A Rush of Wings (29 page)

“We better get back. Christmas Eve is the big event for the Spencers. And if you're going to be one, you'll have to be initiated.” He closed her hand in his. Noelle St. Claire Spencer.

———

If she thought she could downplay the ring, that notion was dispelled immediately. Tara squealed the moment she took off her coat, grabbed her hand, and trumpeted, “What's this?” Thankfully only Therese and Stephanie were within range.

Rick circled his little sister's shoulders. “Don't hyperventilate.”

“Is it an engagement ring?”

Noelle was wrong. Celia had obviously heard. She came from the kitchen, her face a study in surprise and concern, neither expression encouraging. Rick glanced at his mother and smiled.

She formed one in return. “Well.”

Speechless with joy—not. Noelle hadn't wanted a big deal made
about her birthday. This was far, far bigger. What had she been thinking? If she hadn't chosen a ring, they could have kept it secret, just between them. Everything seemed better with Rick alone; clearer, more certain. And this was only
his
family. She trembled, but strangely that thought strengthened her resolve.

“Another reason to celebrate.” Celia's face warmed but didn't convince.

“Is Dad around?” Rick looked beyond his mother, as though Hank might be lurking there.

“Outside. Probably the stables.”

He nodded, sent Noelle a wink, and went back out.
Wonderful
. A gentle hand on her shoulder made Noelle turn and Therese hugged her. “Congratulations.”

Stephanie followed suit. “I'm so glad, only . . . I thought you said . . .”

Therese elbowed her. “Obviously, things changed.”

“Oh yeah. They had a date.”

Noelle had to laugh. “It's sudden, I know. I . . .” How on earth did one explain?

“Come have some tea.” Celia motioned toward the kitchen.

Those words quickly signaled dread. But this time the girls came too.

“Have you set a date?” Celia's voice was carefully controlled.

Noelle shook her head. “No. Nothing's definite.” That wasn't what she meant, but the nuance settled on Celia like a cloud. “Rick asked me this morning and I accepted. We chose a ring, but nothing else.”

Celia poured tea all around. Noelle stared into her cup. Would she ever drink it again without her stomach clenching?

———

Rick found his dad in the stable nursing the back of one of the gelding's forelegs. “How's it looking?” The horse had cut an artery several days before and bled badly before the vet arrived, but an animal that size could lose five gallons of blood without serious danger.

“Better. I wish he'd learn not to paw at the door that way.”

“No good grasp of cause and effect?” Rick smiled.

Dad patted the horse. “Not that I can see.” He looked up. “Did you need something?”

Rick leaned on the stall door. “Dad, I asked Noelle to marry me.”

His dad rested his hand on the gelding's back. “And?”

“She accepted.”

Dad cocked his jaw. “I'm sure you've thought it all out.”

“I've prayed. I believe it's my direction.”

“Has she?”

Rick shook his head. “Mom's already tackled that. I know faith should come first, but there are extenuating circumstances here that make it difficult.”

“No one said things should be easy.”

“I love her, Dad. She'll learn God's love through mine.”

His dad dropped his chin. “That's a tall order, son.”

It was. And Rick was less sure than he tried to sound. He knew what Scripture taught: love is patient, love is kind; a man should love his wife as his own body, present her unblemished on the day of judgment.
I'm willing, Lord
. “I think it's right.”

Dad cocked his head and nodded. “She's a lovely girl.”

More so than he'd ever anticipated. They would work through the difficulties. Faith, hope, and love. And the greatest was love. The others would come.

———

For dinner Celia served Christmas ham and all its trimmings. Tiffany had instructed Noelle to change clothes, saying, “We always dress up for Christmas Eve.” So she was once again in the dress Rick had purchased. What if she had refused it? But she stroked the soft sleeve and realized she had accepted much more than an angora dress. And the ring on her finger bore that thought home.

Morgan arrived, impeccable and charming, just before the meal was served. He even interacted, seemingly none the worse for his absence, wherever that had taken him. Maybe getting out had eased his hurt, though the red in his eyes suggested another balm.

