A Magical Christmas

by Heather Graham

  “He is. Yes. Naturally,” Julie said, and she found herself leaning back in her chair, smiling.

  “I was referring to your children. Can two share a room?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I’ve one boy, two girls.”

  “You’ll be perfect in the guest suite,” the woman said. Her tone was lovely, her laugh captivating. The warm sound of her voice fit in perfectly with the look of the place in the advertisement. Julie felt her uncertainty slipping away.

  “Good. That’s—great,” Julie said.

  “It is a bit primitive out here,” the woman warned her. “We’re not difficult to find, but we are quite remote. Of course, that does add to the beauty of the place.”

  “That’s the part we’re looking forward to most,” Julie assured her. No traffic. Oh, God.

  One morning without traffic. That just might be a Christmas present in itself.

  No Cruddy-Disgusting-Joe to walk across the road, no cars on the butt of her own to crash into her when she was forced to brake to avoid vehicular homicide—or roadkill, whichever you might want to consider Cruddy-Disgusting-Joe. “Well, then, we’ll be looking forward to seeing you. When do you expect to arrive?”

  Julie thought out the distance. They’d fly into National, probably, on the same night the kids finished with their schools for the Christmas break. They’d spend a night in the D.C. area, rent a car, maybe spend some time in D.C., and drive out in the afternoon. How far could it be? She looked down at her calendar, trying to figure out the holidays. “We’ll arrive… the night of the twenty-second?” she suggested.

  “That’s fine, Mrs.…?”

  “Julie. Sorry, Radcliff. Julie Radcliff. My—husband’s name is Jon.”

  “Great. We’ll see you for Christmas!” the woman said.

  The line went dead. Julie hung it up. She brooded over her decision for a minute, then determined she needed to study her new multiple-listings book. She looked at the book, then realized she wasn’t seeing anything.

  Christmas. Wouldn’t it have been better if she had just said No, it’s falling apart, let’s just end it now, cleanly?

  Something inside of her rebelled against doing that. The vacation would be good. She’d have chestnuts before a roaring fire.

  With a husband she couldn’t forgive. She snapped her multiple-listings book shut and tapped into her computer. She needed some busy work. She needed to sound intelligent and informed this afternoon when she attempted to sell property.

  It was a half hour later, and she was in the middle of computer comparisons on Gables waterway houses, when she realized the woman hadn’t asked her for a credit card number to hold the reservation.

  She dialed the number back.

  “Hello? Oak River Plantation.”

  “Hi, this is me again. Julie—”

  “Radcliff. Yes, hello again! What can I do for you?”

  “I just wanted to guarantee our reservation.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I need to give you a credit card number. To guarantee our reservation.”

  “That isn’t necessary, Mrs. Radcliff.”

  “Really?” Julie stared at the phone. Every hotel, motel, and bed-and-breakfast in the country—from five-star establishment to broken-down flea joint—seemed to require a guarantee these days.

  “I’m sure we’ll see you as planned.”

  “Yes, but don’t—”

  The woman’s musical laugh sounded. “Mrs. Radcliff, we only want our guests if they want to be here. If something comes up, do please call; that’s all we ask. And we are looking forward to meeting you, of course. Till the twenty-second, then?”

  “Till the twenty-second,” Julie agreed.

  She replaced the receiver slowly. The day was improving. Human nature did, at times, prevail, so it seemed.

  She felt just a little bit better about her smashed rear light.

  But later, when she came out of the office to drive down the street for a quick bite of lunch, Cruddy-Disgusting-Joe was sitting on her bumper. He was nibbling at a half-eaten burger he probably got from the Dumpster at the far side of the parking lot.

  She slowed down, then tried not to shudder as she walked toward her car. He looked up from his burger.

  He stared at her with his colorless eyes, the left lid slashed by a scar.

  He certainly didn’t appear to recognize her from that morning, but he did seem to know that he was sitting on her car and that she needed to drive it.

