by Sylvie Kurtz
Logan swore. He wanted to punch the wall, to kick out the door. He wanted to crush her in his arms, to consume her grief. Instead he lashed out at her goodness. "Your Pollyanna attitude isn't going to save you from the pain."
"No, it won't," she agreed. "Jim told me that he had the easy part in dying. Going on, living a good life, that was the hard part. He was right. Jim loved life so much. Lived every second of it. I have to make myself keep on living to honor him. To do any less would say that his life had no meaning."
"You can't really believe that. Not now."
"Yes, I do." An almost beatific smile appeared on her face, as if a sudden insight had filled her with peace. "'You are more than the sum of your parts. You belong to a community and must feed it with your hope and service.' That was my father's philosophy. He lived it every day of his life. He died living it. My work isn't as important as his, but it serves a purpose."
"You'll go on cooking as if nothing happened."
"I'll go on cooking because everything happened. If you didn't feel the same way, you wouldn't have risked your own life to save that busload of kids last winter."
He froze, and in the stillness he heard the hard knocking of his heart. How did she know about the accident? The city had wanted to crown a hero for his effort, but there was nothing heroic about his thoughts that day. "That's where you're wrong, Beth. Those kids saved themselves. I just opened the door. But the driver was pinned beneath the steering wheel."
Logan scraped a hand through his hair, stared at the cross at the front of the chapel. Have mercy on me. "I smelled liquor on his breath."
He swallowed hard and looked at her, ready to see condemnation in her eyes. "I wanted to kill him. I wanted to leave him in there and watch him fry."
She didn't flinch. She didn't turn away. She came toward him, placed a hand against his cheek. "But you didn't."
The lump in his stomach started to rise. He had to get away. Stumbling back he said, "I want Jamie to have Max. I'll leave her with Gus."
"Stay."
He shook his head. Something had changed. It ticked inside him like a bomb counting down to detonation. "I can't."
He pivoted, shoved his fists into his coat pockets and hunched forward, intent on plowing his way out the door before he burst.
"Logan."
He stopped, rocked back on his heels like a disoriented boxer. "What?"
"I love you."
He'd waited too long to leave. Those words cut him and it took everything he had to keep one foot moving in front of the other.
She was right, her work had purpose. She fed people with her compassion and her generosity. She could light up a room with just her smile. With her casseroles and her chatter and her wide-open heart, she'd brought him back to life.
What had he given her in return but heartache?
Blindly he bolted to his car.
Beth.
Something tore inside him as his tires screeched out of the parking lot.
He made it all the way home before he exploded.
Chapter 15
Logan roared.
The sound exploded out of him, reverberated down the empty hallway of his house, sending Max creeping back into the kitchen with her head scrunched down low between her shoulders, and her tail tucked tight between her legs.
All the anger he'd stored for the past two years tornadoed out of him, leveling everything in his path.
He shoved the tower of boxes he'd stacked in the hallway in readiness to flee, toppling them into the living room. The top one burst open, spilling its contents. He kicked at the papers, shooting them into frenzied flight.
He balled, he ripped, he tore. Copies of court case documents, newspaper articles, collected records—the innuendoes, the lies, the truth. They became snow around him, and still he couldn't stop.
Samantha's Raggedy Ann doll collided with the wall, crumpled upside down, turning her red smile into a scowl. The popsicle-stick cricket cage, painted purple, splintered against the half-torn paneling. The treasured lumps of quartz from Sam's bedside cratered dents into the floorboards. He destroyed everything from the box.
Even the frame.
He hurled the pink porcelain rectangle, sending Sam flying across the room.
"No!"
He threw himself forward, tried to catch the frame in flight, but the porcelain shattered against the wall, showering his hands with shards of glass and pottery. Blood beaded along his fingers.
"Sam. Sam. Sam."
Brushing away the splinters, he streaked red over his daughter's smiling face, bolting him back in time to the accident. He slumped against the wall, shoulder digging into the sheetrock as if it could hold him up. One second she'd grinned with pride, the next she'd lain bloody in his arms.
