The Christmas Kiss

by Virginia McCullough

  “You did the right thing. As long as the bird can breathe, you’re okay.” He looked at the box and judged he’d need the cart to transport the bird to the cabin. “I have a makeshift area in one of the old cabins. I’m keeping some supplies for situations just like this.” Explaining he had to get the cart, he took off and left Jim with Ruth.

  He moved quickly and a few minutes later, Ruth and Jim steadied the cart and Parker eased the carton onto the metal bottom. “I bought a couple of kennels the other day to replace some old ones here. One of them is big, a good size for this crow.”

  “I didn’t think you were doing a lot of this down here,” Jim said, glancing at Ruth, “what with the relaunch event on Christmas Eve. Other folks on the town council have been talking about it. I figured you’d know if the bird has any chance at all.”

  “We went out to the back to have a look and saw he was kind of bloodied up,” Ruth said.

  Jim nodded. “We figured maybe he’d just fly away.”

  “Sometimes that’s what happens,” Parker said. “They fall for some reason, get a little stunned, and then recover and take off.”

  When they got to the building, Parker slid the box off the cart and dragged it through the door.

  “Uh, I appreciate you doing this,” Jim said. “You and I didn’t get off on the right foot, if you know what I mean. I’m not exactly a popular guy around here anymore.”

  Parker chuckled. “At the moment, you’re pretty popular with this crow.”

  Ruth let out a hoot and gave her husband a friendly rib jab.

  “It’s just that there’s some history about this land.”

  “Not my business,” Parker said, hoisting a kennel from the floor to the table. Then he put on his rawhide gloves and explained that he would lift the bird, blanket and all onto the table to better examine the wounds. He stuck out his arm. “Stand way back close to the door. For all we know, the bird could come to life and these wings could knock us over.”

  The bird’s body was warm and not especially heavy. Or resistant. “He’s not putting up a fight,” he said, glancing back at Jim and Ruth.

  He went through his routine, held his arm firmly around the bird and pulled the blanket back to get a view of the crow’s head. “Looks like he could have been another animal’s prey. Feral cats will sometimes attack a crow. That would explain why you found him in your yard, where cats probably roam. It’s not likely he was hit by a car and moved himself that far.”

  “Crows come around and perch on the back fence almost every day,” Ruth said. “Sometimes quite a few of them and they stay for an hour or two.”

  “My grandmother believed crows were the storyteller birds,” Jim said. “Always talking, always telling the latest news.”

  “Easy to see why people believe that,” Parker said. “For one thing they can make such a racket. Sometimes a crow will perch nearby and stay for hours, like you invited him over for a visit.”

  “That happened to us last summer,” Ruth said. “A crow spent all afternoon on our fence. I began to think he had a message for me.”

  “Now I told her that was a bunch of foolishness,” Jim said. “But what do I know?”

  Parker couldn’t help but wonder how many conversations in the couple’s house ended that way. He saw torn feathers, some broken skin underneath. “We can fix those scratches and cuts. But we’ll see about this wing. It could be just the feathers that are messed up, but I’ll check it out.”

  “But you can help?” Jim asked.

  “If his wing isn’t too mangled, he has a good chance to survive. But if his wing is broken, he might not be able to fly again. I’ll be straight with you. I’ve seen crows die when they can’t fly,” Parker said, thinking it was best to prepare Jim and Ruth for that possibility. “We had a couple of crows who couldn’t fly, but they became permanent residents of the center.” Parker reassured the couple that if the bird survived, they’d keep him at the sanctuary.

  Over the next several minutes, Parker cleaned the skin under the feathers. “These are surface wounds, more or less. I’m not set up with an X-ray machine, but so far, I see only minor damage.”

  When Parker looked back at Jim, he saw the fatigue in his face. He’d been red-faced mad when Parker had met him at the reception. He didn’t look much better now.

  Ruth was staring at the large pen on the floor with the cloth draped over it.

