A Christmas Miracle

by Anna Adams

  Jason didn’t want to look her in the eye. He was afraid of what his own expression might expose. “You remember those times more at the holidays. When you see other families together, enjoying each other, it’s hard not to wonder what went wrong with your own.”

  Fleming moved around the tree.

  “This is my first ornament.” She touched a small woven basket that held a pink-diapered baby whose dark red curls were disheveled by time or small hands that had touched them too often. “Mom told me she and my father chose it together. I was born in October, and I like to think they were still happy, at least when they found this.”

  “It’s well loved,” he said, wishing for her sake that Hugh’s obvious affection for her could have been enough to heal all the wounds her birth father had inflicted.

  “I guess I kept looking into that basket,” she said, putting it back. Then she bent and took another ornament off a low-hanging branch.

  This one was a small, white clapboard house on a platform of snow. Smoke curled out of the chimney. A Christmas tree blinked chips of brightly colored glass as lights just off the porch. The windows glowed with golden light that flickered as if it came from candles. “This one’s my favorite. That glow was like love to me coming from the imaginary family that lived there. I made up stories about lots of families who might have lived in this house.”

  “How old were you when your mother gave you that one?”

  “I bought it myself when I was seventeen.”

  “You made up your own family at seventeen,” he said, with no attempt at subtlety.

  Her smile wasn’t real. Her gaze shifted away from his. “Maybe we’ve talked enough.”

  “Maybe the reason we talk so much is that you know I’m leaving, and I don’t doubt you’re staying.”

  “You’re saying in yet another way that we’re off-limits to each other.” Fleming turned back to the tree. Her shoulders seemed to droop a little as she put the ornament back. Her hands seemed fragile, the small bones vulnerable, as she slipped the ornament’s sturdy gold cord around a branch. “But what I don’t know is why you continue to run. You don’t have to leave Bliss. You can live anywhere you want, and I know you’re getting attached.”

  “Attached?” He felt as if he was holding his breath. No one made him feel like this. He didn’t want to. It was like suffocating.

  “To the town. To your house.” She flicked a glance over her shoulder. “To some of the people who live in Bliss.”

  Which ones? Deep inside, he faced the truth. Only one person. Fleming mattered to him. Fleming’s feelings were important, and he’d protect her from any more hurt if he could.

  “I’m curious about the town, and the past I don’t remember. My family had a place there once. I don’t.”

  “You’ve started building a life there, even if you never meant to.” She froze, as he tried to understand whether she was asking for a commitment he didn’t know how to make. “Or maybe I’ve said too much again.”

  He turned her around, making sure he was gentle. He touched her hair, drawn to the silky texture because he’d never touched a woman so soft and so vibrant with life. Everything about her was different. “I like your town, and I’ve tried to help the people. I care about you, but Bliss is not my home. I don’t want to be tied down.”

  Fleming looked up at the tree, not at him. “Why is living somewhere being tied down? Bliss could be your home if you chose. You only have to want to stay somewhere.”

  “But I don’t.” He wouldn’t lie to her, and even her suggestion that he could choose to stay in one job in one place made his feet itch to travel. “Staying is not my strong point.”

  “But why? Why do you choose to leave the place that belongs to you? Whether it’s New York where your family lives or here, why do you choose to leave the people who care about you?”

  “Because I’m not the kind of man who inspires that kind of love,” he said. “And maybe I don’t know how to give it. I get bored. With the same work, the same faces, the same people.”

  It might be brutal, but it would be crueler to pretend. She deserved more and better than a guy who lied to make her care for him.

  Fleming reached out and touched the small house with her index finger. She didn’t speak. He didn’t push her.

  She knew what he had to offer. Right now, and nothing more.

  Suddenly, with energy that startled him, she turned. Her smile was as false as any lie he could have told her. “I’m staying here tonight. Mom will drive me home in the morning in time to open the store.”

  She touched his sleeve, above his hand. The way she’d say goodbye to a customer she knew well, but not intimately. Her warmth was not real.

  “Thank you for coming with me tonight. I enjoyed our talk. Be safe getting back through the mountains.”

  With that, she turned and was gone.

  Jason felt empty. He wanted to be with this beautiful, selfless woman, but he was no match for her. He wanted his own life, privacy, to come and go as he pleased, with no commitments. And no expectations.

  She didn’t seem to understand he was offering her ultimate freedom, as well. They could choose to be together, but they didn’t have to spout the ridiculous promises people made to each other. And then always broke.

  “Excuse me. I believe you’re Jason Macland?”

  The stocky man who’d given Fleming’s mother the freedom to choose her own unconventional way of life stood at Jason’s shoulder.

  “I am,” he said.

  “My daughter asked me to tell you good-night.”

  “I’m leaving. You don’t have to throw me out.”

  Hugh’s smile tilted. “That was the impression she gave me, too—that I should make sure the door closed behind you. I don’t understand, and I don’t mean to be rude. You can’t see her again, because she told me she’s going to bed, but you’re welcome to food and drink.” Hugh turned, opening his hand to the room, like the ringmaster in a circus. “And to fellowship with our friends.”

