Lakeshore Christmas (8 page)

Weirdly, there was one string of lights still burning, unscathed by the accident. The string crossed the churned-up snow, clearly delineating the path of the out-of-control van.

The poor driver. Had he been scared? Had he panicked or had it all happened so fast that there was no time to feel anything?

She hoped that was the case. Hoped it had not been excruciating. She stopped for a moment, said a little prayer
to that effect. To her surprise, her cheeks felt damp with tears.

She found baby Jesus, head down in the snow. She picked it up by one plaster arm. It was the same plaster baby on display year after year, forever frozen in a beatific pose, reclining with arms spread, palms out, a gold leaf coronet circling the head. The back of the statue was stamped with HECHO EN MEXICO.

It felt vaguely irreverent to abandon the plaster infant, but she wasn’t helping anything by dragging it around. She set it right side up in a snowbank.

Maureen was shivering now, the snow and cold penetrating her thin silver choir robe.

She nearly tripped over one of the wise men. At least, she thought it was one of the magi, or maybe it was a shepherd, or poor long-suffering Joseph. Bending to have a closer look, she let out a little scream and jumped back. Her heart nearly leaped from her chest.

Then she called herself a fool and approached more cautiously, leaning forward and removing her glasses.

She gasped loudly, realizing her eyes had not deceived her earlier. This was no wise man. This is no plaster saint at all. It was a man. A dazed and broken man, lying half-hidden in the snow, his eyes softly shut. A thin dark line marred his forehead. He looked young; he had longish, light-colored hair and a face she vaguely recognized.

“Hey,” she said, her voice cracking. “Hey—hello?” She dared to touch him, nudging his arm. “I need some help over here!” she called, not looking away from the stranger. Without thinking, she reached out and stroked his cheek.

Warm. He was warm.

“Hallelujah,” she murmured. “Please be who I think you are,” she said. “Please be the car’s only occupant.”

His eyes fluttered open. In the artificial light flooding the area, she couldn’t make out the color. But she could make out his faint smile. Why on earth was he smiling? At her?

“Another angel?” he murmured. “This place is crawling with angels.”

“What?” She looked around, saw no one; apparently no one had heard her call out a moment ago. “What?” she said again, and then: “Where?”

He shifted, gingerly pulled himself up by bracing one arm behind him. The other arm didn’t look so good, hanging at an awkward angle. Aside from that, he had a couple of cuts on his forehead and chin, one on his right cheekbone just below the rim of his eye. But he was alive, and talking. Considering the state of his vehicle, that was a miracle.

He frowned at her. “Sorry. For a second, you looked like an angel to me.”

Despite the circumstances, Maureen felt a beat of warmth. She could safely say no man had ever mistaken her for an angel. Then she snapped herself back to reality. “You were driving the van,” she said. “A white van?”

“Yeah.” He frowned. “I was.”

“Were you by yourself?” she asked.
Please say yes. Please say yes.
“Was anyone else in the car with you?”

“I was alone,” he said. His teeth were chattering now. “All by my lonesome.” Then he looked panicked. “Did I hurt any one? Oh, Christ, did I hit—”

“No,” she quickly assured him. “Everyone’s fine. And you’re going to be fine, too.”

Thank heaven, she thought, allowing herself to smile weakly with relief. She remembered hearing the grim
voice of the EMT…“It’d take a miracle to survive that fireball.”

“You got a real nice smile,” said the miracle.

D
aisy Bellamy set her two-year-old in Santa’s lap and stepped back, holding her breath and hoping for the best. The setting looked beautiful this year—a skating hut that had been turned into a gingerbread house, with Santa ensconced on his wingback throne, giving dreamy-faced kids a “Ho Ho Ho” and promising them the moon. She offered up the prayer known to parents of toddlers everywhere—
Please let him sit still long enough to get the shot.

Hurry up, she silently urged the helper dressed like an elf. Take the shot. Take it. Now. In photography, timing was everything.

