A Christmas Wish Read Free

breeze. Her familiar scent. See what I mean about memories? I had the picture of my mother from years ago, tucking me into bed before she and my father went out to dinner. She smelled the same then, now. What had changed was her hair—she’d allowed it to go gray, and it was salon perfect. She wouldn’t be Didi Duncan if not properly attired, even at this hour.
    â€œWell, who have we here?” she asked.
    â€œYour son,” I replied, and then Janey said, “And me, I’m Janey.”
    My mother moved off the top step and gave me an embrace that felt more like an air-kiss before bending down so her face was level with Janey’s. “Well, you’re a pretty thing, aren’t you, Jane?”
    â€œJaney,” I corrected her.
    She ignored me, keeping her focus on Janey. “That’s such a childish name, now, don’t you think?”
    â€œI am a child,” Janey remarked.
    â€œNonsense, dear. You’ve grown tremendously the last few months, haven’t you? Come in, come in, the both of you.”
    And we did, shutting out the encroaching cold behind us. We entered a hallway crafted lovingly with antique wood, and then were ushered down to the living room, where a warm fire was blazing in the large fireplace. My father, Kevin Duncan, sat beside the crackling fire in a wingback leather chair, still dressed in his business suit, the tie still on, the top button to his shirt still clasped. That was the thing about my father. Still was a word that described him perfectly. He never changed. He was reading the Wall Street Journal and on the table near him was a tumbler filled with his traditional dry Manhattan, the successful entrepreneur in relaxation mode. When he saw us enter, he gently set the paper down on a nearby matching ottoman.
    â€œHello, son, it’s good to see you,” he said, shaking my hand with his strong, firm grip. His greeting was as efficient and businesslike as ever; it was just his way, all he knew. He was a tall man, six four and built strongly, and I imagined in his office, even if he hadn’t been the boss he would still strike an intimidating pose. Yet a surprising feat happened on this evening. As Janey poked out from behind me, she craned her neck up high so she could see my father and that’s when she exclaimed with wide eyes, “Wow, you’re big.” The stern businessman’s face crumpled and a smile found its way to his ruddy face.
    â€œWhat ho! Well, let’s get a look at you, young lady,” he said.
    â€œYou’d have to sit on the floor to do that.”
    Kevin Duncan was a big, barrel-chested man, with thick gray hair and a pair of glasses upon his nose, and right now the figure of the man who had always intimidated me actually laughed—something he wasn’t exactly known for. Then, instead of bending down as Janey suggested, he lifted the little girl into those big arms of his and I realized that the impossible had been accomplished, Janey had softened the heart of a moneyed giant. I felt pent-up tension leave my shoulders and I realized then that maybe this Thanksgiving wouldn’t be so bad. My mother had followed behind us, witnessed the entire exchange between her husband and her . . . my goodness, I almost thought granddaughter. I would have to watch my words; Janey and I to this point had avoided all such labels, all such complications.
    The four of us settled into the living room and talked genially, Janey enjoying a glass of apple juice and me a seltzer with ice, while my father and mother drank their Manhattans. Their attention remained focused mostly on Janey. They asked her questions about school and friends, nothing about her mother, Annie, or the difficult times this girl had already known in her life. There was no mention of the windmill that had brought us together. As they chatted, I sat on the edge of my seat, waiting anxiously for any misstep.
    About ten o’clock, the