"Samantha!"
The cry came from deep in his soul and tore out of him in a desolate lament. He pressed the photograph against his heart. Slinking against the wall, he collapsed in a heap on the floor.
"Samantha." The whisper contained a plea.
He'd been a cop. A tough cop in a tougher beat. Dry-eyed, emotionless, pain-free. That was the face people expected of him. At first they'd asked, "How's it going?" And he knew he was supposed to say "fine" to relieve their discomfort so they could go on with their day. He wasn't supposed to show how empty he felt, how dark and cold his heart was, how the hurt cut him raw.
But when Samantha died, she'd taken more than her life to the grave. She'd taken his legacy, his family, his future. Everything he'd dreamed of. All that was left was the cancer of guilt. Even running away to the peace of his childhood had not diminished its growth.
"Samantha." Her name was nothing more than a dry rasp of breath.
Holding on tight to the photograph, he closed his eyes and rocked back and forth.
The picture against his heart had been taken at a birthday party a month before her death. He saw it all again so clearly. The kids screeching with delight on the ice. The scent of sugar cloying beside him at the table decked out with chocolate cake, Dr Pepper and party favors in neon-pink bags. His back against the wall, he'd kept a watchful eye.
Sam had skated to him, tiptoed into the sitting area and swung her leg onto a bench. "My boot is loose."
"Sit. I'll tighten the laces for you."
He pressed the blade against the tough denim of his jeans.
"How come you and Mom don't laugh?" she asked, watching Allison's parents waltz by her on the ice. They were having as much fun as the kids.
"I don't know, princess. I don't think many adults laugh."
"Allison's parents do. Mr. Miller, he dances with Mrs. Miller in the kitchen every night when he comes home from work, and they laugh then, too."
What could he say? Sam was getting older now, old enough to sense that all wasn't right between her parents. How long could they realistically keep up the charade?
"I wish you and Mom would dance in the kitchen."
"You do, huh." He tied the laces in a double knot and released her foot.
"Then maybe you would laugh."
He tweaked the end of her nose, and she grimaced. "Your mother would think it's silly."
Samantha glanced wistfully at Mr. Miller dipping Mrs. Miller on the ice. "When I get married, my husband, he's going to be handsome like you, Daddy, but he's going to like dancing in the kitchen like Allison's dad."
Samantha's voice reverberated in his mind, fading to a silence so profound he thought he could elude the storm quickening low in his gut.
His daughter would never have a husband, she would never dance in the kitchen.
Then it came.
A hard point of lightning directly in his heart, splitting it open. Thunder reported in shudders through his chest. Waves of choked sobs swelled from low in his belly and crested high into his throat.
Guilt, love, hate, anger, sadness hit him all at once.
"Sam!"
Max sidled up to him and whined pitifully as she licked at the tiny wounds co
vering his hands.
Then he lost it.
Despair, thorny and viscous, exploded out of him in harsh rolls. He cried for hours holding the scratched photograph of his daughter against his chest with one hand, the dog tight against his side with the other. He cried until his soul was empty.
* * *
"Mom?"
Beth could not contain her smile. It had graced her face for an hour now and showed no sign of fading. Jamie had woken up, crying for her. The doctors had checked him over from head to toe and declared him in excellent condition. As far as they could see, Jamie had suffered no damage from his trauma. They were going to keep him for a couple of days, run some tests—just to be sure. But in her heart Beth already knew that Jamie was back to his old self—two parts angel, one part urchin.
His miraculous recovery was the best Christmas present she'd ever received.
"What, sweetheart?" Her son lay snuggled in her arms on the hospital bed. Not even dynamite could pry him from her. She kissed the top of his head and hugged him a little bit tighter—just to be on the safe side.
"Will Santa know where I am?"
