An Angel for Christmas (3 page)

“Shayne is giving him something to wear that isn't soaked with snow,” Morwenna said.

“I'm getting the shotgun,” Mike said. “I just don't trust that guy. I'm going to have it on hand at all times.”

 

Genevieve, unsurprisingly for her age, was not an ace at wrapping packages. In a few instances when he didn't cut the paper quickly enough, she cut pieces that were too small. Small items, stocking stuffers, were wrapped in enough paper to conceal a small elephant.

“Wow, there's a lot of stuff here!” Connor told Bobby, his eyes wide. Then they clouded. “I guess we won't get much here,” he added.

“We won't get presents?” Genevieve asked.

“Of course you'll get presents,” Bobby told him.

But Connor shook his head knowingly. “We did get presents, Genevieve. Remember? Daddy and Gram and all sent them before, and we opened them at home.” He looked at his uncle apologetically. “We got good presents, Uncle Bobby. Gram likes to give presents, huh—is that why there are so many here?”

“Gram has always loved to make everyone a stocking,” Bobby said, “including Gramps. But I wouldn't worry—you'll get presents.”

“Yes!” Genevieve said. She had a little lisp. Her front tooth was loose. “Santa Claus will come here, right?”

Shayne knew that Connor didn't believe in Santa Claus, so he brought a finger to his lips and winked.

“That's right. And Santa Claus can find any house,” he assured Genevieve.

Connor rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure.”

Shayne poked his head in the doorway. “Hey,
Bobby, thanks. Want to take over in my room for a minute?”

“Sure. Take over what?”

“Watching our—guest. The guy we picked up—Gabe—is freezing. The snow soaked through his clothing. I've got him in my room, but I need you to stand by the door while I dig in my closet for something for him to wear.”

“I can find him something—” Bobby said.

“No, that's cool, I still have you by an inch or so in the shoulder and chest region, and the guy looks like he's about my size. I just don't want to leave him standing there. Connor, you can watch your sister for a minute, huh?”

“Yeah, sure, Dad,” Connor said. He made a face. “Bobby still has scissors from when he was in grade school. Can you believe that Gram keeps stuff that long?” he asked with a laugh. “I'll watch her, but I don't think Genevieve can hurt herself.”

“I can cut paper!” Genevieve announced proudly.

Shayne walked over to ruffle his son's hair. “Thanks,” he said. “And, of course you know how
to cut paper, Genevieve. You're a very bright little girl.”

“Mommy taught me,” she said.

“Yell if you need me,” Bobby said, rising quickly to follow his brother out to the hall and to Shayne's room.
Shayne's room. None of them lived there anymore; actually, they'd never lived there. Well, Mom had, and they had often spent summer months and spring and Christmas breaks there. This place evoked a lot of good memories. His parents were in Philadelphia, Shayne was in Pittsburgh and Morwenna was in New York. Not that far, as the world went. But this was where they had always gathered.

Where it seemed their mother had created a memorial to the past, when they'd actually been a family.

Bobby was suddenly ashamed of his thoughts. They
were
a family.

The bathroom door was ajar.

“He took a serious crack on the head,” Shayne said when Bobby crooked a brow at him. “He could fall—he could need help. Look, none of us are in high school football anymore. Just hang around outside the door and be ready to rush in if
you hear him slip or scream or rip out the shower curtain, huh?”

“Fine, I'll be ready,” Bobby said. He leaned against the wall by the door that was an inch or so open. The water started to spray.

He heard his brother fumbling around in the closet. Shayne emerged. “I'm just going down to toss this stuff in the dryer—freshen it up. I'll be right back.”

“Big bro, you're the M.D. Don't be gone long,” Bobby said.

“Two minutes. Just going to toss the stuff around because it's been in a closet,” Shayne said. Two minutes? Hell! What if something happened? What if the guy did fall? Shayne was right—they weren't accustomed to showering in a mass steam room of sweat anymore.

Awkward.

He could hear the shower spray, and nothing else.

He tapped lightly on the door. “You all right in there?” he asked.

“Yep, fine, thanks.”

“Yell, if—”

“Thanks!”

Bobby was startled when the shower stopped. He backed into the foot of his brother's bed and sat with a plop.

Gabe Lange came out from the bathroom, one towel tied around his waist as he used a second to dry his hair.

