“Plates in the kitchen!” Morwenna said. “We all help Mom, and then we’ll do a whole Christmas story of our own in the parlor!”
As she passed Shayne with plates, he caught her arm. “You really don’t have your iPad?” he asked hopefully.
“Shayne MacDougal, believe it or not, the artist in me loves a pencil and paper, and we’re going to play,” she said. “Difficult, I know. But your kids will love it, and you don’t have to be embarrassed. Hey, you can play a monster.”
She hurried by her brother. Shayne loved his job. He just needed to realize that his loved ones needed healing as much as his patients.
With everyone helping, it was quick work getting the table cleared. Luckily, the dishwasher and electricity were still functioning, so within twenty minutes, food was stowed, plates and glasses and serving pieces rinsed and set to wash and the kitchen squeaky clean.
Mike asked his sons for help with the logs; they rebuilt the fire in the parlor. They managed to do so, only jokingly taunting one another as they shared the labor.
But, before they could start, Stacy turned back to the kitchen. “We have to have hot cocoa for the performance.”
Bobby groaned. “You’d think we were starving, Ma.”
“She likes to have the fire—and her kids drinking cocoa,” Morwenna said.
“Spike mine, Ma,” Bobby called.
When cocoa was finished—spiked for the adults, plain old cocoa for the kids—Bobby ushered his mother back to the sofa. He hiked Genevieve over his head, and then set her on his mother’s lap.
Morwenna hurried to her room and found one of her old sketchbooks and quickly looked up something she had created years before— Magala, the Christmas elf. She ran back downstairs with the sketchbook. “Bobby, you get to be Wager, the traveling troubadour.” She frowned, and then looked at Gabe, who was waiting expectantly. “Gabe, you can play Magala, the Christmas elf,” she said, and showed him the picture. “And, Shayne, you get to be Mr. Mean, the Abominable Snowman who lives by the workshop at the North Pole.”
“Great!” Shayne said.
But Connor giggled, and Shayne flashed his son a smile. He lifted his arms in a huge Abominable Snowman pose.
“Who are you, Aunt Morwenna?” Genevieve asked, cuddling her teddy bear as she sat on her grandmother’s lap.
“The narrator,” Morwenna said. “Hang on just one minute.” Glancing at her pictures, she scurried first to the kitchen. She found a new mop head and came back to put it on Shayne’s head, which delighted the kids further. But Shayne wasn’t complete until she had whitened his face with cold cream. The more Shayne groaned, the more his kids laughed, and she was happy when she saw him smile—despite the goop on his face.
Bobby had secured one of his old Robin Hood hats from a long-gone Renaissance festival, and for Gabe, Morwenna found an old pair of Halloween ears. They were ready.
“Intro!” Morwenna told Bobby. He strummed a light tune that grew dark.
“Once upon a time, up at the North Pole, there lived a good elf named Magala,” Morwenna said.
Gabe got into the action, leaping up, smiling and bowing. It was good; he didn’t seem to have suffered any real damage from his fight in the snow.
“He worked all day at creating toys for children,” Morwenna continued.
Gabe pantomimed the creation of a bicycle, and everyone laughed as he kept turning the invisible instruction sheet around and around.
“But, nearby, in the darkest, dankest cave, lived Mr. Mean, the Abominable Snowman,” Morwenna said.
Bobby played a few dark and threatening chords as Shayne stood up, lifted his arms and shoulders in a huge display of strength.
“I’m mean!” Shayne said. He looked at Morwenna. “How am I mean? What do I do?”
“While Magala works day and night, trying to make a wonderful Christmas for children everywhere, Mr. Mean plans to destroy all the toys!” Morwenna said.
Bobby played even darker music.
Shayne walked over to Gabe, stared at him and picked up the imaginary bike. He threw it to the ground and then hopped up and down on it.
“That’s what I always felt like doing with those instruction sheets,” Mike said softly, drawing laughter from all of them.
“Daddy, you’re so mean!” Genevieve said, delighted.