The elf held up a squeaky toy in one hand and the shutter release in the other. “Look at the birdie,” he said in a light, singsong voice.

Charlie’s eyes, usually twin emerald buttons of merriment, widened with horror. He looked from the red-clad, bearded stranger upon whose knee he sat, to the goggle-eyed elf holding up the squeaking thing. Charlie sucked in a breath, and there was a moment of perfect, stunned silence.

Take it, take it, take it, Daisy thought.

The elf pressed the shutter a split second too late. By that moment, Charlie’s face had contorted into a mask of abject terror. His tiny T-shirt read Santa Loves Me but his expression said, “Who’s the freak?” He let out a tortured wail that could probably be heard by everyone standing in line outside the gingerbread-bedecked cottage.

Daisy swooped in and rescued him. He clung to her, a shuddering mass of sobs, his wet face pushed into her chest, his tiny fists digging into her sweater. He refused to let go even long enough for her to get his parka on him, so she settled for merely draping it around his shoulders. “You’ll probably catch pneumonia,” she muttered.

“’Monia,” he echoed with a tragic sniffle.

She made her way toward the exit, which obliged her to parade the tormented child past the other waiting children and parents. At a glance, they appeared to be well-groomed, calm children, accompanied by their soccer moms and commuter dads. Daisy could imagine them critiquing her parenting, speculating that she’d given her toddler too much candy or skipped his nap. (Guilty on both counts, but still.) That was the trouble with teenage mothers, they’d probably say. They just aren’t ready to be parents.

Daisy wasn’t a teenager anymore, but she still looked it, having rushed from class in her worn jeans and old snowboard parka to pick Charlie up from the sitter. She’d been pregnant at eighteen, a mother at nineteen. In just a short time, she’d gone from being a student at a Manhattan prep school to being a single mother in a small town, where she’d moved to be close to her family. Now Charlie was two and a half, and she was pushing twenty-one, which sounded young, yet there were times when being a single mom made her feel older than rock itself.

She sneaked a glance at a woman in heeled boots and a fashionable houndstooth jacket, bending down to put the finishing touches on her silky-haired daughter’s bow. The two of them looked as if they’d stepped out of the pages of a magazine. How did they do it? Daisy wondered. How did they look so pulled-together and calm, instead of rushing from place to place, always forgetting something?

Deep breath, she told herself. She was blessed many times over with plenty of friends and family for support. She did acknowledge that she struggled because living on her own was her choice. Though her family had money, Daisy possessed a streak of independence and pride that made her want to succeed on her own. Charlie was healthy, she was making her way toward a college degree (albeit slowly) and getting occasional work in photography, her area of discipline at the State University at New Paltz. The holidays were on their way, the first big snow of the year had arrived, and life was good enough. She reminded herself to find and savor the moments of sweetness.

“Okay,” she said to Charlie. “I’m relaxed. So what if we didn’t get a shot with Santa?”

“Santa!” Charlie said, rearing back to regard her with shining eyes. “Lub him.”

“Right. We got a picture of just how much you love him.” They walked by a path marked by human-size lollipops. She stopped and made him put on his parka then, because it was a bit of a hike across the park to the car. “I’ll do your Christmas picture myself,” she said. “We don’t need no stinkin’ Santa.”

“Santa!” He clapped his hands, clearly still in love with the idea of Santa. Plunking him on the lap of a fat, bearded stranger—now, that was another story.

“We’ll try the real thing again next year,” she said. “This year, it’ll be Photoshop Santa.”

“Okay, Mom,” he said.

“No problem.” Manipulating a shot of Charlie with Santa would be simply an evening’s work. Daisy had been obsessed with photography from a young age, as long as she could remember. She commuted to the college three days a week for classes, and spent the rest of the time doing freelance work and looking after Charlie.

She zipped him up snugly and pushed open the door, stepping out into the brisk day.