  He stood, crumpled up the wrapper in his hand, looked to the ground, and ambled away.

  Poor man! she tried to tell herself.

  So pathetic. He needs help. But her shudder continued on the inside.

  Poor man, poor man, poor man.

  She knew she was going to have to get her car washed when she got the rear light fixed.

  Chapter Two

  Christmas Eve

  1862

  She sat in a rocking chair on her cousin’s front porch just outside Front Royal.

  Rocking, sewing—Confederate wives were constantly sewing these days—and waiting.

  He would come. He would come because it was Christmas Eve. He would come because he had a way of getting leave at just the right moments, because he could move so quickly. So damned quickly. He was the ultimate horseman, an extraordinary cavalry officer, and his field of war was the field of his home. He knew every inch of the terrain. Perhaps other men could not move so quickly, but he could. He could come, he would come. He would come, because he knew that she would be worried, so anxious about him, about their boy. He would come, because they had parted so badly.…

  Maybe he wouldn’t come.

  He would! she assured herself.

  If only…

  She jabbed her needle angrily through the shirt she was mending. She stuck her fingertip, drawing blood. A sharp yelp of dismay escaped her.

  Oh, God! If only they hadn’t fought with such anger.

  But she was so weary of this war!

  Oh, they’d all been such hotheads when it all began, the Southern men. Because they did know how to ride, and they did know how to hunt—though now they tracked men instead of game. They believed that they fought for states’ rights—she believed they were fools. They saw themselves far too easily as romantic heroes—the direct descendants of their founding fathers. “We are just the same as our forebears!” the captain had told her angrily. “George Washington, our founding father, risked his neck daily to free the colonies from tyranny. Patrick Henry cried, ‘Give me liberty, or give me death!’ Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence, and I tell you, my love, these men weren’t just our founding fathers—they were Virginians. If they were alive today, they would be heading up the very battle we fight now.”

  Perhaps a great number of the Southern men believed they fought for states’ rights—but they were wrong. It was an economic war—even if a mere woman wasn’t supposed to see such things. The South was dependent on slavery. She pointed out to the captain that Thomas Jefferson, who had written the Declaration of Independence, had been well aware that the issue of slavery would raise its ugly head soon enough. He—like the founding father, George Washington himself—had freed his slaves at his death. Neither Jefferson nor Washington had brought about the freedom issue while still being served in this life. The simple point was that slavery was wrong, and men who seemed to know that very fact somehow managed to ignore it.

  She wished to God that Washington and Jefferson had somehow managed to take the bull by the horns and settle the matter during their lifetimes!

  But men… men would be men.

  Stubborn, determined. Narrow-sighted.

  Like the captain. He had taken his boys and signed up with Mosby. They were the Gray Ghosts of the Confederacy and could ride circles around the Northern forces; they so often thought themselves invincible, even when they had seen so much death and carnage already. The beautiful hills and valleys, mountainside and coastline of Virginia
all raged with battle, and few living there had been left untouched. She had left her own home time and time again, aware that Northern troops were advancing in the area. The Northern troops were frequently enough in and around Front Royal. The difference here was that she was not alone, and at Christmas she had determined not to be at her home alone with her daughter should the Yankees choose to seek a fine, warm Southern plantation for their December headquarters.

  Her fingers moved deftly upon her sewing again. Pride, she mourned suddenly. She sat here mocking the captain for his pride, when it was really her pride that had brought her here. She’d been so angry with him. And he’d refused to see things her way. So she had left their home. The Yankees might indeed take her house—that was no idle fear. But they would come, and they would go. They would steal everything in sight, but it would be most unlikely that they would hurt her. She had left the house because she so desperately wanted her husband to follow her, to come to her.

  And now, she just wanted to see him.

  How easy it had been before the war to take advantage of one another! To lose patience with each other.

  She was so sorry.