“And I just stare at him while he ruins Christmas?” Gabe asked.
“No! Here’s the thing—Mr. Mean goes away all proud of himself for having taken care of Christmas. But, you see, Magala is a magic elf, and as soon as Mr. Mean is gone, he just puts the bicycle back together again, and he does it double time,” Morwenna said.
The children were delighted as Gabe tried to perform all his actions again in double time.
“So, all the toys were ready to go, to be placed in Santa’s sleigh,” Morwenna said.
Gabe put his hands on his hips and nodded proudly.
“But!” Morwenna said, and Bobby strummed out a dire musical warning.
“Mr. Mean came in and stomped on the toys again!”
Big-armed and growling, Shayne grabbed the imaginary bike, tossed it to the floor and hopped up and down, his dramatic antics growing with each jump.
“And then what happened?” Connor demanded, clearly drawn in.
“Magala didn’t have any presents for Santa’s sleigh!” Genevieve said.
“Ah, but you see, he did,” Gabe told her.
“But the bike is smashed to bits,” Connor protested.
“Smashed, yeah, broken. But all the pieces were there,” Gabe said, flashing Morwenna a quick smile.
“So,” Morwenna said, “Magala the elf picked up all the pieces, and when the children awoke in the morning, they realized that they hadn’t just gotten a present—they’d gotten a puzzle, too. They just had to work together and connect the pieces.”
Genevieve, with wide and innocent eyes, leaped up and ran over to stand by the imaginary bike.
“My dad could put it back together. Especially when he’s not being Mr. Mean!” Genevieve said.
“Ah, yes. And there’s the magic to the Christmas story,” Morwenna said. “When Mr. Mean realized that he couldn’t break something that can’t be seen or touched—like the love shared at Christmas—he gave up being Mr. Mean, and he became Mr. Nice, and he went about the country, finding children who didn’t have fathers, and helping them put all their toys back together again!”
Bobby strummed the guitar. “The end!” he announced.
“The end, and time for little people to go to bed,” Shayne said. “Morwenna—”
“Absolutely, my beautiful little niece is in with me,” Morwenna said.
“And I’ll take Connor, and—”
“Gabe can have the lower bunk in my room,” Bobby said.
“But for now…young’uns, to bed! Santa can’t come if you don’t go to bed,” Shayne said firmly.
“I’m not that young,” Connor protested, standing tall to prove his point.
“Hey—Uncle Bobby worked hard on that tree. And your grandmother baked cookies for Santa. You’re going to go to bed, and Santa is going to come,” Morwenna said. She was surprised when Connor looked at her, blushed, lowered his head and smiled.
“Alrighty, Auntie Wenna,” Connor said. “I like playing your games. I’ll think of it that way.”
“That’s wonderfully mature, Connor,” she told him.
“Kiss Gramps and Gram, and let’s go on up,” Morwenna suggested.
Connor kissed his family, and Genevieve followed him around. When he reached Gabe, Connor somberly shook his hand.
“And a good night to you, young man,” Gabe said.
Genevieve impulsively gave Gabe a kiss on the cheek. He smiled. “Thank you. And good night, Genevieve. I have a feeling you’ll go through life fixing the things that need to be fixed, young lady. You have a good night’s sleep.”
“It works when we all fix stuff, huh?” Genevieve asked.
Gabe grinned. “Just
like magic,” he agreed.
“Come on, come on up,” Morwenna urged the two. Shayne probably had the kids’ presents out in the car, in the garage, and the storm was still pounding them. It was going to be a trick to get everything in. She was worried, too, about what they’d find in the house to give the children so that they had something to wake up to; they’d sent the family presents on ahead to Cindy a few weeks ago, since she was going to have the children for Christmas at that time, and Shayne for the New Year’s weekend.
“I’m good, Auntie Wenna,” Connor said at the door to Bobby’s room. “I’m cool. I can put myself to bed.”
She hesitated. He reminded her of a brave little warrior standing there.
“Both your parents love you very much, Connor,” she told him.