  “A barred owl is living in there, Ruth. She got hurt during a storm earlier this fall. From what I could tell, she had a concussion, but she’s on the mend now.”

  “So, will she stay here?” Jim asked.

  “No, that one probably came right out of these woods and will likely stay close by.”

  As if reading Parker’s mind, Ruth patted Jim’s shoulder and suggested they be on their way. “Parker says this might take a while.”

  Jim nodded. “I run outta steam quicker than I used to. My health isn’t what it once was.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Parker said. “Don’t let me keep you. I’ve got my work cut out for me, but you’ve done your part. I’ll offer our friend a snack.” He looked at the couple. “He’ll be easy to feed. Crows are omnivores, a fancy way to say they’ll eat anything.”

  Jim pointed to his wife and smirked. “Just so you know, this one has been after me to finally change my thinking about a few things.”

  Ruth’s immediate burst of laughter led Parker to think she laughed easily and often. Grumpy husband or not.

  “Looks like I’m outnumbered,” Jim said with a huff. “Seems people want Santa parties and singing carols at the bridge.”

  Ruth rolled her eyes. “And I’m not going to miss the caroling and seeing people I’ve known for years. Since I retired I’m not as connected as I like to be. I told Jim I’ll go by myself if I have to.” She looked at Parker. “Big surprise. We’ve been arguing about this for years.”

  “For what it’s worth, my daughter and I think this is a beautiful place,” Parker said. “I walked the boardwalk yesterday and the woods were quiet, but full of cardinals hunting up some seeds. We took a ride down to see the covered bridge and the park. I’m glad she’s feeling at home here in Bluestone River.”

  Ruth and Jim stepped outside and Parker walked them to the lot. Jim pulled out a business card and gave it to Parker. “I’d appreciate it if you let us know how he’s doing. I don’t want to bother you. You’ve got a lot to do around here.”

  “No problem. Call anytime,” Parker told them. “I’ll expect to see you down here on Christmas Eve.”

  Parker waited to take out his phone until Jim and Ruth drove away. Emma had been on his mind anyway, but even more so when his newest patient showed up. Maybe she’d come right over. She didn’t pick up the call but an hour later the door opened.

  Emma pointed to the covered kennel. “In there?”

  He lifted the cover, but it didn’t have much effect on the bird. “I knew you’d want to see him. He’s a crow who was likely attacked by another animal. Chances are, it was a cat.”

  “Where did he come from?” Emma asked.

  “That’s the interesting part,” Parker said. “I bet you’ll never guess. Jim Kellerman and his wife found him in their yard.”

  Emma’s mouth fell open. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “You’re a Jim Kellerman whisperer.” Emma looked gleeful over her clever characterization.

  Feeling smug, he said, “Guess so.” In a more serious tone, Parker explained that Jim didn’t look well. He’d lost some of his fight. “But I also made it clear that the crow could die. You know, Emma, we really can’t save them all.”

  “But I bet you want the chance to try.”

  He ran his hand through his hair. “You’re right. I do.”

  She took off her jacket and set it
aside. “So, how can I help?”

  Her eagerness took him aback, even when he might have known that’s exactly what she’d say. “We can start with getting a better look at his wing. I’ll walk you through the steps. You can see for yourself.”

  Her face lit up in response.

  * * *

  EMMA STOOD TO the side while Parker loaded the new kennels in the back of the truck. They’d already bought screening and hardware and remnants of what Parker called plastic grass to use for perches in the cages he was building.

  “We got our supplies. Where to next?” Parker asked.

  “Let’s go to the gallery. It’s down the block. With any luck Guy Hammond has replenished his supply of walking sticks and canes. His corner of the store was depleted the last time Ruby and I took a trip over here.”

  “You’re the only person I’ve ever known who makes fashion statements with her canes.”

  “Consider me a trendsetter. Besides, I’m probably just the youngest person you know who uses a cane,” she said dryly.