Santa. In the chaos of the past few days, she'd forgotten all about their Christmas Eve ritual of cookies and carrots, of hope and expectation. Santa would soon make his rounds, but he wouldn't find Jamie's house. How to explain to a six-year-old that Santa wasn't real, that their house was nothing but rubble, that all the presents had gone up in smoke?
"I'm sure there'll be presents under the tree when the doctors say you can go home." Eve. She would get Eve to find skates for Jamie. Surely Gus could set aside a pair until she could pay him back.
"Skates and a stick. I wrote Santa my size and everything."
"I know, sweetheart." She'd smiled at the note, at Jamie's fervent assurances that he'd been a good boy. She'd pasted the crayoned letter on an album page she'd planned to add to his book when he no longer believed in Santa.
That, too, was forever lost.
"Where's Mr. Ward?" Jamie asked, turning his sweet face to hers.
Her heart gave a heavy lurch. The smile she'd thought permanent faded a bit. "Probably at his house."
"Oh." His fingers twiddled with the decorative fringe on her sweater. "Max, is she okay?"
"Of course, sweetheart." She stroked his hair. How like Jamie to worry about the dog. "Max is fine. She's a hero, you know. She called us after you got hurt."
"I want to see her."
"I don't think dogs are allowed at the hospital."
He pouted. "When can I go home?"
"When the doctors say you're one hundred percent A-okay."
"I feel fine. See."
Jamie tried to sit up, but she only let him stray half an arm's length away. "Hey, knock-knock."
He tried not to smile and failed. "Who's there?"
"Gladys."
"Gladys who?"
She tickled him gently. "Gladys can be you're feeling better."
Jamie laughed, then snuggled into her arms once more, lifting his head up until their gazes locked. The florid bruise on his forehead reminded her how close she'd come to losing him.
"I want to go home, Mom. I want to sleep in my bed so Santa can find me. I got to leave him some cookies that we made and carrots for the reindeers." His fist scrunched her sweater. "Please, Mom, call Mr. Ward and tell him to come get us. He's my friend. He'll come."
In spite of her happiness at Jamie's recovery, a part of her wanted to cry. How to tell this precious little boy with so much trust in his heart that his home was gone and that Logan might have already fled and left them behind?
* * *
Logan remembered that Christmas. Sam had plowed through her pile of presents in record time. She'd stood in front of him, waiting impatiently while he adjusted the straps of her new bicycle helmet. Purple—her favorite color.
"Do you think my Christmas angel friend liked the present we got her?"
"What did the card on the tree say?"
"It said she wanted some paint and some paper because she likes to draw."
"And what did you pick out?"
"Some watercolors, two paintbrushes and a big pad of watercolor paper."
"Then I think she's a very happy girl. I'll bet she's sitting in her house painting a picture this very minute."
"I'm so glad."
He fitted the helmet onto Sam's head, and she smiled up at him. "I just love Christmas. Don't you, Daddy?"
"I love you, princess."
She flung herself in his arms, helmet, elbow and knee pads and all. "Oh, Daddy, you're so silly."
Something shrill pecked at his brain. He brushed it away with the wave of a hand, but the sound persisted.
His cell.
He tried ignoring it, but it beat a sharp tattoo, adding a jagged insult to his already pounding head. He pushed off the floor, padded to the kitchen and ripped the offending instrument from the counter. "What?"
"Logan?"
Beth. His heart chattered like castanets. "Is everything okay? Jamie—"
"Is fine. Tired and achy, but awake."
His sigh was heavy with relief.
"He's asking for you."
"For me?" The phone felt heavy in his hands.
"He wants you to rescue us from the hospital." She paused and he thought he heard her gulp. "Please, Logan..."
"Beth..." The kitchen started spinning around him.
"It's okay."
In the background he heard Jamie's voice. "Mommy, tell him we got to get home before Santa leaves the North Pole."
Logan's mind whirled. Adrenaline surged through him, making him light-headed. He didn't know what to say, what to feel. He closed his eyes and clutched the phone tighter. "Oh, God, Beth."