He nodded. “Yeah, well, I just need to learn to handle things on my own. I’ve got Genevieve to think about.”
Morwenna smiled and ruffled his hair. “Good night, Connor. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Auntie Wenna,” he said.
She brought Genevieve into her room, stood with her while she washed her face and brushed her teeth, helped her into an old flannel gown of her own that was far too big, but which Genevieve wanted to wear, and sat at the foot of the bed.
“Say prayers with me, Auntie Wenna?” she asked.
“Um, sure,” Morwenna said a little awkwardly. She smiled; as a child, she had gotten down on her knees at night and told God all her problems. As an adult, she’d figured out that he was busy with more serious issues, such as war, starvation and disease.
When had she gotten to a point where she believed that she had to fight alone against the world? When she’d figured out hers was just a little life, a grain in the sands of time.
She knelt down next to her niece and folded her hands prayer fashion.
“Dear God. Happy birthday to baby Jesus—whatever his birthday might be. We love him, no matter when it is. Please keep my mommy and daddy safe, and Auntie Wenna, Uncle Bobby, Gram and Gramps. And don’t worry about toys for me this Christmas. Honest.” She opened her eyes for a moment to take a sideways glance at Morwenna. “Auntie Morwenna will let me play with some of her stuff, so I’m really good. Oh, thank you for the bread pudding. It was especially yummy. Amen.”
“Nice prayer, young lady. Good night.”
“Aren’t you going to say your prayers?” Genevieve asked her.
She looked at her niece for a moment. In her head, thoughts she couldn’t say out loud in front of the child—or anyone—swirled into a prayer. Dear God, please don’t make it that I am an idiot; that Alex really wants to be with me ’cause he believes I’m on the top rungs of the professional ladder, and that he isn’t in Cancún, chasing after Double-D Debbie from Accounting on the beach….
She gave herself a mental shake and folded her hands again. “Dear God, thank you for my brothers, my mom and dad, and especially my nephew, Connor, and my niece, Genevieve. Guard them for me, please, through whatever life offers.” She hesitated a minute. “Help me be a better, more understanding me.”
Genevieve nudged her. “And happy birthday to baby Jesus.”
“Yes, of course. Happy birthday to baby Jesus.”
“And may we all get back together again. My mom and dad,” Genevieve said, looking upward again.
Morwenna rose and lifted Genevieve, hugging her. “Sometimes, honey, that just can’t happen. What you need to know is how much they both love you and Connor.”
“How can they love anybody when they hate each other so much?” Genevieve asked her.
“They don’t hate each other.”
“They sure act like it sometimes,” Genevieve said.
“They—they’re just angry because they…they…”
“They didn’t know how to fix things,” Genevieve said. “That’s why I really prayed that we could learn to fix things.”
“Praying for miracles,” Morwenna murmured.
Genevieve smiled sadly at her. “Well, fixing things is like a miracle.”
“Yes, it is, sweetie, yes, it is,” Morwenna agreed. She tucked Genevieve into her bed, pulling the covers close. “I’ll leave the bathroom light on, okay, kid? And the door ajar.”
“Good night,” Genevieve said. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
“Let’s hope not. We’ll have the same bedbugs,” Morwenna said. Genevieve giggled. Morwenna kissed her once again and left her, cuddling her teddy bear.
She hesitated and looked out the window from the upstairs hallway. She could see that Shayne had bundled up and was headed to the garage. About ten feet behind him, someone else was walking. Too broad shouldered to be Bobby; it was Gabe. Gabe Lange was going out to help him.
Something stirred inside her.
Distrust. Sadly, she had a lot of her father inside her. She didn’t naturally trust anyone. And they found him in the snow. He claimed to be a cop, but he hadn’t been wearing any kind of uniform, and they’d found him with no identification. Was he who he said he was?
All she knew at that moment was that the guy was following her brother. On a dark, snow-swept night. They were heading into the garage.
She tore down the stairs, pausing at the hooks by the door for her coat and scarf. Her brother was likely lost in his own thoughts as he always was, unable to feel the first hint of danger.