After the meal, Noelle followed them all into the den. Rick had said something about initiation. Was this the time?

Tara squeezed her arm. “Tonight this room is dubbed the ‘music hall.' ”

“Music hall?” Noelle dubiously eyed the old upright piano and mismatched chairs the men were dragging in and setting around the pullout couch that Morgan had been using for a bed but which now was folded in.

Tara giggled. “You'll see.”

Noelle sat beside Rick on the couch. He looked wonderful again in charcoal vest and white dress shirt. But if she were truly honest, she preferred him in his denim or flannel or chambray shirts and jeans. Especially when they smelled of smoke and horses and dust. That was the Rick she knew best, the one she fell in love with.

Hank stood behind Celia at the piano. Bowing his head, he folded his hands, and all grew quiet. “Lord, be glorified,” he said.

“Amen,” voices around her answered. Definitely the shortest prayer yet. Noelle felt Rick's arm come around her as Celia touched the keys and Hank sang “O Holy Night.” His wife harmonized in a mellow contralto, their voices blending.

Noelle bit her lip and smiled. Now she knew where Rick and Morgan got their vocal ability. Rick stood when they finished and took up his guitar. He slipped the strap over his head.

Together with Celia on the piano, he accompanied Therese, Stephanie, and Tiffany in a medley of carols. Noelle could tell none were formally trained, but they sang with a freedom and pleasure that professional training might have destroyed. She recalled Professor Jenkins's words,
“Please don't tell me it's because you were instructed . . .”
How much of her own natural inspiration had been lost by the hours and hours of drills?

Tara had taken her place in front with an adorably impish pose and proceeded to dramatize “I Saw Mama Kissing Santa Claus,” even shaking her finger in her mother's face.

Noelle leaned close to Therese, who'd filled Rick's place beside her. “She was born for the stage.”

“I know,” Therese whispered back. “She hasn't a self-conscious bone in her.”

“Like Morgan.”

Therese nodded. “And they adore each other.”

Noelle smiled. “I noticed that.”

But when Morgan got up, his manner was nothing like his little sister's silliness. He leaned against the piano with almost a listless stance. Noelle tensed as he rested his eyes on her.
Oh, Morgan, don't spoil it
.

“Play ‘Blue Christmas,' Mom,” he said, without shifting his gaze.

“I don't know that one, Morgan.”

“Then just chord with me.” He began to sing the melancholy song with all the pathos of Elvis.

Noelle looked down at her hands, startled by the brilliance of the diamond that announced her acceptance of Rick. She'd seen Morgan's expression when he noticed the ring at dinner. She had hoped he would understand, or at least accept it, but he sang to her alone, and her heart ached.

She glanced at Rick, leaning on the wall. He wore the grim look she remembered so well. Was it Morgan's advances that had caused that same look before, after he'd brought her home from the hospital?

Caught between them, she felt strangled. How did Morgan dare to do this with all his family looking on? His words wrapped around her, and she hurt for the hurt she heard there. She thought of what Rick had told her of Morgan's past.
“It really tore him up.”
And Celia's words.
“It's not easy to tell, especially with someone like Morgan.”

Did he care more than she thought? Was he baring his heart in the only way he knew how? Her throat ached with tears. She hadn't realized how vulnerable he was. He'd boasted of his heart of steel.

She hadn't seen, hadn't understood. She had been focused on herself. Rick's love had freed her to feel again. But it was Morgan who first cracked the shell. She closed her eyes. She couldn't love them both.

Tara jumped up. “Now do a fun one. Sing ‘Jolly Old St. Nick' with me.” Smiling, he pinched her nose and they sang. When they finished, they clasped hands and made a grand bow together, accepting any and all applause. Of course.

“Noelle's turn.” Tiffany waved an arm her way.

“That's not fair.” Rick came off the wall like the protector he was. “She didn't know the rules.”

“But everyone has to.” Tara caught her hand and pulled her up.

Noelle stood. “I don't really sing, but I'll play.”

Celia moved for her to take her place. Noelle sat a moment, resting her fingers on the keyboard. “I don't know any Christmas songs.”

