His Mistletoe Miracle

by Jenny B. Jones

  She started her geriatric car and put it in reverse.

  “I know you heard me.” Will was perfectly aware he sounded like a raving lunatic. “Cordelia!” He leapt in front of her just as she threw it in drive, the car screeching to a halt. Her window slid down.

  “Are you nuts?” she yelled. “I could’ve hit you.” Snow collected in her hair as it fell sideways from the sky.

  “Where are you going?”

  She leaned an elbow out the window. “I overhear that phone call and you want to discuss my next destination? There’s nothing else you’d like to say to me?”

  Will held up his hands in surrender and walked to her door. “Get out and talk to me, Cordelia. Please.”

  “You want to talk? We can talk right here.”

  “It’s freezing outside. And you don’t need to be driving in this weather.”

  “Then let me go before it gets worse.”

  But he couldn’t. She had to hear him out. “I know you’re mad.”

  “I’m not mad. A real girlfriend would be mad. So I’m just fine.”

  She said fine like he’d once heard a president say nuclear. “I can commute on the weekends. You can fly up to New York.”

  At that she got out of the car, slamming the door once again. The snow picked up in intensity, as if matching her fury. “When were you going to tell me, Will?”

  “I—”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. And what about your book?”

  “Who cares about the book?” His volume lifted toward the trees.

  “I care. The people who love you and want to know your story care. The kids who need to hear about a hero—”

  “Stop. Don’t say that.” His throat hurt as words collected there. “I can’t write it.” Will turned his head, horrified to hear his voice break. “I’m not writing that book.”

  She closed the distance between them. “Why?”

  “Because it’s too much. I thought I could do it, and I can’t. The chapters I’ve yet to write would be pages and pages about the kids—before and after the blast. I don’t want to go back there. I can’t see their faces and keep reliving that day.”

  Her hand rested on his chilled arm. “Then don’t do the project, but let it go for the right reasons. You saved lives by bringing those children a chance at an education. You rescued kids from the flames.”

  “It was my—”

  “It wasn’t your fault. Stop saying that. It’s a lie you’ve bought into, and it’s wrong. I’m sorry for what happened. I can’t begin to imagine the horror of everything you’ve been through, but you’ve suffered enough. You were set free nine months ago, but you’re still sitting in a prison of your own making. Walk out the door, Will.” She pointed toward the house. “Your family’s waiting on you. You have this wonderful, amazing family, and you don’t even see them.”

  “And you?”

  “What about me?” Tears pooled in her eyes. That was something at least. “We were never real.”

  “That’s not true. I know you feel something for me. Now who’s believing a lie?”

  She brushed a hand across her nose. “You’re out of here in two weeks. I heard you say it. And for what?”

  “I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

  “For the morning news.”

  “Yes. UTV. It’s one of the premiere news cable networks.”

  “I know what it is.”

  “I’ll be co-anchoring the Daylight Update show.”

  She stared at him like he had lost his ever-loving mind. “You earned a Pulitzer nomination for your writing, an Edward R. Murrow for your reporting, and probably a countless mantel-full of accolades I’ve never even heard of, and you think that’s going to satisfy you?”

  “It’s a start. It’ll be something different.”

  “You’ll be bored after the first celebrity gossip story you have to read. You’re completely wimping out. You keep telling me to take a chance on my design business, and just when I think I might, you play it safe with your smiley talk show.”

  “It’s not a talk show. It’s—”

  “It’s not in the guts of a foreign country or in the underbelly of D.C.”

  “Maybe I can’t be that reporter anymore.” Fear punched his every word. “What if I don’t want to be constantly wondering when the next bomb’s going off?”

  “You’re detonating your own life.”

  “Oh, tell me all about that, Cordelia Daring.”

  “Don’t make this about me. I’ve listened for days while you preached against the evils of settling. And now look at you.”

  “This is a multi-million dollar contract. If I’m settling, it sure comes with a lot of zeroes.” He hated the smug drip of his tone, but she had him cornered and stripped bare.