  Parker tilted his head side to side. “Not really. One of the best volunteers we had at the North Carolina center was a young woman who used a cane. She’d been born with a spinal condition. She was like you. She didn’t let it stop her.”

  Emma wanted to take back her words. “Ignore me when I say things like that. They make me seem self-pitying, and I’m not.” Not usually.

  “You’re the least self-pitying person I know,” Parker said. “It was meant to be a compliment. You have a way about you, Emma. You just do. It’s your own style.”

  “Then, thanks. I do like my bright painted ones, too. Jason likes the one that’s painted like a candy cane.”

  “I’ll bet he does.”

  “While we’re in the gallery, we can browse around and see the kinds of things the board might want in a future gift shop,” Emma said. “We can sell a few items online, like from a catalog.”

  “Way off in the future, I suspect. The board will have to build a crew of regular volunteers first.”

  Emma pointed to the women’s boutique, an upscale bistro, an ice cream shop and the cedar-shingled gallery building dominating one side of the street. “The gallery opened ten years ago and all the rest followed. That’s happening with Bluestone River and our outdoor spots, too. You’re doing your part.”

  “I like the idea of the sanctuary featuring gift items made by local people. We’ve got lots of artists who could produce note cards and bookmarks.”

  “Like you.”

  “Possibly. I have more confidence in my work these days. I sold a couple of my own posters on Thanksgiving.”

  “Is the gift shop something you’re thinking of taking on?” Parker asked as they approached the front door of the gallery.

  Emma shook her head, irrationally bothered by the question. “No.” Her blunt answer left no room for doubt.

  “I see.” Parker turned away to look at some framed pen and ink drawings on display in the window.

  “No, you don’t,” she said. “Your question surprised me. That’s all.”

  Parker met her gaze, clearly puzzled, as he opened the gallery door and they went inside.

  “I’m not looking for things to fill my time,” Emma explained. Had she expected him to know that? Somehow, yes, she had.

  Parker followed Emma as she took a few steps deeper into the shop. “I didn’t think you’d be filling time. But you take on a lot of things.”

  “No, Parker, I actually don’t do much for the projects.” She heard the testy tone in her voice and probably should have stopped talking. But she forged on. “It looks like I’m busy, but what I really do is support a lot of things. Like the sanctuary. I donate the money.”

  Parker stopped. “Yeah. I get it. But you’re also genuinely interested in the relaunch. And you have lots of ideas.”

  “Maybe so. But I’ll leave the gift shop to other people.” Emma forced a smile. “Aren’t you glad you asked?” She pointed ahead. “I see Guy Hammond’s work.”

  Guy had a collection of new walking sticks and more traditional canes and dozens of intricately carved wooden boxes and picture frames. He also had exquisite carved birds. The eagles and hawks had strength, even majesty around them, but small birds and the geese and ducks drew her eye, too. “See? I’ll bet all his boxes include birds or flowers or both.”

  Emma picked up one of the oak walking sticks, taller than her usual cane. Thin and sleek, it had a flat top, but then gracefully curved in for a handle. It invited her to try it out. The wood of the curve was smooth under her hand. A perfect fit. Best of all, all the carvings were of hummingbirds and flowers. Her mood instantly lifted. “I found it. My new fashion statement.”

  “Can I see that?” Parker asked.

  “Sure.” She handed it to him and watched as he studied the detail, top to bottom.

  “Made by a person who has paid attention to hummingbirds. The details on the beaks and wings are perfect.”

  “You would know,” she said softly. “You can see why I think these might be good gift shop items, or they could be used for raffles and door prizes at fund-raising events. Even membership drives.” Her mind jumped to an image of a glossy gift catalog sent to members, but she pulled back from that. Good idea, but not the right time.

  Parker grasped the cane and exclaimed over the handhold. “Wow, Emma, this is perfect for you. I bet it would be good on flat surfaces.”

