by Cara Colter
He smiled, now, just thinking of it, then knelt beside the two stones.
He knew flowers couldn’t handle the cold, so he always brought sprigs of holly, and a fir bough with a candle in it that he would light before he left, and that would burn through to Christmas morning.
“I know, I know,” he said, as he brushed the snow from the two stones, “I’m being uncharitable for Christmas. It’s just her, really.”
The wind howled.
“Okay, so I’ve never warmed to Mrs. Wellhaven, either.”
He had just gotten a thank-you note from the Wellhavens for the intricate iron fireplace grate he had sent them. He never forgot Wesley, or the debt he felt he owed to the man who had not left him in the darkness that Christmas Eve two years ago.
As it had turned out, the whole economy of Canterbury had not been saved by the production of The Christmas Angel, but it had certainly been helped over the hump.
As it had turned out, the second annual Christmas production had been the last one Wesley gave. Shortly after The Christmas Angel, Wesley had gone back into retirement to lead the quiet reclusive life he enjoyed. There had been no more Christmas productions, and people thought he did not sing at all. Every now and then one of the tabloids would run a story about the tragic loss of his voice.
But of course Nate knew that not to be true, because on the finest day of his life, when he had stood at the altar waiting for the woman who would be his wife to come toward him, that voice had filled the cathedral. Between the beauty of that voice and the beauty of his bride, there had not been a dry eye in the house that afternoon, including his own.
And so, every year, he sent the Wellhavens something.
His reputation as a tough guy seemed to have largely gone out the window as he courted Morgan, anyway. The whole town had seen he was smitten. And he didn’t care.
He had serenaded her. He’d delivered wagons of flowers pulled by a reluctant Happy. He had taken her on picnics, and sat at home in front of the fire with her.
Cindy would have been proud. He had not wasted one minute, not one, of that glorious falling-in-love feeling that she had wished for him. He still didn’t. He didn’t think a man should ever take the gifts he had been given for granted.
Ace was eight now. She was in hockey and ballet. She also, much to Happy’s distress (the pony, not her grandmother) had started taking riding lessons at the stable where Brenda Weston rode.
The instructor had suggested Ace was ready for a better horse, but Ace had said no. In a statement reminiscent of her famous Christmas Angel production speech, she said that if being a good rider meant leaving Happy behind, she would just stay where she was, thanks.
Ace’s little speech that had gone live all over North America, was played as one of that year’s highlights on almost every news station in America. It was still, two years later, one of the most popular hits on the Internet.
Ace was still tickled when a piece of fan mail reached her.
As far as Nate knew, Brenda, the one everyone, including him, had proclaimed to be the perfect Christmas Angel, had never gotten a single piece of fan mail. But then Brenda, nice as she was, just didn’t have the heart Ace had. When the riding instructor had suggested she trade up to a better horse, she’d gotten rid of her epileptic Welsh pony, O’Henry, without a backward glance.
“Which means,” he finished softly, “I’m now feeding two ponies, and have double trouble when I try to harness them to the sleigh. At least O’Henry doesn’t bite. Okay, he falls over now and then, but who asked for a perfect life?”
He realized he had spoken each of his thoughts out loud, and he smiled. Once, all he had felt here was yawning emptiness.
Now when he came, he felt full.
He finished dusting the snow off each of the stones, and then he put the holly and the fir bough between them.
He read them, out loud, too.
David Henderson, gone with angels, son, friend, soldier.
Cynthia Dawn Hathoway. Beloved wife and mother.
When he had chosen this plot next to David, he had known that though Cindy had married him she had really belonged with David. Heart and soul. Forever. That is who she had been crazy in love with since she was fourteen years old.
Still, she had been beloved to Nate. And she had become his Christmas angel. There was not a doubt in his mind that somehow, in some way, in ways that were far too huge for the human mind to grapple with, she had been there that Christmas he had found Morgan.
Bringing meaning out of tragedy. Showing him she had been right all along. Everything had a reason. And good could come from bad.
Somehow Cindy had a hand in bringing him and Ace the woman who would be the best mom for her daughter.
And the best wife for him.
My wish for you is that you could fall in love.
“I did,” Nate said out loud. “I have. Crazy in love, just like you always wanted. It’s better than anything I could have ever imagined.”
Right now, Morgan and Ace and Grandma Happiness were at home making Christmas cookies and decorating the tree he had put the lights on earlier. He had warned Morgan, direly, about getting on the ladder to put up the higher decorations. Naturally, she had stuck out her tongue at him, which meant she was probably on the top rung of the ladder—the one that said “do not use this as a step”—right now.
The baby was due in the first part of the New Year. Ace was more excited about that than she was about Christmas.
They had chosen not to find out the sex. A boy or a girl, either would be a blessing.
Nate lit the candle. It was getting dark and that candle was a small light in that darkness, but a small light could be enough.
He knew Cindy wasn’t really here. Nor was David. He knew love didn’t go into the ground. It went on and on. It lived in the people left behind.
Still, he needed to come here, even if they were not here. He needed to come here to remind himself to be grateful for things he could not understand. Angels.
Miracles.
Especially Christmas ones.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Yes. He heard it as clearly as though they stood on either side of him. Exuberant. Triumphant.
That word, that simple affirmation of love and of life, was so real that Nate glanced over his left shoulder, and then his right one. The graveyard was empty. He was alone.
But not really. Not ever.
He was not alone. And he was full. To the top. And then to overflowing.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-7610-3
RESCUED BY HIS CHRISTMAS ANGEL
First North American Publication 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Cara Colter
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