredibly handy around the house and was happy to pop by whenever Bev and I needed help with something—like the toilet that wouldn’t stop running or a problem with the car. He always had the right tools.

  In return, Bev and I invited him over for dinner at least once a week, sometimes two or three times. And when Bev worked a night shift, Scott and I occasionally went out for dinner and a movie, or took Leo for long walks in the park. Scott even started coming to my book club meetings with some of the ladies who worked at my school. He was the only man present, and we all enjoyed his perspective on the books we selected.

  He was a good friend during that time, and I was grateful that he lived across the street—especially on one night in particular, when he was keeping me company while Bev was at work, and my world was about to turn upside down all over again.

  * * *

  “Stand up,” Scott said, rising from the sofa and offering his hand. “It’s really easy. Let me show you.”

  We had been watching Grease on television, and when the dance competition began with Vince Fontaine strutting around the Rydell High School gymnasium, I casually mentioned that I’d always wanted to learn how to jive.

  “Come on,” he said, offering his hand again.

  I looked up at him and smiled. “Are you serious? You know how to jive?”

  “Yes, and it’s a lot of fun. It’s like a happy pill. You can’t do the jive without smiling.”

  “All right.” I stood up, and Scott pushed the coffee table up against the sofa so we had more room, then he turned down the volume on the TV.

  “It starts with a basic step.” He faced me and took hold of my right hand, while sliding his other hand around the small of my back. “Watch my feet. It’s like this.”

  Leo, who was lying quietly in the foyer, watched with interest as Scott showed me how to rock back onto my right foot, then rock forward, and step from side to side, then repeat the same thing over and over.

  “This doesn’t seem too hard,” I replied, catching on quickly.

  “You’re a natural.” Scott grinned at me as we continued the basic step.


  “Now I’m going to spin you around, and you just keep doing this same basic step with your feet, and rocking back as you come around.” He lifted my hand up over my head and guided me under for the turn, and my feet continued with the basic step while he counted out the beats.

  “That was great,” he said. “Let’s try it again. Then we’ll put on some music and do it for real.”

  We practiced a few more times, then I went to get my laptop. I set it up on the coffee table and searched YouTube for some music.

  “What’s a good song?” I asked.

  Scott thought about it for a moment. “Try Crazy Little Thing Called Love by Queen.”

  I cued up the song, and soon Scott was leading me through the jive in my living room, and I couldn’t believe I was doing it.

  “You’re right,” I said with laughter. “I can’t stop smiling!”

  “Me neither. You’re great at this.”

  We danced the whole song, then I said, “Can you teach me another move?”

  “Sure.” He thought for a moment. “I’m not sure what this one is called. It’s something like a change of hands behind the back, where I turn, and you stay where you are.”

  He took me through the move, and soon we were able to combine it with the step he had showed me before. I cued up the music, and we danced around my living room.

  I was laughing when I heard a key in the door. Assuming it was Bev, we just kept dancing. But then Leo started to growl.

  It was Scott who stopped us, mid-spin.

  I saw his expression change from light to dark in an instant, and then I whirled around.

  My stomach dropped, because there—standing in my foyer, staring at each of us in turn—was Wes.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “Hey,” Wes said, fixing his eyes on mine and patting Leo on the head.

  I stood motionless, stunned and speechless, and realized I was still holding Scott’s hand. It was ridiculous of me, but I felt a sudden surge of guilt, as if I had been caught cheating.

  As soon as I recognized the absurdity of such a reaction, I quickly shook my head. I had nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked inhospitably.

  “I just got off a plane,” Wes replied, “and I took a cab straight here. I was hoping to talk to you.”

  “You could have picked up the phone.”

  “I wanted to talk to you in person.”

  I felt my breaths coming faster and faster, like a hot flame of anxiety. “About what?”

  While I struggled to remain aloof on the outside, my mind was screaming with rage and a gazillion questions and accusations. All I wanted to do was march forward, grab Wes by the shirt, and shake him senseless, or at least until his teeth rattled. I wanted to pepper him with questions. What is wrong with you? How could you have done this to us? And why are you here? But I resisted the urge.

  Meanwhile, I sensed Scott’s wrath simmering in the air beside me—for this was the man who had stolen his wife away. But Scott didn’t speak a word. He merely stood there, exerting impressive self-control while he waited for me to take the lead, since it was my home and this was my husband.

  Wes glanced briefly at Scott, then back at me. “Can we talk privately?”

  It was strange, how many times I’d imagined my husband walking through my door just like this and announcing that he wanted to come home. A part of me wanted him to do exactly that—so that I could have the pleasure of telling him to take a flying leap off a ten-story building. But I wasn’t sure if that’s why he had come. I had no idea why he was here, and I couldn’t deny…I was curious.

  Only then did I realize that Crazy Little Thing Called Love was still blasting from my laptop. I bent to shut off the music, then took a deep breath and turned to Scott.

  “Would you mind giving us a moment? I can call you later.”