Every year, a section of Blanchard Park was transformed into Santaland, and opening day had arrived, which was a big deal around town. The weather was cold and bright; it was the sort of weather the Chamber of Commerce prayed for every year but rarely got. Santaland was the signature holiday centerpiece of a town trying to make the best of the long, dark winter, and volunteers went all out with the decorations. According to the
Avalon Troubadour,
the Chamber of Commerce anticipated record numbers of tourists this year.

Children who were normally grumpy and reluctant to stir from their beds on cold, dark school days had probably bounded downstairs today, tearing through breakfast, eager to get in line for Santa. People who usually looked out their windows and groaned at the sight of fresh snow perked up at the view today. The season had kicked off with a pancake breakfast at the fire hall. Kiosks lined the streets, offering everything from funnel cakes to balls of suet for the winter birds. Galahad’s Gallery, a co-op of local artists, had a booth that featured glass sculpture, wind chimes and a selection of prints by local artists—Daisy Bellamy included. Her seasonal nature photographs were gaining in popularity. She stopped at the booth to
learn that within minutes of opening, they’d sold two of her pieces—a panoramic shot of the Nordic ski trails winding through the winter woods, and a long-shutter-speed shot of the Schuyler River coursing beneath the town’s covered wooden bridge.

It was heady stuff, knowing people were actually paying money for her photographs. The idea that someone liked her art enough to buy it improved her mood immeasurably.

“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” she said as she prepared to drive away from Santaland.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” he answered cheerfully from his car seat in the back. He knew how to charm her, that was a fact.

He was a lot like his father.

She pulled into the town library to check out some fresh books for Charlie. He adored being read to, and she liked having new material on hand at all times. Daisy and Maureen Davenport, the librarian, had become friends, thanks to all the hours of story time Charlie had attended.

“Books,” he stated with satisfaction when he saw where they were headed.

“You got it. Anything you want—Dr. Seuss,
Clifford the Big Red Dog,
Olivia—you name it.”

“Six books,” he said. He had no idea how many that was, but he knew the number six.

“That’s right. We’re allowed to check out six books at a time on a single topic.” When she got out of the car, she saw a guy hiking across the library grounds, a backpack slung over his shoulder. It was his army-surplus jacket that caught her eye, and his easy, loose-limbed gait. He didn’t walk the way people usually did in the snow, hunched over with hands jammed in their pockets.
He was walking lightly and easily, with a spring in his step and his posture as straight as the trees all around, as though the cold didn’t bother him at all. The jacket, the trees and the snow made a striking palette, so she pulled out her camera. She was taking a class on editorial images, and this might be a good shot.

Charlie made an impatient sound in the back of the car. “Hang on,” she said, taking two more shots. Then she put her camera away and freed him from his car seat. Holding his arms out like airplane wings, he headed for the door to the library.

There was a large placard at the entryway of the building with an urgent appeal for donations. Help Us Save Our Library, it read. We Can’t Do It Without You. Daisy dug in her pocket and forked over ten bucks. She’d saved more than that by not buying the deluxe Santa package. And way more than that by borrowing all the books she wanted.

She brought Charlie straight to the children’s room and peeled off his jacket. At the moment, they were the only ones in the section. This was lucky, because around other kids, Charlie tended to be loud and friendly, another legacy from his father and the Irish side of the family. She constantly had to shush him in places like the library and church.

He was a lot like his father in that way, too.

Maureen came by, rolling a cart of books to reshelve. There was no separate children’s librarian at the Avalon Free Library. Judging by the call for donations at the entryway, Daisy suspected it was a budget issue.

“Hey, Maureen,” Daisy whispered. “How’s everything?”