  “Yeah, it’s a lot of money. You’re very lucky.” She brushed snow from her lashes. “And while I know what it’s like to take a job for the paycheck, that’s not why you’re doing it. You don’t care about money. I’ve seen your work for years. It’s all about the thrill of the story, your pursuit of truth. I can understand not being ready to write about the experience or get back in the war zones, but this job isn’t you.”

  “It is for now.”

  She shoved her hands in her pockets and shivered against the rising wind. “When were you going to tell me you were leaving?”

  He hesitated one second too long.

  “I see,” she said. “Let me guess, the night before you took off? Or perhaps you’d call before your connecting flight?”

  “I care about you, Cordelia.”

  “This has been an illusion, hasn’t it? Just a game you played that I allowed.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “I knew it wasn’t real, but I let my heart get wrapped up in it anyway. We were nothing more than a mutual agreement.”

  “We’re more than that.”

  “No, I don’t think we are.” She sniffed and zipped her coat. “We’re two messed up people who helped each other out.” She walked to him then, a fierce warrior angel. Standing on her toes, Cordelia kissed his frozen cheek. “I truly hope you find what you’re looking for. Merry Christmas, Will.”

  “Wait.” His hand stopped her, as his pulse thrummed with panic. She paused, and he knew she was waiting for the words to turn this all around, to slice open a vein and bleed honesty and gutted fear. “You’re mine till Christmas. That was the deal.”

  He saw her quit, felt her withdraw. “The deal’s off.”

  “You’re just going to walk away from this?” From their arrangement, from what they had?

  “In two weeks you were going to walk away from us and tie up all your loose ends.” The wind howled as she stepped away. “I’m just beating you to it.”

  Chapter 21

  The church smelled like drip coffee and carpet shampoo.

  Instrumental Christmas music played lightly from overhead speakers while shadows danced in the dim lights. The rows of seats were already filled with families packed shoulder to shoulder, wearing everything from their Sunday finest to children in pajamas. His mother spotted him and waved him down like she was trying to get the attention of a 747. He could see her joy and relief from clear across the sanctuary, tightening the slipknot around his gut.

  After the argument with Cordelia, she hadn’t expected him to show up. Hadn’t expected him to mean it when he said he’d follow them to the church.

  Shame took a quick stab in the general vicinity of his retired conscience. Will had become the prodigal son, the one they couldn’t count on. He knew he’d avoided his family more than usual this year, but it had just been too much. Their looks of pity, as if he might shatter into shards if they said the wrong thing or hugged too tightly. Maybe he hadn’t returned from Afghanistan as his old self, but his family wasn’t the same either. Only they couldn’t see that. And he didn’t know how to tell them.

  He sidestepped a toddler wearing angel wings and wove his way through the crush of revelers toward h
is parents’ row. For a snowy night, the place was surprisingly packed.

  Will hadn’t entered a church since before his capture. Almost five years had passed since he’d celebrated Christmas, held a Bible, or heard the beauty of a hymn. Growing up, his mama had made sure her children were in a pew every Sunday. But as Will had sat in that darkened cell, he’d wondered at the existence of God. Where had God been when a bomb had been thrown? Why had he spared Will and not a child? He’d prayed many days in captivity, but hadn’t gotten any answers. His rescue had come, and maybe that had been Divine, but no answers had ever followed. And now he just wondered if God heard his prayer to bring Cordelia back.

  “Will!” His sister dropped her boyfriend’s hand and exited the row to throw her arms around Will’s neck. “I knew you’d join us.” She squeezed tighter, as if needing a moment to convince herself he wasn’t going to evaporate.

  Alex gave him a smile and nod, and his father clasped his shoulder after he sat down.

  His dad checked his fancy smart watch. “I don’t see what’s holy about church at midnight. Pretty sure even Jesus is in bed already.”