  If she could just see his face… see him ride up to her now! So tall and handsome, so quick to smile. Not perfect in any way, but neither was she. He was just the man she loved, for his many valiant qualities, and even for his faults. The way he could make her laugh on those few occasions when he managed to say that he was wrong, and apologize. His face… oh, God, just to see his face…

  She jumped up suddenly, staring down the roadway. A horseman appeared on the road. He was dressed in a gray wool frock coat, she could see that much, slouch hat pulled low over his features.

  For a moment, her heart soared.

  He had come. He had ridden through the forest to keep himself hidden, and he had taken one of the narrow trails known only to the men who came from these parts. He had appeared on the roadway just in front of the house, coming with the greatest secrecy. The captain, her captain…

  But it wasn’t the captain. Even at a distance, far before she could realize she wasn’t seeing his beloved features, she knew it wasn’t her husband. This man rode differently. He didn’t sit quite as tall, he didn’t stare straight and hard ahead. He rode nervously, anxiously looking behind himself time and time again.

  His horse suddenly broke into a canter, and he turned through the gateway of the picket fence leading to her cousin’s house.

  “Mrs. Captain!” She heard herself hailed in the way that his men had come to reverently address her.

  It was young Lawrence Boulet, she saw, a sergeant from her husband’s company. Beneath the Rebel-issue frock coat draped around his shoulders—probably taken from a fallen regular-army man—he wore dark trousers and shirt, and well-worn boots. He rode hard to the very steps of the porch, then drew his mount to a sudden halt.

  And it was then that it seemed her heart ceased to beat. The captain hadn’t come.

  This boy had come.

  No, something deep within her cried. If the captain had been killed, she would know, she would know deep down in her heart. He couldn’t have been killed; they wouldn’t be fighting major battles now in this kind of cold, in the winter, at Christmastime.…

  But the captain was one of Mosby’s Rangers. They fought skirmishes, they hounded the Yank army, they stole supplies, and they fought at any given time. But she would know! In her heart, she would know if he had been killed!

  “The captain?” she whispered. “Lawrence, where is the captain? He is all right?”

  “I’ve—I’ve come for you,” Lawrence stuttered. “There was a skirmish. The captain and his group managed to steal nearly a hundred Federal horses and a good stock of medical supplies. But when they were trying to escape… a group of Custer’s men came down on them. They were outnumbered ten to one. The boys have all told me that you can ride well and quickly—”

  “Lawrence, how is the captain? Damn you!” she swore, shocking the boy, though she wondered how anything could shock anyone after the years of war. “Lawrence, you tell me now, does the captain live?”

  Lawrence exhaled. “Yes, Mrs. Captain—” he began, and in her relief she stumbled to the porch post to hold on so that she wouldn’t fall. “But—”

  “Oh, my God, but what?”

  Lawrence blinked back tears. “He’s been sentenced to hang within the next few hours. He’s—”

  “Hang?” Oh, God, yes, she’d heard about Custer’s ultimatums regarding Mosby’s Men. But she’d never believed that the captain might be caught!

  “Mrs. Captain, we’ve got to ride fast if you’re to see him. I can only take you so far, then you’ll be on your own,” Lawrence whispered miserably. “Maybe—maybe you can find some way to stop them.”

  She stared at him for a split second, then ran down the steps. Lawrence offered her a hand and she leapt up on his mount behind him, her heart racing. “How far do we have to go?” she demanded, slipping her arms around him to hold on for the ride.

  He hesitated again, then turned his head slightly, angling his face toward her. “Oak River Plantation, Mrs. Captain. I’ve—I’ve just got to get you home.”

  She was twelve, nearly thirteen, nearly a woman. She heard her mother’s voice, heard the soldier.

  Heard what had happened.

  Saw her mother ride away.

  No!

  She raced for the door.

  Aunt Rachel came running down the stairs. “Wait, sweetheart, where are you going—”

  “My mother has just ridden—”

  “You must stay here.”

  She should fight Aunt Rachel. She never did such things, of course, but these were desperate circumstances. She knew it, deep in her heart. She had to follow her mother.

