A Carol for Christmas (8 page)

I came to Boise with him. I gave up everything to be his

wife. Would he go with me to Nashville if I asked him? Does he love me enough to make sacrifices?

Stupid questions. Here in Boise, Jonathan had a future. He would inherit Burke Department Stores from his father. If they went to Nashville, they might starve to death before anyone took notice of her. The music industry was over- flowing with girls like her, with talent and big dreams, who never would make it in the business.

But Travis said I could make it in Nashville. God
,
didn’t

You want me to use my talent? Why else would You give it to

me? Just so it could go to waste? Sure
,
I can sing in the shower or even in the choir at church
,
but is that it? If I could be a singer like Travis
,
if I made record albums and performed at the Grand Ole Opry or on
Hee Haw,
then I could do benefit performances to raise money for good causes too. I could do so many good things for You.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the edge of the blanket.

I want more
,
God. I can’t help it. I want more.

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J

onathan placed his hand on the small of Carol’s back as they walked into the church narthex. Ever

since he awoke this morning, he’d felt a need to touch her, as if afraid she would suddenly disappear.

His mom, who stood visiting with friends before the start of the service, smiled when she saw them. “Good morning.” She joined them near the sanctuary entrance. “How’re you feeling, Jonathan?”

“Fine.” The truth was, he didn’t feel great. His chest felt a bit smoky, and he’d swear there was soot trapped in his eye sockets. One thing he knew for sure: he wasn’t cut out to be a fireman.

“Your father wants you to call him at the store as soon as you get home from church. Something about the lost inventory.”

A whisper passed through the narthex like a ripple spreading across the surface of a pond. Heads turned toward the hallway that led to the church offices and Sun- day school rooms. Curious, Jonathan followed suit.

Carol’s hand alighted on his arm. “That’s Travis Thompson.” She sounded a little breathless.

Jonathan didn’t much care for that breathless quality when it was attached to some other guy’s name. Particularly

when the man in question was handsome, rich, and famous. He watched as the country star strode toward them, Pastor Matthews at his side.

Travis Thompson wore a black suit, a white shirt, and a tie. Not much different from what more than half the men in the congregation wore on any Sunday morning. But other men didn’t draw the rapt attention of nearly every female in sight.

Jonathan glanced at Carol. Was she as captivated by this singer as the rest of the women appeared to be?

Jealousy curled in his gut like a venomous snake.

Last night on the drive home from his parents’ house, Carol said she had something exciting to tell him. Some- thing Travis had told her. But before she could share what it was, Jonathan started coughing. When he finally caught his breath again, she said she would tell him later. She never had. After Jonathan showered, he’d crawled into bed and fallen asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

He should have remembered to ask her about it.

She’s not happy with me.

He thought back over the weeks since Thanksgiving. No, he’d have to go back further than that. For months he’d spent more and more time at the store, and too often, during what little time he spent with Carol, he’d been thinking about the store.

He recalled the night they’d fought over the borrowed guitar. Sure, they made up. Carol loved him and she’d for- given him. He didn’t doubt that. But that didn’t change

the fact that he was unable to make her happy the way he wanted to.

“Good morning, Travis,” Carol said. The singer smiled. “Morning.”

Carol touched Jonathan’s arm. “This is my husband, Jonathan Burke.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” Travis offered his right hand.

Jonathan shook it. “Pleasure to meet you too.” He hoped he sounded sincere.

Travis returned his gaze to Carol. “Your pastor asked if I would start the worship service with a song. I’d like you to join me.”

“Me?” she asked, her eyes widening.

Everything in Jonathan wanted to object. Not to Carol singing . . . but to Carol singing with Travis Thompson. The reaction made him feel small, petty, and unchristian. He pressed his lips together, swallowing his words of protest.

“What would we sing?” Carol asked.

“ ‘Silent Night.’ Like we rehearsed it yesterday, only without the band. Just a guitar. Are you willing?”

She hesitated only a moment before answering, “Yes.” “Guess we’d better get up to the front then.” Travis

looked at Jonathan. “I’ll bring her back when we’re done.” Jonathan was tempted to punch the guy right in the schnoz. In the rational part of his brain, he knew Travis meant he would escort Carol back to wherever Jonathan was when the song was finished. But he wasn’t thinking with the rational part of his brain. Jealousy — all green,

ugly, and pathetic — had taken hold.

Travis offered the crook of his arm to Carol. After a quick glance and smile toward Jonathan, she took it, and the pair walked down the center aisle. By the time the sing- ers reached the altar, Jonathan and his mother had slipped into their usual pew.

Someone Jonathan didn’t know — probably one of the band members — brought Travis his guitar, and the celebrity slipped the strap over his head. Then he leaned toward Carol and said something. She nodded. His fingers strummed the guitar strings, and the sanctuary fell silent.

Travis Thompson knew how to work a crowd. He waited a full minute, his eyes downcast, before he played a few chords and then began to sing.

“Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright . . .” Carol’s voice joined Travis’s.

“Round yon virgin mother and child . . .”

Jonathan supposed those around him were inspired by the beauty of Carol’s crystal-clear voice, the notes rising toward the sanctuary rafters. What he felt was fear.

“Holy infant, so tender and mild, sleep in heavenly peace . . .”

He’d heard Carol sing many times before. But not until this moment had he understood the full nature of the gift God gave her.

Understanding it terrified him.

