Holiday Wishes Read Free Page A

his eyes and fallen in love. He’d muttered at her, hauled her up and scolded her for getting in trouble. Then he’d stalked off with his ungloved hands thrust into the pockets of his too-big coat.
    Through childhood and into adolescence she’d never looked at another boy. Of course she’d pretended to from time to time, hoping it might make Jason Law notice her.
    Then when she’d been sixteen and her mother had sewn her a dress for the spring dance at the town hall, he’d noticed. So had several other boys, and Faith had flirted outrageously, with one goal in mind: Jason Law. Sulky and defiant, he’d watched her dance with one boy after another. She’d made sure of it. Just as she’d made sure she looked directly at him before she’d stepped outside to take the air. He’d followed her, just as she’d hoped. She’d pretended to be sophisticated. He’d been rude. And he’d walked her home under a fat full moon.
    There’d been other walks after that—spring, summer, fall, winter. They were in love as only the young can be: carelessly, heedlessly, innocently. She told him of her longings for a house and children, for lace curtains and china cups. He told her of his passion to travel, to see everything and write it down. She knew he’d felt trapped in the small town, hampered by a father who gave him no love and little hope. He knew she dreamed of quiet rooms with flowers in crystal vases. But they were drawn together and tangled all the dreams into one.
    Then one night in the summer, when the air was sweet with wild grass, they stopped being children and their love stopped being innocent.
    “Mom, you’re dreaming again.”
    “What?” Up to her elbows in soapy water, Faith turned. Her daughter stood at the doorway to the kitchen, snugly wrapped in a flannel gown that came up to her chin. With her hair freshly brushed and her face scrubbed clean, she looked like an angel. Faith knew better. “I guess I was. You’ve finished your homework?”
    “Yeah. It’s dumb having homework when school’s nearly out.”
    “Don’t remind me.”
    “You’re grumpy,” Clara declared and eyed the cookie jar. “You should go for one of your walks.”
    “Just one,” Faith said, easily outguessing her daughter. “And don’t forget to brush your teeth.” She waited while Clara rooted through the jar. “Did you see a man this afternoon? A tall man with blond hair?”
    “Uh-huh.” Mouth full, Clara turned back to her mother. “He was walking up to the house. I sent him to the shop.”
    “Did he—say anything to you?”
    “Not really. He looked at me kind of funny at first, like he’d seen me before. Do you know him?”
    While her heart began a slow, dull thud, Faith dried her hands. “Yes. He used to live here a long time ago.”
    “Oh. Jimmy liked his car.” She wondered if she could talk herself into another cookie.
    “I think I will take that walk, Clara, but I want you in bed.”
    Recognizing the tone, she knew the cookie would have to wait. “Can I count the presents under the tree again?”
    “You’ve counted them ten times.”
    “Maybe there’s a new one.”
    Laughing, Faith gathered her up. “Not a chance.” Then she grinned and carried Clara into the living room. “But it won’t hurt to count them one more time.”
    The air was brittle when she stepped outside and it smelled of snow. There was no reason to lock the doors in a town where she knew everyone. Bundling her coat closer, she glanced back at the second-story window where her daughter slept. Clara was the reason why the house wasn’t cold, why her life wasn’t empty when both things could easily have been true.
    She’d left the tree burning and the lights around the door sent out festive color. Four days until Christmas, she thought, and the wonder of it came home again. From where she stood, the town looked as pretty as a postcard with the strings of lights, the tree with its star in the town square, the streetlamps burning.