“I can't tell you how good it feels to be warm,” Gabe said.

“Ah, great. Yeah. I can imagine.”

“Are you from here? Winter can be pretty brutal, huh?”

“My mom is actually from here. I was born in Philadelphia. We were all born in Philadelphia. I mean, Shayne, Morwenna and I,” Bobby said. “What about you?”

“Down in the city,” Gabe said. “Richmond.”

“Nice. So—how did you come to be out here in the mountains?” Bobby asked.

“State police—we go wherever. Within the state, of course. So, are you a college student?” Gabe asked him.

Bobby couldn't help but roll his eyes. “Yes, and no. I've just applied again. I've been to Columbia and Northwestern.”

“Those are good schools. Where are you trying to go now?”

The question was entirely innocent, and a natural get-to-know-you question. Bobby looked at the door; he didn't want Shayne to hear him.

“They don't know it—none of them know it—I applied to Juilliard.”

“Ah. For—”

“I'm a guitarist, and I want to write my own music,” Bobby said, warmth entering his voice; he was speaking quickly. “My family—they're all superachievers. My dad could write his ticket anywhere, though he's stayed with the D.A.'s office. Maybe he'll run for something someday, who knows? My brother is, as you know, an M.D., and my sister, bless her heart, is an executive with one of Manhattan's finest ad agencies. All respectable moneymakers.”

“And are they happy?” Gabe asked him.

“Well, yeah, I think. Shayne loves medicine.
I know—through the years—that my folks have talked about his work every time he got an offer to go into private practice. And Morwenna…”

“Yeah?”

“She was an artist once. A really good artist.”

“Doesn't she get to use that talent at the ad agency?”

“I think that was the idea. But I think it got lost in one of the executive meetings,” Bobby said wryly. “I loved it when I was a kid. She was always drawing fantasy creatures for me. Being snowed in up here isn't really anything all that new. It's happened before. God forbid they sell this place and head south!”

“Would you want them to?” Gabe asked him.

Bobby thought about that for a minute. “Palm Springs, Daytona Beach…snowbound mountains!” He laughed. “No, I don't suppose I would want them to sell. The house is historic—really historic. You can tell by the horrible plumbing and the really bad electricity. But the place really means something to my mom. And, in all honesty, I guess it means something to me, too.”

“That's nice to hear. But, what's the story with your music?” Gabe asked.

“According to my father, music is a hobby. Not a career. You go to school for a career.” Bobby looked at the door again. “I'm an adult. If I really want it, I can just stop taking parental financial aid and go it on my own. It will be much harder, but I'm willing to give it go. The thing is…” Bobby trailed off.

“Yeah?” Gabe pressed.

He laughed suddenly. “I guess it's a good thing. We fight like cats and dogs, and it's hard to plan a family dinner with a pack of overachievers…but, still, my parents always loved us. It's the way that they look at me that kills me. It's the disappointment.” Bobby shut up, wondering why the hell he had just kind of spilled out so much to a stranger. Maybe, he thought, because he'd needed to tell someone, but he didn't want to tell them until he knew what might happen. He knew the odds were against him; getting into Juilliard was a numbers game, and there could only be so many people
who got into the school. There were other music schools—if he didn't make it, he'd try again.

But he didn't want to tell anyone in the house that he'd auditioned. He didn't want them to see his hope, or, his disappointment if he didn't make it. Even though it meant they were sure to lecture him through the holiday, he was sticking with the story that he'd gotten a job working in New York City for the coming semester, until he figured out just what he did want. It wasn't a lie; he did have a job offer working with a group of musical waiters at a place called Napoli. They waited on tables, stopped, picked up their instruments and did quick numbers in between.

Even if he made it into Juilliard, Mario, the head of the group and a great vocalist, had assured him they'd be happy to work with his schedule.

It was all okay, really. But he could just hear his father's voice: “A singing waiter? What kind of life is that, Bobby? What if you want a family, kids? There's no advancement, Bobby. Nowhere to go.”

“Sounds to me like you know how to get where you want to go—just have to hang in and take
those first steps. So,” he said loudly, “Christmas here every year, huh?”

Bobby realized that Shayne was coming back with clothing for their guest.

He'd told a stranger, and not his brother, what he was hoping to do with his life.