She could have had more out of life than what Jonathan offered. Lots more.

He wondered if his love was enough to hold her.

Q

Carol closed her eyes and allowed joy to fill her heart as she sang, her voice blending with Travis’s. She wasn’t ner- vous, as she thought she might be when he asked her to join him. It helped, of course, that this was one of her favorite Christmas carols. She’d loved singing “Silent Night” since she was a little girl. She knew every note, every word. It also helped that she sang with a pro, a man who’d performed before thousands of people.

“Heavenly hosts sing alleluia; Christ the Savior is born!

Christ the Savior is born!”

As the last strains of the song faded, Carol opened her eyes. For a few moments, the sanctuary was dead silent. Suddenly, wonderfully, the congregation began to applaud. Softly at first, then louder and louder.

“Thank you, Carol,” Travis said, raising his voice enough for her to hear over the clapping. “That was beautiful.” He offered his arm once again.

She took hold, smiling, her ears filled with the continu- ing applause.

“Is there anything more wonderful,” Cal Matthews said from the pulpit, “than voices lifted in praise to our Lord?” Carol felt a catch in her spirit as Travis escorted her down the steps. Was that what she’d done? Had her voice been lifted in praise? Had she thought of the Lord as she sang the beloved carol? Or had she thought only of herself and the way she sounded to others? Was it joy she’d felt . . .

or pride?

Q

Carol was quiet on the drive home from church, and Jonathan didn’t have the courage to attempt a conversation. What if she said something he wasn’t ready to hear?

She’d looked so beautiful as she sang “Silent Night,” her eyes closed, her face tilted upward. Her auburn hair had turned fiery red beneath the lights of the altar area. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought she and Travis had sung together for years.

What she’d wanted — the singing career, the record deals, the fame, all the dreams she’d shared with him when they first met — was within her grasp. Jonathan sensed it, deep in his soul.

Lord
,
don’t let me lose her. Show me what to do. Tell me

what to say.

But all he heard in reply was the fearful beating of his own heart.

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Cbaplez
_!)

C

arol was exhausted by the time she arrived at the Monday evening rehearsal. But her weariness didn’t

come from physical exertion. It came from a spiritual wres- tling match not yet finished.

There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ

Jesus
. Isn’t that what the Bible said? Yes. In Romans. She’d read it in her devotions last week. So why did she feel guilty? Why did she feel condemned? What was so wrong with singing?

Nothing. It wasn’t singing that was the problem, and she knew it. The problem was her motivation, her secret desire for something she didn’t have. In the deepest corner of her heart, she wanted to sing for all the wrong reasons. She wanted fame. She wanted glory. She wanted a life she didn’t have now.

Rebellion welled in her heart, stacking bricks of silence between her and Jonathan in a growing wall.

Carol entered the fellowship hall with her thoughts churning. She discovered she was the last to arrive. “I’m sorry.” She glanced at her watch. “Am I late?”

Travis waved her forward. “No, you’re not late. The rest of us were early.”

Carol pulled off her knit cap and stuffed it into her pocket before removing her coat and laying it on a folding chair. When she turned around, she found Travis coming toward her.

He held out his hand, a white card held between his thumb and index finger. “I brought this for you.”

“What is it?”

“My agent’s business card.”

She hesitated, heart fluttering, then took it from him. “I talked to Ken earlier today and told him you might

give him a call. He’s hoping you will.”

Could this be happening? Was Travis Thompson really telling her to call his talent agent? He’d mentioned it the night of the party, but it seemed too good to be true.

It must be God’s will for her to have this information. It must be God’s will for her to pursue a singing career in Nashville. Otherwise, why would He cause Travis to give her this business card?

The Bible said that God would give her the desires of her heart as long as she delighted in Him. How could she look upon what was happening as anything other than His will?

Is it
,
Lord?

“Hey, boss,” the drummer called. “Stop chewin’ the fat with the pretty lady and let’s get to work.”

Travis laughed. “Hank’s right. We’ve got lots to do before this Friday’s performance.”

Carol nodded. She would rather sing than think anyway.

Singing was easy. Thinking was giving her a headache.

Q

Jonathan sat at his desk, Carol’s photo from their wed- ding held between his hands. But it wasn’t her picture he saw. It was the memory of her standing at the front of the church yesterday.

He’d been selfish. From the day they first met, he’d been selfish. He’d asked her to give up everything for him. He’d known her hopes and dreams, but once they fell in love, he expected her to leave all those things behind. And she had.

What had he given up for her? His college degree? A better-paying entry into the family business? Yes, but nei- ther of those things was permanent.

No, he gave up little when they married. Carol had sacrificed all. For him. If only he could pay her back in some small way. If only he could make her see how much he loved her, how much he needed her, how much he wanted to make her happy.

If only
he
could be enough. . .

He opened the desk drawer and removed his check- book, flipping it open to stare at the balance in the register. Not much there. He still needed to buy new tires for the Fairlane, and now there was the telephone bill waiting to be paid too.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

Q

Two hours later, Carol turned off the lights in the fel- lowship hall and walked outside with the others, making

certain the door to the church was locked behind them. The temperature had fallen well below freezing while they were inside. Carol clutched her arms over her chest as she headed for her car, escorted by Friday Jones, the bass guitarist.

“You and the other gals are doing a great job,” Friday said as they walked, his shoulders hunched forward and his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. “This is gonna be a good show.”

“I hope so.”