“Play anything.” Tara leaned her elbows on the piano top. “Chopsticks.”

Noelle drew a long breath, raised her hands, and played, the music of Chopin flowing from her fingers as she'd been taught. It had been so long, but it was still there. Years of practice and study at Julliard did not so easily fade. Closing her eyes, she found the joy in even this clumsy instrument and forgot those seated around her.

She imagined her father in his wing chair, eyes closed, listening, and a pang of remorse seized her. If only she were a little girl again,
playing for her daddy with all the promise of her life ahead of her. Her fingers called out the music from the keys. Life was ahead of her still . . . a new life.

There was utter silence when she finished, and she looked up to see Rick smiling in astonishment.

“I'm so
humiliated,
” Tara wailed. “To think I practiced in front of you.”

Noelle started to stand.

“Don't stop!” Stephanie called.

Tara nudged her back down. “Play something not so serious.”

Noelle smiled at the irrepressible girl. She wished she'd had so much fire at that age. Caught up in Tara's mood, she launched into Rimsky-Korsakov's “Flight of the Bumblebee.” Her fingers flew over the keys as Tara dragged Morgan to his feet to dance. Noelle finished and raised her hands.

Tara clung to her arm. “I
want
you to teach me.”

“Be real,” Stephanie scoffed.

Tara collapsed onto the couch, so Noelle joined Rick against the wall.

He leaned close. “I've got to get you a piano.”

“Now that we've all had our chance in the spotlight, we'll hear about the true light.” Hank opened up his large Bible. “The birth of our Lord according to Saint Luke.” He read the story that Noelle had heard in various forms since
A Charlie Brown Christmas
. It wasn't threatening or especially believable—angels telling women they were pregnant, one who had never had relations with a man. How could they believe all that? Couldn't they tell it was a myth like any other? Zeus and the gods of Mount Olympus procreating with mortals to create heroes half god, half man.

It was an interesting twist making Jesus poor and helpless, but many of the other myths included jealous rivals threatening the life of the hero and forcing him to flee. The pattern was recognizable. It even brought astrology into it. How else would the wise men have attributed a star to a human event? Astronomy would have accounted for a stellar anomaly, but only a pseudo-science would ascribe prophetic meaning. Hank stopped reading when the mythical family had fled to Egypt to escape the destruction that all the other babies suffered in place of “God's son.” Why hadn't the angel warned the other families, cleared them all out of Bethlehem?

The moment Hank closed the book, Tara jumped up like a music-box clown. “Presents, presents, presents. Come on, everyone, it's time to open presents.”

They all gathered around the Christmas tree. Noelle dropped to the floor with the rest of them. She smiled when Hank pulled on the Santa hat and rummaged the gifts out from under the tree. He handed them around in stacks. No one moved until he was finished, then he winked at Tara. “Oldest to youngest, parents excepted.”

She wailed.

“She can have my turn.” Morgan chucked her chin.

“No way.” Stephanie plopped a package in his lap. “We have to follow Santa's orders.”

Morgan laughed when he opened the Looney Tunes tie and looped it over his neck.

“That's from me.” Tara bobbed up to get her hug.

He squeezed her. “I never would have guessed.”

Rick got leather work gloves from Hank. Noelle watched him pull them over his long fingers and try the fit. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Noelle's turn.” Tara was making sure no one dallied.

Noelle looked down. The small box on the top of her stack had Morgan's name on the tag. She opened it to find a bottle of Parisian perfume.

He smiled wryly. “Just a little something from the Champs-Élysées.”

Her chest was tight. “Thank you, Morgan.”

“I hope that's what's in mine!” Tara shook the big box that held Morgan's gift to her.

“Oh sure, Tara.” Stephanie nudged her shoulder. “Like Morgan's going to bring you French perfume.”

“I will next time, Peanut.”

Though it was Therese's turn, Tara tore into her package, pulled out the red-and-white-striped footed pajamas, and shrieked. “Oh, I
love
them! I'm going to wear them right now!”