  His mother reached across her husband and patted Will’s knee. “I’ve got some sugar cookies for you in my purse. Freshly baked.”

  “That woman’s bag is straight out of Mary Poppins,” his dad said. “She’s got cookies, a full serving set, and three wrapped gifts—just in case.”

  No one asked about Cordelia, for which Will thanked the probably-sleeping-baby Jesus.

  A wholesome looking fellow in a red sweater and green bow tie took to the stage. “Welcome to the Sugar Creek Community Church. We’re so happy to celebrate Christmas together. Please join us as we sing.”

  Everyone stood as the worship band struck the first chords of “Silent Night.”

  Will glanced about, realizing that once again, he was surrounded by children. Shouldn’t they be tucked in bed, waiting for Santa Claus?

  That familiar tightness, that anxiety that gripped his heart like a vice now barely even squeezed. He looked around again. Even tentatively smiled at the infant watching him from a father’s shoulder in the seat before him. He had baby Isaiah to thank for that, he supposed. Man, he would miss that kid.

  When the song ended, Cordelia’s book club friend Frannie Nelson took the mic. She wore a green dress with a rhinestone Christmas wreath on her chest, and Will knew Cordelia would’ve loved it. But when Frannie opened her mouth to sing, there was nothing flashy or silly about it. The woman had to be kin to Aretha Franklin. She gave new life to “Joy to the World,” and the entire congregation got back to their feet without prompting.

  “Let earth receive her King. Let every heart prepare Him room. And heaven and nature sing. And heaven and nature sing…”

  Will sat spellbound, barely hearing the words, but letting Frannie’s voice take him somewhere else. When she sang, he could almost feel unshackled, if only for a moment. His shoulders lifted, as if the heavy burden he’d carried levitated at her words. He wanted joy to be possible for someone like him. He just didn’t know how to get there. Cordelia made it look so easy. She came at life with a gusto the old Will once had.

  All too soon, the song and singer reached a crescendo, coming to a close. Will thought he might as well go home. The Lord had arrived for a few minutes, and Miss Frannie had ushered Him in.

  The pastor returned to the pulpit and promised he’d be brief.

  Will’s father grunted his approval.

  “The first Christmas was a night of not just wonder—but also of wander.” Like a good speaker, Pastor Bowtie let his eyes sweep the room. “Mary and Joseph traveled many miles before Jesus was born. Some believe the Wise Men might’ve followed the North Star for months. Even the shepherds left their flocks and took off on foot.” He nodded to his ushers, who began to pass out white candles. “I don’t know where you’ve been or where you’re going. I don’t know if you’re here by choice or coercion. But let me tell you, you’re not here by mistake.”

  Will shifted in his seat and picked a piece of lint from his pants. He was definitely not here by choice. Sneaking a look at his phone, he checked again for a call or text from Cordelia. But there was no response.

  “Christ appeared after 400 years of silence,” the preacher continued. “After doling out miracles and promises and prophecies, God went mute for centuries. Can you imagine how empty that silence must’ve been?”

  Will closed his eyes, immediately drawn back to a dark, dirty holding cell. Yes, he knew the absence of conversation. The utter lack of human connection. The punishing loneliness of isolation, knowing nobody knew where you were or that you were even alive. He’d drawn breath, but no longer existed.

  “Tonight, your North Star is here,” the pastor said. “The Lord is just a conversation away. You can put down your suitcase. You don’t have to run anymore. You don’t have to take another step or figure out your next direction. Perhaps you’re right where you’re supposed to be.”

  Alex touched his burning candle wick to Will’s, and he watched it spark to life.

  * * *

  The lights went off, and Miss Frannie returned to the stage and softly sang “O Holy Night” while candle after candle illuminated the room.

  “A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices. For yonder breaks, a new and glorious morn. Fall. . .on your knees. Oh, hear, the angel voices. . .”

  Will grabbed his coat and stood, excusing himself as he stepped over feet and bumped his way out the row. “Pardon me. Sorry. Excuse me.”