  Or never see her father alive again. She knew.

  Aunt Rachel wasn’t that much bigger than she was.

  Uncle Andrew was.

  Hmm…

  “Fine, Aunt Rachel,” she said, subdued. She lowered her head. “I’ll wait by the window.”

  “I’ll find Uncle Andrew and he’ll see to it that we find out just what’s going on,” Aunt Rachel promised.

  She nodded, and pretended to be the perfect lady, sitting with tremendous protocol on the love seat by the bay window.

  She waited, with outward impatience.

  Until Aunt Rachel was gone.

  Then she fled from the house.

  She was going to follow her mother.

  She was going home.

  Chapter Three

  There were extra cars in front of Jon Radcliff’s house when he finally made it home. He swore softly to himself. The last thing he wanted tonight was company, and surely Julie would know that.

  But then, Julie didn’t care a heck of a lot what he wanted anymore.

  He irritably switched off the ignition of his car and sat staring at the house for a minute, hearing the echo of whatever tune had been playing on the radio.

  Court had been horrible. The meeting with his fellow counselors afterward had been worse. After all his years of schooling and now more than fifteen years as a practicing attorney, he was still just learning to accept the fact that the law wasn’t perfect, that there was often no way that justice was going to prevail. Deep in his heart he believed that, though the system wasn’t perfect, it was still the best to be had in the modern world. Guilty men might walk, but the law tried very hard to see to it that innocent men didn’t hang—or weren’t electrocuted, executed by lethal injection, or cut down by a firing squad. Or even incarcerated unfairly. Still, it was damned hard to see it when a guilty man went free because of a technicality, which was stupid.

  Until five years ago, he had worked in the D.A.’s office, and though he’d been exhausted and underpaid, he’d been happy.

  Then he’d had a great job offer. And he’d gone from being a prosecutor to being a defense attorney for one of the most prestigious law firms in town.

  And now he was defending
Bobo Vinzetti. They called it the Vinzetti pizza case—the media had started it, now the people on the streets followed the media. It was a horrendous case. In Jon’s opinion, Bobo Vinzetti—decked out in a ski mask to disguise himself—had willfully and with malicious intent attempted to smother his philandering wife with a cheese and pepperoni pizza. But Jon was obliged by the law to defend Vinzetti, and that very fact was making him crazy. His cocounselors thought he was insane. Defense attorneys defended the accused. That was life. It was unlikely Bobo Vinzetti would ever attempt to kill again, his cocounselors said. His wife intended to divorce him and move to Tahiti the minute the case was over. Bobo should be no threat to society. Unless, of course, he were to marry a philandering blonde once again.

  Jon’s firm was trying hard to get a continuance on the case. They had agreed the best course of action would be for Vinzetti to admit his guilt and make a plea—since the pizza trail led straight to him despite the disguise he had worn.

  Vinzetti, however, was certain that good attorneys could get him off.

  And he might just be right.

  The fact that the entire country—other than the city in which he lived and worked—was having a good laugh over the case didn’t much help Jon’s continual feeling of absolute frustration.

  And his wife was certainly no help whatsoever.

  Sometimes, he was desperate to talk.

  She was never willing to listen.

  If she wanted a divorce so damned badly, he should just give it to her. She was making his life a living hell as it was. If she didn’t understand anything about him anymore, it was probably time that they did move on. Why the hell didn’t he just give it up?

  Because he loved his home. He loved Ashley throwing her arms around his neck when he came in the door. He was continually aggravated by the teenage Jordan and Christie, but sometimes they’d just walk across the room and he’d be proud. Christie was almost all grown up and beautiful, a carbon copy of Julie twenty years ago. Jordan was going to be tall. He wasn’t a great athlete, but he loved sports, liked people, and was a great-looking kid with a pleasant manner to match. He had no interest in the law at all, but he loved biology, and if his mind could just maintain a semblance of direction…