  “Sure,” he replied. He moved to the door and said nothing to Wes as he shouldered past him.

  I heard the sound of the front door open and close, footsteps down the stairs, and Leo whimpered at his exit. Then suddenly I was alone in the silence of my living room with my soon-to-be ex-husband.

  I didn’t invite Wes to come in and take a seat because I saw no reason to be polite. He hadn’t awarded me any such courtesies when he blindsided me with his sudden departure.

  So I simply stood there while he looked around at the walls in the foyer. His gaze traveled up the length of the staircase. Then he regarded me directly.

  “The house looks good,” he said. “How have you been, Claire?”

  My stomach burned with fury, and I scoffed. “Seriously, Wes? You came here to make small talk?”

  He bowed his head and shook it. “No. I’m here because I realize I owe you an explanation, and I have something I need to say.”

  Though I couldn’t stop my insides from churning sickeningly, I somehow managed to gesture with my hand for him to enter.

  He took a seat on the sofa and glanced briefly at the television, where John Travolta was drag-racing against the leader of the Scorpions. The volume was muted, and the only sound in the room was the clock ticking on the mantel.

  I decided to sit in the chair next to the TV, because I wanted to avoid physical proximity with Wes.

  “You looked like you were having a good time just now,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

  “We were doing the jive,” I explained.

  “I didn’t know you knew how.”

  “I didn’t. Scott was teaching me.”

  Wes stared at me for a moment. “Are you seeing him, Claire?”

  I frowned, mostly because it irked me that Wes assumed he had the right to ask me such a question.

  “No, we’re just friends. We’ve both been going through a rough time lately. Surely you can understand why. Tonight he told me that jive-dancing was like taking a happy pill. He was right.”

  I paused a moment, and realized this was not the message I wanted to convey to the husband who had jilted me and broken my trust. “Not that I need a happy pill, Wes. I’ve been very content with my life these past few months.”

  He considered that for a moment. “I saw a picture of the two of you sitting with a bunch of other people on a sofa somewhere, and he had his arm around you.”

  I frowned again. “Where did you see that?”

  “On Bev’s Facebook page.”

  I had to think about where that picture had been taken, and then I remembered. “That was a party down the street. The Bakers.”

  Wes nodded, appearing grateful for the information, while I took into consideration the fact that Bev had posted that picture over a month ago. Had Wes been stalking her page all this time, hunting for news about me, or thinking about what Scott and I were going through? What we were to each other?

  Was he jealous?

  Even if he was, did it matter?

  I laughed bitterly and shook my head in disbelief. “I don’t know why I am explaining anything to you. It’s none of your business whether or not I’m seeing other people.”

  “Are there others?”

  I shot him a look. “I just said it’s none of your business.”

  Wes backed off slightly and bowed his head again. “I’m sorry, you’re right. It’s just that…when I saw that picture, I didn’t like it. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. And I’ve been… I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching lately.”

  “Soul-searching?” I wanted to laugh. “I didn’t realize you had a soul.”

  Wes glanced away. “I suppose I had that coming.” He paused, then he met my eyes again. “I think I might have had some sort of mental crisis last fall, and I went a little crazy.”

  All I could do was sit and listen, still dumbfounded by the fact that he was here—evidently about to express some regret about what he had done to our marriage.

  I told myself I didn’t care if he felt regret. But I did care, because I wanted him to feel it. I w
anted him to suffer with it. I wanted to grab hold of his head and grind his regret into the pavement in the driveway.

  “Does Angie know you’re here?” I asked.

  Wes shrugged a shoulder. “I’m not sure. We had a big fight and I told her we needed to take a break. I packed a bag and walked out, so she’s probably assuming this is where I came. She was pretty mad.”

  I swallowed over the knot of animosity that rose up from the pit of my belly. Knowing Wes, he probably wasn’t answering Angie’s calls either. What goes around comes around.

  “What did you fight about?”

  He shook his head bitterly, and I could feel him wanting to open up to me, to pour out all his exasperations and draw out my sympathy.

  “What didn’t we fight about?” he asked. “She’s not like you, Claire. She’s very…intense. At first, that’s what I found attractive about her. And she seemed to have so much wisdom about what you and I were going through, and I admired that. I appreciated how she understood my frustrations and was so supportive. Then it just… I don’t know. Somehow, it got out of hand, and before I knew it, we were cheating.”

  He stopped talking and wouldn’t look at me.

  I felt sick to my stomach. I honestly didn’t want to hear this.

  “Is that supposed to be some sort of apology?” I asked. “Otherwise, I don’t know why you’re telling me this. I used to think I wanted to know all the gruesome details about what happened between the two of you, but now…” I sat up straighter. “It’s not really something I want to hear.”

  He finally looked up. “I just need to explain myself, Claire. Please. I need to apologize to you, because this has been tearing me up inside.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear that,” I replied flatly. “But I don’t care what you need, Wes, because you certainly didn’t care about my feelings when you walked out on me in January without any explanation. Then, sending those separation papers so quickly…”