“Great, thanks.” Maureen offered a cheerful smile, though she seemed a little tired. Worried, maybe.
Maureen could be anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five; it was hard to tell based on the way she dressed. Sweater sets and A-line skirts tended to make all their wearers look the same age. Maureen was actually an extremely pretty woman who didn’t make much of her looks. This was a quality Daisy admired. Before Charlie, Daisy had been a teenage train wreck of insecurities. She used to spend hours playing up her looks by dressing in the perfect outfit, making sure her hair was just right, her makeup worthy of a cover girl. Maybe if she’d just left herself alone, pulled her hair back and worn a sweater set, her life would have turned out differently.

Well, of course it would have. For sure, she would be Charlie-less. Logan never would have given her a second glance if she hadn’t thrown herself at him that one crazy weekend.

Since the thought of life without Charlie was completely unbearable, she did not allow herself to go there.

“There’s a new Jan Brett that just came in,” Maureen said, pulling it off the cart. “Beautiful scenes of snow.”

“Thanks.” Daisy took the book, admiring the intricate drawings. Charlie was pushing a copy of
Thomas the Tank Engine
along the floor, making putt-putt noises with his mouth.

“I see Charlie is in the heavy equipment phase,” Maureen observed.

“Deeply.”

“How are you doing?” Maureen asked.

“Fine, thanks,” Daisy said. “I survived midterms. This is when I always regret signing up for too many classes.”

“Do you have plans for the holidays?”

Daisy hesitated. Between her family and Logan’s,
things were always a little complicated around this time of year. When Charlie was first born, the O’Donnells didn’t want to have a thing to do with him, so decisions about the holidays were easy.

On the other hand, Logan, against all expectations, had embraced fatherhood with gusto. He was respectful of Daisy’s role as the main parent, but insisted on seeing Charlie on a regular basis. This amazed everyone who’d known him as an edgy, undisciplined teenager, getting by on looks and charm, fueling his personality with booze and prescription drugs. By the time Charlie came along, Logan was clean and sober—and serious about being a father. Before long, the O’Donnells were as crazy about Charlie as the Bellamys.

This was great for Charlie—fantastic, in fact, but often tricky to manage.

And awkward for Daisy. Because as much as the O’Donnells were in love with Charlie, they were less enthusiastic about Daisy. As the mother of an adored grandson, she was tolerated. But as the girl who, as far as they were concerned, took away their son’s future, she didn’t exactly own their hearts. They were a family with high-flown hopes for their only son. They’d dreamed of a topflight education for him. He was expected to take charge of the family shipping business, enjoying a country-club lifestyle with a family of his own.

Instead, their golden boy knocked up some girl, went to rehab and became a teenage father.

She studied her son—red-haired, merry-eyed, apple-cheeked and innocent. That’ll never happen to you, she silently vowed.

And she knew, of course, that the O’Donnells had probably said the same thing to their own red-haired son, years ago. It was kind of understandable that they weren’t
all that thrilled with Daisy. She used to resent their skepticism of her, but now that she had a beautiful red-haired boy of her own, she knew where they were coming from. The thought of some girl—any girl—being involved with Charlie one day made Daisy nuts. It was completely irrational but she couldn’t help herself. When you loved someone the way she loved Charlie, there was no room for reason. She imagined that was how the O’Donnells felt about Logan.

“Still kind of up in the air with plans for the holidays,” she told Maureen. “How about yourself? What are you up to this year?”

“We always have a big family celebration. This year, I’m going to be super busy. I’m directing the Christmas pageant at Heart of the Mountains Church.”

“Wow, sounds like a big project.”

“Huge. But I’m excited. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. I was in the pageant every year, growing up, and in the choir as an adult. When Mrs. Bickham retired from the job, I was first in line to volunteer.”

Daisy thought directing a Christmas pageant ranked right up there with going to traffic ticket school, but she didn’t say anything. To each his own.

“I guess you’ll be busy saving the library, too,” Daisy said.

Maureen cast her eyes down. “We’re not doing so hot on that front. The library’s scheduled to close at the end of the year.”

“Close? No way.” Daisy could scarcely get her mind around the idea of a town without a library. “I’m sorry. That’s just wrong.”