  “Exactly. Like the boardwalk.” She smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”

  Emma turned in place, drawn by the beauty around her. Glass art and jewelry made from crystals and amethyst sparkled in the light. But her eye caught a quilt hanging on a rack, light blue and white, with a blue heron in the center surrounded by marsh grasses. Making her way to it, she said, “This is incredible.” She rested her old and new canes against a shelf nearby and unfolded the quilt to get a better look. “We used to see herons in the marshes at the end of the lake. They looked just like this.”

  Her fingers began to tingle when a thought struck her. She used both hands to tug the entire quilt off the rack. “Oh, Parker, I’d really like to get this quilt for Nicole. It matches her eyes.” She could picture the quilt in the teenager’s cabin.

  “That’s kind,” he blurted, “but...uh...really not necessary.”

  “Necessary? That wasn’t part of my equation,” Emma teased. But then her good feeling faded, along with the tingling, when she saw the flicker of anger in Parker’s eyes.

  Parker grabbed his wallet out of his back pocket. “It’s perfect for her. I agree, and I’ll certainly pay for my daughter’s bedding.”

  “What?” She suddenly found herself without words.

  “I mean, Emma, you don’t need to...”

  “To what? Give a lovely teenager a gift?”

  “It’s just that you already...you know. You’ve done enough.”

  “Ah, I get it.” Maybe it started over his question about the gift shop, but now she’d slid from annoyance into anger. If Parker was angry, too, then so be it. She clutched the quilt to her chest. “Just because I’m one of those dreaded donors doesn’t mean I can’t give Nicole a gift, friend to friend.”

  “Like I said, you already do enough.”

  She turned to look directly at him. “How does it feel?”

  Parker frowned.

  “That chip on your shoulder. Don’t you ever get tired of carrying it around?”

  She looked away, wincing against regret for that extra bit of sarcasm. She grabbed the two canes and headed to the checkout. Despite trying to confidently navigate around the displays, the walking stick she awkwardly held under her arm threatened to topple a rack of earrings and her handbag slipped off her shoulder. Parker’s long arm circled from the side and lifted the quilt out of her arms. “I’ll take it to the counter.”

  Par
ker deposited the quilt and stood back while she paid for the items. As the saleswoman wrapped the walking stick, she offered details about the quilter’s latest award. Her work had been hung in folk art shows all over the country. And she lived in a town only fifty miles south of Clayton. With the quilt tucked into the shopping bag, Parker stepped closer and eased it out of her hand.

  By the time they got to the truck, Emma was jumping out of her skin. Apologize for her remark or be quiet? Maybe she’d said enough. But what was she sorry for? Not for calling him out over a gift. It didn’t matter now. She had to do something. They’d talked about getting some lunch. She groaned inside. They had a good thirty-minute drive home.

  They stood on the street, not looking at each other. Neither moved. Emma had no inclination to get into the truck just yet. Apparently, neither did Parker. The seconds passed. This is ridiculous. She pivoted on her heel to face him. He did the same. She blurted “I’m sorry” and so did he.

  They stared at each other. And then they laughed.

  * * *

  SOMEHOW, AFTER INSULTING a woman he liked more than he cared to admit, they ended up sharing takeout sandwiches at her house. He started a small fire in the fireplace and after lunch they sat on the stone hearth to talk.

  “I’ll keep the quilt here at my house and bring it over when I know Nicole’s home,” Emma said. “I don’t want to make it a Christmas gift. That could be embarrassing. I’d rather it be a ‘just because’ gift.”

  Parker nodded, unsure what to say. “I don’t want to brag or anything, but she’s doing well at school. She’s made some friends, and likes her job.”

  “So, can we agree that sometimes a gift is just a gift?” she asked. “No hidden agendas.”

  His turn now. It would be easy to agree and write the whole incident off. Or not.

  Emma frowned in the silence and gave him a look that sent a clear “what’s with you” message.