“Yep, every year,” he said.

As Shayne walked in, Bobby walked out. “Patient seems to be fine,” he said.

Back in his own room, he found Genevieve and Connor sitting in the midst of a massive pile of wrapping-paper scraps. Rudolph was dancing here and there, and little blue snowflakes lay in strips across the floor.

“Nice job,” he said cheerfully. He looked around at the mess. “I think I hear Gram calling you from the kitchen!”

He led them back past his brother's door, and could hear the drone of Shayne's voice. No surprise. Shayne was willing to talk about the difficulty of the divorce at the drop of a hat.

Except that Shayne didn't seem to be doing all
the talking. He stopped speaking now and then, and Bobby could hear the stranger's voice.

That he was speaking wasn't odd at all.

That Shayne apparently stopped speaking to actually listen was odd indeed.

“Dinner's ready!” Morwenna called up the stairs.

Her father had been in his study and he emerged, slipping an arm around her shoulders. “So, kid, what happened? I thought we were going to get to meet Mr. Perfect this year.”

“He couldn't come, Dad, and he isn't Mr. Perfect.”

“But he's a major presence in your life, right?” her father asked her.

“Dad, we've been seeing each other about six
months. He still has his apartment, I still have mine. I—”

“I should hope so!” Mike said, disgruntled.

Morwenna chuckled softly. “Dad! You'd be surprised at the mismatched couples that jump in together in New York. The cost of living is staggering. But we're both doing well, and he's really a nice guy.”

“So nice that he isn't here with you at Christmas,” her father said. He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. She had seen him in the courtroom, standing in just that position, when he was arguing the guilt of an accused.

He was good at the stance.

“Dad, an entire group from our agency was going to Cancún. Alex put the trip together before he knew that I was coming home.”

“And a bunch of adults couldn't go to Cancún without him?”

“Hey! I'm an adult, too. I could have gone with them.”

Mike MacDougal shook his head sadly and sagely.

“No, because you know that you would break your mother's heart if you did something like that.”

“When people are together—married, cohabiting, etcetera—they often go to one family one year, and another family the next. And children of divorced parents sometimes wind up so confused they don't know where to go anymore—so they head to Cancún.”

Mike was silent, shaking his head for a minute, and then said, “Here's the only truth I know—we're all going to die. You can even get out of the ‘taxes' part of death and taxes. And when we die, there's only one thing we take with us.”

“What's that?”

“Love,” Mike said, tapping his heart. “You and your siblings will talk about your mother and me when we're gone, and that way, we'll still be alive. Love lives on—not trips to Cancún, fruity drinks imbibed on a beach, or expensive clothing, or even a hotshot job. Your family loves you…you deserve a guy who knows about family, and love.”

Morwenna stared at her father, stunned. She'd never heard such a speech from him before.

“You were the one who pushed me through school,” she reminded him. “Then it was, ‘We all have to be independent, make our mark in life! There's no one you can depend on but yourself.' I went to school. I learned how to negotiate, engage a client, play all the business games. I even own stock, for God's sake.”

She was surprised when he didn't laugh, or at least crack a smile.

“Christmas,” he said softly, “always makes me kind of sentimental.”

He walked past her. Bobby came down the stairs, followed by Shayne, the kids and their strange guest, Gabe Lange.

“What's up? What's with that look?” Bobby asked her.

“Dad. Our father has gotten all weird,” she whispered, looking past him with a careful smile. “Christmas Eve dinner is on, Mr. Lange.”

He looked even better. Despite looking a bit worse for wear, the guy really did have a great
face, all the right bone structure in place, but a face that wasn't too pretty, and the structure didn't take away from the strength of his jawline. In Shayne's flannel shirt and old jeans, he looked like a sandy-haired woodsman. He could have done a commercial for some kind of rugged men's cologne.

She reminded herself that many a serial killer had offered the world a pleasant face. She still didn't trust him. He was a stranger in their midst.

“Thank you,” he told her. “Thank you for having me in your home like this. Christmas is a special time. I didn't really mean to intrude,” he told her.

“Well, I guess you didn't collapse by our house on purpose,” Morwenna said dryly. “Come along.”

She led the way from the parlor along the hall to the dining room, attached to the kitchen. Her mom was directing their extra guests to take their seats.