Luke DeFeo shivered, staring at a cottage that sat on the side of the mountain. It was dark, but everything was dark. Still, he had the feeling that there was no one there.
He swore aloud in the night. The air was bitterly cold, and he could feel it. He wanted to be off the damn frigid mountains, but there seemed to be no traffic anywhere in the area, and he had yet to stumble onto any signs that life actually existed in the frozen wasteland. He cursed Gabe in his mind; this was one hell of a way to spend the night.
He’d thought he’d killed him; he’d thought that he’d killed Gabe, but he hadn’t. The deadly game between them was still on. Luke could somehow sense that Gabe was still out there.
Well, he didn’t have to sense it, not really. Stumbling around in the snow and ice-covered wilderness, he had come upon the place where they had fought—and Gabe had been gone. So he was still out there, somewhere in the night.
Luke made his way to the little wooden cottage on the mountain. It was dark and he couldn’t hear any signs of life. He rapped at the door and received no answer. After a moment, he threw his shoulder against the door, and then kicked it in. He stepped into the house, but as he did so, he knew that it was empty. The inhabitants were apparently smart—they’d gone somewhere for the holiday.
He looked around, and wondered if he wanted something from the cottage. But there wasn’t any thing there; it was empty and it was cold. It was a shelter against the cold and the snow and the wretchedness of the night, of course.
But he couldn’t stay.
He hadn’t killed Gabe.
He left the door to the cottage swinging and started out, feeling the bitter cold again. He could take it.
He was going to find Gabe, and end the game between them.
Chapter 4
“I’m going to head out and help Shayne,” Bobby told his mother. He’d come from the kitchen, having insisted he clean up the hot-cocoa cups. Stacy had been straightening out the apron around the Christmas tree to ready it for Shayne’s packages.
“You don’t need to help, Bobby—Gabe went out behind him, and Morwenna went running out after him.” She was staring at the tree as she spoke, but turned to smile at him. “You did a beautiful job with the ornaments, Bobby.”
“It was easy. Dad did the lights. That’s the pain in the ass, Mom.”
She rolled her eyes. “Butt, Bobby. Pain in the butt. It’s a nicer word.” She stepped closer to the tree, studying one of the ornaments. It was the little angel or cherub he had pondered himself earlier.
He walked over to his mother, setting a hand on her shoulder. “That’s pretty,” he told her.
S
he smiled. “I think I told you the story that goes with this ornament, years ago.”
“Did you?”
“It belonged to my great-great-grandmother.”
“Mom, the house is almost two hundred years old. And half the stuff in it belonged to your great-great-grandmother.”
“Ah, but this one was special! During the winter of 1864, a wounded Union soldier found himself running through the mountains, terrified, of course, about what might happen to him if he was captured by a Confederate guerrilla band. The commanders of the armies, both sides, were fairly honorable men, but sometimes the militiamen and the guerrillas combing the mountains were fanatics—not so much on the eastern front, but in the west the men were often little more than common murderers. Anyway, my great-great-grandmother found him trying to seek shelter in the barn—the garage now. And she couldn’t let any wounded man suffer, and took him in to nurse him. When the menfolk in the family wanted to turn him in, she said she just didn’t give a damn about the war, she cared about people. He got a fever, and he was delirious, and when he woke up, he said that she was his angel. His angel of mercy. He had this little ornament to bring home as a gift for his mother, but when he left, he said that his mother would want the angel who had saved his life to have the figure. He said that he prayed the angel would look after her all her days. She lived to be ninety-nine, so I guess the angel was looking after her.”
“Great story, Mom,” Bobby said. She smiled. And for that minute, Stacy looked almost like a young girl again. She was his mother, but it seemed that he could take a step back for a moment and take a look at her as a human being. He smiled inwardly, thinking she must have really been something at one time. He’d always known that his big sister was beautiful. And now he could recognize the fact that Morwenna had gotten her looks from their mother.
Kids seldom saw such things, but it was nice to realize—Stacy was still a pretty woman.