  “Thanks.” Jason offered his hand. “I should be going. I have a long drive.”

  “Well, good night, then. Let me walk you to the door. I don’t see my wife anywhere.”

  If he knew Katherine at all, she’d hurried down the hall toward the bedrooms, close on Fleming’s heels. “Thank her for her hospitality. And thank you. I enjoyed this evening.”

  “Somehow I don’t think so,” Hugh said. “But I’m glad we had a moment to speak. I wanted to thank you for all you’ve done for Fleming. I wish she would have accepted my help, but I am grateful that you’ve offered her your assistance.”

  “I may not have done her a favor.” Jason had to admit, finally, that he’d put extra effort into finding a loan that would work for Fleming because he’d been drawn to her from that first moment in his office. She’d become a part of his life, an urgent requirement he was determined to ignore.

  He wasn’t ready to make the commitment she needed. He was still the guy who had her business in his hands. “I’ll have to foreclose if she misses payments.”

  Hugh all but sputtered. “Well,” he managed to say, his face ruddy for a renowned cardiologist, “Merry Christmas to you.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THAT WOMAN HAD come by the store again. It was Monday night. Fleming made a note. Maybe the woman had a pattern. Something had to be wrong to draw her back again and again, and then send her away without her saying a word.

  Whatever was going on, the third visit finally spooked Fleming. She circled the store, locking doors and windows and turning down the lights so she could see out better than anyone could see inside.

  She set the alarm and hurried out the back, unable to escape the feeling that she was being watched. She was letting that woman get in her head.

  The fact that
she was fleeing from an as-yet-imaginary threat didn’t ease her anxiety. She parked on the mountain, right in front of her house. No one had followed her. She was positive of that, but her hands shook as she shivered in the cold night air, trying to find her keys in the depths of her purse.

  She’d forgotten to turn on the porch lights, and she jabbed at the keyhole a few times before she found the sweet spot and unlocked the door. The same key unlocked the dead bolt. She rushed inside, spooked by her own panic as much as by the wind howling around her, lifting her hair with rough hands. After she locked the door and twisted the dead bolt, she leaned against the door, laughing at her own foolishness.

  Nevertheless, she checked the lock again. Even without strangers peeking into her store on a semi-nightly basis, she was sometimes a little antsy living up here on the mountain alone. The house that had been so warm and cozy and loving with her mother just down the hall, or puttering in the kitchen, could feel empty when Fleming was on her own.

  She dropped her purse and keys and took off her coat to drape it over the straight-backed chair beside the desk in the hallway. Then she made her way to the kitchen. A quick survey of the refrigerator reminded her she should have stopped to pick up something she could make for dinner.

  “Thank goodness for cheese and eggs,” she said, to break the echoing silence. She ought to get a puppy. Or a cat. A nice, big cat which would occupy itself when Fleming worked long hours, but be glad to have treats and company when she made it home.

  Because she wanted to be a cat lady in a Christmas town.

  As she was reaching for the eggs, the front doorbell rang. She jumped, but decided it was probably just the paper delivery guy, who always came in person instead of dropping off a pay envelope at the holidays. But when she opened the door, Jason stood outside, snow in his dark hair, his hand and most of his arm hidden by the thick branches of a beautifully scented fir tree.

  “Merry Christmas.” He tilted the tree toward her.

  “For me?”

  She hadn’t put up a tree at home in years, not since her mother had started spending the holidays at Hugh’s place. Fleming went to Knoxville to be with her mom and Hugh when they decorated, and when they came home, they had a little miniature one she usually set on a chest in the hall. They’d all agreed it was being together that counted, but she felt a surge of happiness at the thought of decorating her own tree.

  “I owe you. For going to the house with me.”

  A little burr of disappointment troubled her. She’d rather he just wanted to give her a tree and help her decorate it. But that was a thing couples did when they were beginning to build a future together.

  “Come in,” she said, and reached to help him carry his gift.

  “I can get it if you’ll just hold the door.”

  He eased the tree past her, but stopped the moment he was over the threshold. “I don’t think it’s tall enough.”

  “It’s perfect.” She breathed deeply, relishing the wintery perfume. “Let’s take that binding off.” She pulled at the blue netting that held the tree’s limbs. “I’ll get some scissors.”

  “Your ceilings are twelve feet or more.”

  “This tree is perfect.” She glanced into his face, but his eyes, warm and hopeful, made her feel self-conscious. She hurried to the kitchen to search for shears. “No one’s ever done something like this for me.”

  “No guy, you mean,” he said, as if that didn’t mean anything, comparing himself to some random guy from her past. “Your parents must have brought home Christmas trees.”

  Thank goodness he hadn’t made it to the kitchen before she got herself under control. No one’s ever done this... What had happened to her brain?

  She heard his footsteps. He was heading her way. She needed to find her composure.