They hadn't expected Shayne's kids, and they certainly hadn't expected Gabe Lange, but her mother could always manage to make a meal stretch. Turkey would be the main course tomor
row. For Christmas Eve, Stacy always cooked a strange conglomeration of food—linguini with clam sauce, and potatoes and rice, a roast, broccoli with hollandaise sauce, green beans with slivered almonds, a massive “kitchen sink” salad and bread pudding. Perhaps the meal stretched so well because there were so many items to be had.

Morwenna looked at her mother. “What else? What can I get? What can I do?”

“Drinks,” her mother said, setting the bowl with the linguini on the table. “Take a tally. Kids, are you having juice? What would you like?”

They were all startled when Genevieve answered with a little sniff. “I would like Mommy to be here,” she said.

The adults froze. Connor placed his arm around his sister. “She's on a trip. We'll see her again soon,” he said.

Morwenna dived in quickly, not wanting Shayne to say anything. She knew he couldn't understand what had happened to his marriage, and that he didn't intend to hurt the kids. He also couldn't help but be bitter.

“I'll bet she'll come back with great and wonderful gifts!” Morwenna said, walking around to hug Genevieve. “So, until then, what will you have to drink?”

“Can we have soda, Dad?” Connor asked.

“It's Christmas Eve, why not?” Shayne told his son. Morwenna caught her brother's eyes. He smiled at her; he was not going to make a disparaging remark about his ex-wife. Something about him seemed to have changed, just since he'd gotten to the house. Maybe he'd had a long talk with Bobby upstairs.

“Two sodas… Bobby? Soda, beer, wine?”

“Hey, it's my first ‘legal' Christmas. Please serve me a lovely glass of Cabernet,” Bobby said. “And Dad can't even get arrested, or call the cops himself, because I am legal these days!”

“I'd have myself arrested?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, I think you would, Dad. In the name of justice for all!” He laughed. “My dad may be the best assistant D.A. in the country. I think he would have himself arrested under the innkeeper law,” he told Gabe.

Mike groaned. “You were underage—you and your friends. It's illegal for an adult to aid a young person in securing alcoholic beverages. Now you are twenty-one. Go for it.”

“Tough to grow up in such a household,” Shayne told Gabe.

“Not so bad. We just decided to smoke pot, since everything was illegal for us,” Bobby said cheerfully.

Mike looked as if he would explode.

“Chill, Dad, chill, just kidding!” Bobby said.

“An honest man. Rare to find,” Gabe said. He had a curious expression. “I think I'd like a beer, if I may. Sounds intriguing—um, good, sorry. Sounds good.”

The seeds of mistrust settled more deeply into Morwenna's soul.
Intriguing? Beer? Where the hell had this guy been? Locked up somewhere?

“Mom, Dad, Shayne?” Morwenna asked.

In the end, she had two caffeine-free sodas, four glasses of wine and two bottles of beer. She moved into the kitchen to get the drinks, and found herself pausing to look around.

And feel guilty.

Stacy even cleaned while she cooked. With all that she had prepared, her mother had kept up with pots and other utensils as well. She had done so much; every year she did so much. She'd always been an at-home mom. Morwenna wondered if she had ever had her own set of dreams, and if their father's career had changed Stacy's life. She'd always cooked breakfast, made lunches, driven the children to Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts and Little League, sewn costumes, bought the candy, gone trick-or-treating and done everything imaginable.

Stacy followed her into the kitchen. “I'll get the sodas,” she said. “If you pour the wine.”

“Mom, why don't you just sit, and let me do this.”

“Are you kidding? I'm in my element, sweetheart. And we don't get days like these often anymore—you know, when I have all of you!”

Morwenna walked to the counter where her mother was pouring the sodas. She slipped her arms around her waist. “Mom, did you ever want to really do anything? I mean, you know, have a
career—do something else besides wait on Dad and all of us?”

Stacy turned to stare at her, her eyes wide. “Morwenna,
this
is my career, my life.”

“But, did Dad stop you from having any other dreams? Now would be the time to fulfill a dream. It's never too late, you know.”

She was surprised; she was trying to stand up for her mother, and her mother was angry. “You get it out of your head that your father stopped me from doing anything. Because of your father, I could live my dream, I could have
this
career.”