  “Will?” he heard his sister call.

  But he kept walking. Down the long aisle.

  And out the door.

  Chapter 22

  Snow crunched beneath Will’s feet as he walked, and he reveled in the hush of the night, the scent of frozen precipitation, and the rattle of the stiff, frozen tree limbs. He hadn’t seen a good snow in years, and he lifted his face to the sky, letting the flakes fall on his skin as if they could wash away all the grime, the darkness, the loss.

  * * *

  Will missed Cordelia. And Isaiah. He didn’t want to spend the holiday without them. He’d apologize. He’d—

  Whack!

  A snowball hit him between the shoulder blades.

  Turning on his heel, Will surveyed the landscape.

  Whack!

  Another torpedoed right to his face.

  His brother Alex stepped out from behind a church sign that read Grace Is In This Place, his arm poised for another round.

  “What are you doing?” Will asked. “Can’t you even wait till we get home?”

  “Nope.” He lobbed another, and it exploded against Will’s coat.

  Will knew that grim face, and his brother wasn’t playing around. “Have it your way. But you don’t have your NFL throwing arm anymore.” He bent down, packed snow into a ball, then zinged his own, smiling when it hit its target. “Sorry if I messed up that politician’s hair.”

  “You’ve messed up, all right.” Alex threw two in a row, one dinging Will in the knee. “You chased off the woman who loves you, you broke our mother’s heart, and you won’t even return my calls.”

  “Cordelia isn’t in love with me, and I’ve been busy.” He threw a strike then ducked behind a Cadillac.

  “Yeah, busy running.” His brother dove for cover next to a truck with antlers sticking from the grill. “I heard what Cordelia told you.”

  “So?” Where was Alex now?

  “So,” Alex called, “how many people are you gonna hurt before you deal with your own crap?”

  Will crushed the snowball in his hands and had to start again. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  Will shot off a round of four good ones before lowering back to his spot. “Yeah? I seriously doubt that.”

  “You’ll never know what I went through when I thought you were dead—the hell this entire family walked through.” Alex’s voice got louder a
nd closer. “You’re my twin. I lost part of myself when you were gone. And don’t even get me started on Finley. She’s still in therapy.”

  Nobody had told him all this. “Why?”

  “Because you were dead, you moron.” Alex pegged Will with a snowball right to the heart, stalking toward him. “Part of us died that day of the bomb. And then we miraculously get you back, and all we see from you is a couple of visits and the rare phone call.”

  The heavens opened, and more snow tumbled from the depths, as if God had opened a feather pillow and shook it over creation.

  “Talk to me, Will.” Alex dropped his remaining ammunition and gave his brother a sturdy shove. “Say something.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Will pushed him even harder. “What do any of you want from me?”

  “We want you back.”

  “You think I don’t want my old life back?”

  “No. I don’t think you do. I think you’re punishing yourself for what happened, as if wasting your own life will be atonement for those kids.”

  “Those kids had names. Families. Futures.”

  “I know.”

  Will’s voice rasped rough and jagged. “I don’t know how to make it right, Alex.”

  “You can’t. Because it’s not your fault. And it’s not your responsibility to make amends. You want to do right by those kids? Then start living. That pastor in there is right. It’s time to stop running. You can write that book or not. You can go get yourself spray tanned and work that morning show or not. But you’re not hurting this family any more. I’ve got another baby coming, and I’m completely freaked about it, and where is my brother? Not at the other end of the phone, that’s for sure. Not at my mother’s house for Sunday dinner so we can talk football and college funds and which way a diaper goes. I’m sorry for what happened. For the love of God, I’m sorry. But you’re not honoring those kids by being a dead-man-walking.”

  “I’m not. I’m—”

  “You are. Do you have any idea how much counseling we’ve all had the last few years? I’m so in touch with my feelings, I worry I’ll start writing poetry and watching Hallmark.”