  “Yes, I meant no guy.” She pivoted and he was behind her. She looked him square in the face. If he turned away, so be it. This gift touched her. She wanted to thank him for his kindness. “And I’m glad you’re here. I was feeling a little off tonight.”

  “Maybe I was lonely too.” He did glance away then, as if loneliness, their single common trait, was too dangerous to admit.

  But she wasn’t foolish. Loneliness was still no foundation.

  “Where should we set it up?” she asked, hoping he planned to stay.

  The kitchen was separated from the dining room and living room by a wide hall. Fleming thought for a minute. She often worked on her laptop in the living room, but sometimes worked at the dining room table.

  Easy decision. Christmastime. A fireplace and this beautiful tree. “The living room.” She led the way. “I have to find the stand.”

  He came into the room after her. “It’s a little chilly in here.”

  “Old house. Old heating and air system. I’ll turn up the thermostat.”

  “Or I could start a fire,” he said, tilting the tree as if pointing with it.

  The hearth looked big and empty and cold. She’d been living here, but not really living. Existing, cooking, cleaning. But not truly enjoying the lovely things about the home that had been hers since childhood.

  “A fire would be nice.” She reached out to take the tree from him, but he helped her lean it in the corner by the hearth. “I have some seasoned wood out back,” Fleming said. “It’s in the shed by the fence.”

  “Is this shed locked?”

  She laughed at the idea. “Mom always said someone would have to be intent on stealing firewood to come all the way up here, climb the fence to our backyard and then search the shed.” She did have a second’s uneasiness, but the mystery woman would not have walked all the way up the mountain.

  “You don’t keep anything else in the shed?”

  “A lawnmower, powered by human feet and hands.” She laughed. “The kind with revolving blades, but no motor, that you have to push. Really vintage.”

  “You should maybe sell that,” he said, with a grin that pleased her, making her feel unexpectedly close to him. “You might get a good price from an antiques dealer.”

  “You’re making fun of me again?”

  “A little.”

  “Besides, I can’t get rid of it. I’d have to buy a goat to eat the grass come spring.”

  His smile widened, and her heart softened. “I’ll get the wood,” he said with a sweet tone of indulgence.

  “I’ll find the tree stand.”

  Was the box of Christmas ornaments upstairs in the attic or down in the basement? Ridiculous that she didn’t even know. Those ornaments hadn’t been unpacked since her mother had chosen her favorites to take to Knoxville, maybe six years ago.

  Fleming ran up the stairs toward the attic first. Less creepy than the spidery basement. In the hall between the linen press and the guest room, she yanked on the pull cord that brought down the attic stairs.

  The floor up there was made of wide, unwaxed planks, and a slightly musty, dusty smell pervaded. She was practically on her hands and knees as she reached the top of the stairs and clambered into the attic.

  As a child, she’d loved this place. Her mother had stored her own childhood books up here, along with toys that Fleming had handled with a careful touch. For some reason, her mother had never brought those toys out of the attic. They’d been a rainy or snowy day treat when the warm attic was a more hospitable place.

  Fleming tried to ignore the books that always beckoned her from their shelves along the walls, and started with the closest boxes. She found old clothing and discarded window treatments, and cookbooks dotted with tomato sauce, dried batter and oily spots.

  She opened the top of another box to discover her old school notebooks. She shut that one quickly. No reliving the past, awakening those aged memories. Jason had come to decorate a Christmas tree, not to stroll down her memory lanes.

 
; He might have come only to help set up the tree.

  She straightened, spying a box beneath the circular window, one with a Christmas tree sketched in green crayon on it.

  She’d drawn that when she was too young to remember doing it. “Got it,” she yelled, uncertain whether Jason was even back in the house.

  There were three boxes of decorations in all, but Fleming found the stand in the first one she opened, and dragged it to the edge of the pull-down ladder stairs. She grabbed the next one, not even sure what was in it. She’d managed to ease the first box halfway down the steps when Jason arrived.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “You don’t look steady up there. How heavy is that?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No. You’re not. Let me carry it.”

  He climbed the lower rungs and took the box from her hands. She reached back for the second box, but Jason was on the ladder behind her when she started to turn.

  His breath warmed her face as he looked at her. It felt like he was crowding her, but at the same time managing to hold his body away from hers in the extremely small space. His eyes were level with hers for the first time, and she noticed one dark fleck in the jade-green iris of his right eye.

  “Hi,” she said, as unnerved as if she’d bumped into her secret crush in high school.

  “Why won’t you ever let anyone help you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  He reached for the box that she was all but holding over their heads. “Not your mom with the store, not me until you have no choice. Not Hugh. You won’t even let me help you carry these boxes. They’re too heavy.”

  “I’ve got them,” she said, with a small smile, trying to think of anything except how close he was, and how badly she wanted to lean into him.

  Except that couldn’t be what she wanted.

  “Give me the box,” Jason said.

  She felt him lift it from her hands, and she let it go. “Thanks,” she said.

  “Uh-huh.” He turned smoothly and adroitly and carried the box down to the landing.