"I'm sorry, Logan. I shouldn't have called."
Before he could say anything, she hung up.
He looked down at the picture of Sam still clenched in his hand. Like Jamie, she'd believed in Santa Claus. She'd loved Christmas. Everything about it. The colors. The bustle. The giving.
Especially the giving.
She'd once asked him why Santa didn't make it to every house, why there were so many drives for presents for poor kids. He'd had no ready answer for her, but she'd come up with her own.
"I'll bet it's because they don't believe in their hearts." And she'd made it her mission to make everyone believe.
She'd spent hours making presents for everyone she knew and insisted on participating in every Christmas drive she heard of—the mitten drive at school, the food drive at church, the book drive at the library, Toys for Tots, the angel tree at the mall. She'd saved her allowance for months and gladly spent it on strangers.
His whole body shook. His hands grew ice cold.
I just love Christmas. Don't you, Daddy?
Maybe his daughter had been wiser than he.
Maybe instead of running away, he should have been running to.
Maybe it wasn't too late.
In that moment something warm and light swelled through him. His heart, dead for so long, suddenly burst with life.
He glanced at the clock on the stove. "Come on, Max. It's late. If we're going to pull this off, we've got a lot of work to do."
Max thumped her tail against the floor. "Woof!"
He made it to town in record time. Neither the falling snow nor slippery roads would stop him. He had a plan and not much time to put it together. Thoughts and ideas swirled in a dizzying twister. It had to work. It had to.
He screeched into the parking lot. Leaving the car running, he raced to Gus's store only to have a locked door stop him.
Pounding on the glass door, he yelled, "Gus, open up! Open up! It's an emergency!"
All that got him was the attention of the local police.
Chapter 16
The holding cell at Rockville's police station was a tiny room that looked more like a meat locker than a typical barred cage. Logan pummeled the solid locked door with the tiny window until his fists were bruised.
He cursed. He paced.
Time. It was running out, and those fools wouldn't listen. He had to get out. He just had to.
He was about to start another round of pounding when a key scraped the lock, and the door clicked open. Gus appeared in the doorway. An officer slanted his bulk between Logan and Gus, ready to slam the door closed between the two should the need arise.
"Gus," Logan croaked with relief. "I knew you'd come. I told them you would."
Gus's white hair was spiked as if he'd been roused out of bed. His clothes looked thrown on in a hurry. But the bushy eyebrows over the glasses framed clear-blue eyes that were not amused. "What the hell's going on here? What were you doing trying to break into my store?"
Logan grabbed the old man's shoulder and started shaking him. The officer jabbed him back. "Back off."
Not knowing what to do, Logan stumbled back, stuffed his hands in his jeans pocket and paced the small room.
"Jamie. Beth. Christmas," Logan sputtered. "It's almost midnight. We've got to hurry."
"You're not making any sense."
Of course he wasn't. He was halfway out of his mind. He had to do this. He had to. For Beth. For Jamie. For Sam. Gulping in air, he tried to calm down, stood in one spot and faced Gus. "Jamie's awake. He thinks Santa's not going to know where he is. Beth's house. It's gone. The skates. I have to get him skates."
"Well, why didn't you call me instead of breaking in?"
"I thought you might still be there. I didn't know where you lived. I was desperate." He'd had only one thing on his mind—giving Beth and Jamie a Christmas they wouldn't forget, one Sam would be proud of.
Gus turned to the officer. "No charges. I'm taking him with me."
"Gus—"
"Beth deserves a Christmas, too. If she wants him, who are we to argue? We're stopping at the store, then we'd appreciate an escort to the hospital."
Reluctantly the officer nodded. "For Beth."
Lights flashing, they raced to Gus's store. Gus dragged the door open and switched on the lights. "What do you need?"
Looking around the store, Logan suddenly felt overwhelmed. He puffed out a long breath. "Everything. I need everything. A tree, a few lights, skates for Jamie, something for Beth—"