“But we're gone now, Mom. We're all gone, out of the house, grown up.”

“And that means you're not my children anymore?”

“But Dad pushed me so hard to make sure that I had a career—” Morwenna began.

Stacy quickly cut her off. “Your father pushed
you,
yes, because you needed more. And because the world is changing. Now two people have to work sometimes in order to afford to raise a family. I guess you don't understand. You have all your
sleek, chic clothing, designer briefcases and all-important meetings. And I concentrate on making sure a roast is edible. But, Morwenna, don't try to fix me. I like what I am, and I like what I do, and there are ups and downs in life all the time, but I'm
happy.
Maybe your ex-sister-in-law is the only one who really knows that, since she made sure that the kids came here for Christmas. The only one who appreciates family, it seems, is the one no longer in the family!”

Morwenna didn't have a chance to respond; Stacy expertly balanced the four wineglasses and seemed to sail out of the kitchen, her head held regally high.

“I wanted to draw!” she said, aware that her mother couldn't hear her. “I wanted to draw, and paint, and create things!”

She hesitated, aware that, supposedly, the job she had taken would allow her to do just that. But she had become a stereotype of corporate America instead.

“I like my clothes!” she told the swinging door.

She tucked two bottles of beer under her arm,
picked up the sodas and followed Stacy back to the dinner table.

“Ah, Morwenna is here now. We can say grace,” Stacy said.

Mike stood and looked around the table. “Thank you, Lord, for the food we are about to eat. Thank you for the safety and lives of our family. Amen.”

“Nice,” Gabe commented.

“Better than the old joke, eh, of just saying ‘
Grace'!
” Bobby teased.

“We know better than to give the task to you, son,” Mike said, but he was grinning.

“Wait!” Genevieve said. “Wait, Gram, please! Can we do that thing that Mommy's family does?”

They all looked at her. Genevieve grinned and stood up. She took Bobby's hand and reached for her brother's.

“Ah, Genevieve, what are you doing?” Connor demanded.

“Give me your hand, Connor. I don't have any cooties!” Genevieve said.

Connor shrugged and gave her his hand. “This is just silly. Mom isn't here.”

“Hey, your sister wants to have your mom here—in spirit,” Shayne said. “And let's all try to make each other happy, huh?”

Genevieve grinned happily. “Okay, everybody, now,
shake a lot of love!
”

Around the table, they held hands, and on Genevieve's command, they all shook their hands up and down.

“Now,” Genevieve said complacently, “it's almost kind of Christmas!”

“They don't even really know what day Christmas Day is supposed to be,” Connor said. “Some popes or priests somewhere got together to pick a day.”

“That's right, Connor,” Gabe said. “But it doesn't take away from the fact that the day was chosen, and it's the day when Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus. So, it's the chosen day, and your sister is right—it's almost here.”

“So it might have been any day,” Morwenna murmured. Except that she was heard. She looked at Gabe, who was staring at her with amusement.

“What? It's a day for miracles or the like?” she asked him softly.

“Miracles are what we make ourselves,” he said. He looked upward. “Maybe the Lord can lend a hand, but we have to create magic ourselves.”

She groaned softly. “A do-gooder cop. Great.”

He just grinned. She did, too.

And, somehow, the meal went along with the conversation pleasant instead of strained, with the family asking questions instead of throwing out accusations, and her father actually asked Bobby to bring out his guitar when they got to the bread pudding.

He played Christmas carols and the family chimed in, except for Morwenna.

Gabe looked at her. “Are you really that ‘bah, humbug'?” he asked her.

“No. I sound like a wounded hyena when I sing,” she told him.

“But these are Christmas carols. Everyone sings Christmas carols.” He looked upward again. “He doesn't care what you sound like.”

Morwenna laughed. “I think I'll pick up the plates.”

She was surprised when he caught her hand. “‘O Little Town of Bethlehem,'” he said. “I know you know it. I'll help with the plates. One song, huh?”

With an exaggerated sigh, she sat again. She sang along with the family, watching Gabe. “See?”

“I thought you were great.”

She drew back, looking at him suspiciously. “Do you actually have a family?” she asked him.

“I do. I have a wonderful family,” he assured her.

“Why aren't you going crazy, trying to find a working phone?” she demanded. “You're not with them.”