Prayers of a Stranger: A Christmas Story
Page 16
“Amanda?” Chris came around the side of the house. He smiled at the sight of her nestled in between the palms. “What are you doing over here?”
“I just needed a moment alone.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No.” She reached for one of his arms and pulled it close, arching her back in a catlike motion so he knew to draw around behind her. It was an action from their early days together, fashioning themselves together. They would stand like this and watch sunsets or feel the wind or just breathe in harmony. Like now. “Let’s be alone together.”
He nestled in closer still and breathed the scent of her hair. “This is nice.”
“Mmmm.”
“I loved doing this with you. Standing like this on the boardwalk and watching the sunset. I always felt like we were dancing to the symphony of colors.”
“You never told me that.”
“Didn’t I?” He shifted slightly. “Why did you need a moment alone?”
“My kitchen’s been taken over by four other women and one of your nephews. Who is determined to show me everything he’s learned in culinary school.”
“Not to mention all the kids.”
“They’re everywhere,” she agreed. “They’ve turned the living room into an imaginary castle and they’re taking turns rescuing someone from the dungeon and fighting over which one gets to be Shrek.”
“And the rocker from our nursery is the donkey they all want to ride.” He touched the point where her hair met the collar of her shirt. “I could send them all away.”
“Oh, sure.”
“Just pack them in their cars and send them down the road. And we can have a quiet few days all to ourselves.”
“Don’t you dare. I like them being here.”
“Do you really?”
“Yes, Chris.” She drew his arms more tightly around her middle. “Really.”
“Oh, good. You had me worried there for a minute.” He swayed slightly, as though they were dancing to the wind rustling the palm fronds overhead. “Did I hear you talking to somebody at the hospital?”
“The new director. Again.” The hospital director had phoned her six times since her return. He seemed nice enough, but he was desperately trying to convince her to stay on as his assistant.
“Have you made up your mind?”
“Not yet.” She hesitated, then added, “But I’m thinking I might agree. Just for a year. I really don’t feel any pressure to get back to nursing. So long as it’s there on the horizon.”
“Dr. Henri would like that.”
“Has he spoken to you?”
“We talked. But he’s too polite to say anything outright. He just said what a great help you are.”
They remained like that for a time, content in their silence. Amanda loved the strength of his arms and the feel of protection and love they offered. She was about to say that when a flock of children came screaming around the house, towels and snorkels and fins in their grasps. They yelled for the two of them to come and play in the pool. Chris motioned for her to stay where she was and headed them off. He let them grab hold of his hands and pull him protesting across the grass. Amanda watched him go, happy in the knowledge that she would have many times ahead to tell him what a good and loving man he was.
As she stood there thinking about all these things, a car pulled into the cul de sac and a young woman got out. She looked out of place; in a Christmas season of T-shirts and bathing suits and sandals, she wore a pearl-gray business suit. Where the street was filled with family and laughter, she stood alone and forlorn.
Amanda left her shelter and walked over. “Can I help you?”
The woman said, “I shouldn’t be here.”
“Have we met?”
“No. But I know you from your photograph. You’re the wife of Chris Vance.”
Amanda realized who she faced. “You’re the lady from Campaeo. The one who researched my husband.”
“He told you about me?”
“Yes, he did.” Amanda smiled.
The young woman was very attractive, were it not for the hard edges and her struggle not to cry. “Can you tell me, did Mr. Vance . . . Has he accepted Campaeo’s offer?”
“Not yet. He’s praying about it. We both are.”
“Will you tell him something for me?”
“Why don’t you come tell him yourself? Though I have to warn you, it is total chaos inside. We’re hosting his family for Christmas. We’re twenty-one, counting Chris and myself.”
Amanda held the young woman’s hand and led her out of the street. She had dealt with more than her share of such crisis situations. She knew how much a caring voice and a warm touch could mean. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“I quit my job.”
Amanda stopped because the woman did. “Is that what you need to tell Chris?”
“No. I wanted him to know that I gave my life to Jesus last night. The quitting was necessary after that.”
Amanda felt as though her smile would split her face. “Chris will be thrilled. Truly. Now you really must—”
“Jorge Coelho lied to your husband.”
“Excuse me?”
“Coelho has done everything he can to undermine your husband’s company. And he’s failed.”
A clutch of shrieking children piled around the corner of the Wrights’ home. Amanda drew the young lady over to the shelter of the bordering palms. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“Because that’s how he operates. Campaeo is desperate for Avery’s technology. There is no other company whose product even comes close. Jorge Coelho wants to buy them out.”
“Kent Avery won’t sell.”
“Which is why he’s tried so hard to force them. There was a client Avery went after last December.”
Despite the warm sunset breeze, Amanda felt a sudden chill. “I remember. They went bankrupt . . . That was you?”
“They were in trouble. Campaeo used their influence in the market to push them over the edge.” The woman turned away. “Tell your husband I’m sorry. But his company is going to make it. And Campaeo will agree to his terms.”
The woman formed a lonely silhouette in the dusk. She walked away with both arms clenched tightly around her middle, canted slightly to one side as though her ribs ached. Or her heart.
Amanda found herself running before she understood the reason why. She reached the young woman and asked, “What are your plans for dinner?”
“I . . .” She unwound her arms long enough to wipe her face. “What?”
“Why don’t you join us?”
The woman’s gesture took in the dusky emptiness of the road that awaited her. “But . . . it’s Christmas.”
Once more Amanda took her by the hand. “Exactly.”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Davis Bunn is an internationally acclaimed author who has sold more than seven million books in fifteen languages. He has been honored with three Christy Awards for excellence in historical and suspense fiction and is a sought-after lecturer in the art of writing. For over a decade, Bunn has served as writer in Residence at Regent’s Park College, Oxford University, and was recently named Lecturer in the university’s new creative writing program. Visit his website at davisbunn.com.
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