She was still there, sitting in the middle of the office, staring at the closed door when it hit her.
Lisa left me.
I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.
She’d made it about her. Cal had shared with her his pain—and it was a lion’s-sized pain she knew all too well—and she’d said nothing to comfort him, nothing to help.
I just wanted a friend to tell me it would be okay.
Which she hadn’t done.
For years people had made little remarks about her being selfish. Ellie had always brushed them off with a pretty smile. It wasn’t true; whoever said it was either jealous of her or wasn’t a friend.
You’re like me, Ellie, her dad had said to her once, a center stage actor. If you marry again, you’d best find someone who doesn’t mind letting you have the spotlight all the time.
When he’d said it, Ellie had taken it as a compliment. She loved that her dad thought of her as a star.
Now, she saw the other meaning of his words, and once she opened that door, once she asked herself, Is it true? she was barraged with memories, moments, questions.
Two lost marriages. Both had gone south—she’d thought—because her husbands didn’t love her enough.
Was that because she wanted—needed—too much love? Did she return the amount she took? She’d loved her husbands, adored them. But not enough to follow Alvin to Alaska . . . or to put Sammy through truck driver’s school with the money she earned on the police force.
No wonder her marriages had failed. It had always been her way or the highway, and one by one the men she’d married and the others she’d loved had chosen the highway.
All these years, she’d called them the losers.
Maybe it had been her all along.
When Mel came in to work the night shift, Ellie nodded at him, made a point of asking about his family, then raced out to her car.
She pulled up to Cal’s house less than thirty minutes after he’d left the station and parked beneath a huge, bare maple tree. A pretty little birdhouse hung from the lowest branch, swinging gently in the autumn breeze. One of the last dying leaves clung to its rough-hewn cedar roof.
Ellie went to the front door and knocked.
Cal opened the door. His face, usually so youthful and smiling, looked older, ruined. She wondered how long he’d looked like that, how often she hadn’t noticed.
“I’m a bitch,” she said miserably. “Can you forgive me?”
A tiny smile tugged at one side of his mouth. “A drama queen apology if ever there was one.”
“I’m not a drama queen.”
“No. You’re a bitch.” His smile evened out, almost reached his eyes. “It’s your beauty. Women like you are just used to being the center of attention.”
She moved toward him. “I am a bitch. A sorry one.”
He looked at her. “Thanks.”
“It’ll be okay, Cal,” she said, hoping late really was better than never.
“You think so?”
She felt as if she were drowning in the dark sadness she saw in his eyes. It so unnerved her, she barely knew what to say. “Lisa loves you,” she said at last. “She’ll remember that and come back.”
“I thought that for a long time, El. Peanut kept saying the same thing. But now I’m not so sure it’s what I even want.”
Ellie’s first reaction was Peanut knew? but she wouldn’t fall into that trap again. This wasn’t about her bruised ego. She led Cal to the sofa and sat down beside him. “What do you want?”
“Not to be so lonely all the time. Don’t get me wrong. I adore my daughters and they’re my life, but late at night, in bed, I want to turn to someone, just hold her and be held. Lisa and I stopped making love years ago. I thought I’d be less lonely when she was gone, or at least that it wouldn’t make a difference, but it does.” He looked at her, and in those eyes she knew so well, she saw a sadness that was new. “How can a wife in a bed down the hall be more comforting than no wife at all?”
Ellie had gone to sleep next to that kind of loneliness for more winters than she wanted to count.
“Does it get easier?”
She sighed. This was where their conversation had begun. “Be thankful for your kids, Cal. At least you’ll always have someone who loves you.”
Max finished his rounds at six o’clock. By six-thirty he’d completed all his chart notations and signed out.
He was inches from the front door when they paged him.
“Dr. Cerrasin to O.R. two stat.”
“Shit.”
He ran to the O.R.
There, he found his patient, Crystal Smithson, in a hospital gown, in bed, screaming at her husband, who stood in the corner like a kid in a time-out, looking terrified. Crystal’s stomach was huge. She pressed down on it, breathing in gasps until the contraction ended.
Trudi was beside her, holding her hand. At Max’s entrance, she smiled.
“Now, Crystal, I thought I told you I didn’t work Friday nights,” he said, putting on his surgical gloves.
Crystal smiled, but it was frail and tired. “Tell her that.” She rubbed her bulging abdomen.
“You might as well learn now,” Trudi said, “kids never listen to you.”
Another contraction hit and Crystal screamed.
“Is she going to be okay?” her husband said, taking a step toward them.
Max moved down to the end of the bed. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”
“She’s fully dilated,” Trudi said, moving in beside him, putting lubricant on his gloved fingers.
Max’s examination didn’t take long. He’d delivered enough babies to know that this one was going to be quick. He could feel the baby’s head starting to crown.
“You ready to be a mom, Crystal?”
Another contraction; another scream. “Yes,” she panted.
“The baby’s crowning,” Max said to Trudi. “Okay, Crystal, you can start pushing.”
Crystal grunted and wheezed and screamed. Her husband rushed to her side. “I’m here, Chrissie.” He grabbed her hand.
The baby’s head appeared.
“Push a little more for the shoulders, Crystal, and you’ll be done,” Max said.
He gently pulled down on the baby’s head to free the anterior, then eased up; the baby slid out, landed in Max’s hands.
“You have a beautiful little girl,” he said, looking up. Both Crystal and her husband were crying.
“You want to cut the cord, Dad?” Max said. No matter how many times he said those words, they always got to him.
By the time they were done, he was exhausted. He took a long hot shower, got dressed, and headed for the nurses’ station.
Trudi was there, all alone. At his approach, she came out from around the desk and smiled up at him. “They’re naming the baby Maxine.”
“Poor kid,” he said, then fell silent.
“You haven’t been to the house in a while.”
It would have been easy to change the subject, but Trudi deserved better than that. “I guess we should talk.”
Trudi laughed. “You always said talking wasn’t our best skill.” She leaned closer. “Let me guess: it’s about a certain doctor who had Thanksgiving dinner at the local police chief’s house. Since I know you’re not interested in Ellie, it must be her sister. Julia.”
He shook his head. “I don’t even know what the hell’s going on with her. We’re—”
“You don’t have to tell me, Max.”
“You know I wouldn’t hurt you for the world—”
She silenced him with a touch. “I’m glad for you. Really. You’ve been alone too long.”
“You’re a good woman, Trudi Hightower.”
“And you’re a good man. Now quit being such a chickenshit and ask her out for a date. Unless I miss my guess, it’s Friday night, and I know a doctor who shouldn’t be going to the movies alone anymore.”
He leaned down and kissed her. “Good-bye, Trudi.”
“�
��Bye, Max.”
He left, climbed into his truck, and headed for the theater. He had no intention of going to Julia, but when he came to Magnolia Street, he turned left instead of right, and drove down old Highway 101.
All the way to her house he told himself he was crazy.
All or nothing.
He’d had all once; it had practically killed him.
In her yard, he parked and sat there, staring through the windshield at the house. Finally, he got out, walked up to the front door, and knocked.
Julia opened the door. Even in a pair of faded Levi’s and a white cable-knit sweater that was two sizes too big, she looked beautiful. “Max,” she said, obviously surprised. She eased forward and closed the door behind her, blocking the way.
“You want to go to the movies?”
Idiot. He sounded like a desperate teenager.
Her answer was a smile that started slowly, then overtook her face. “Cal and Ellie are here playing Scrabble, so yeah . . . I could go to the show. What’s playing?”
“I have no idea.”
She laughed. “That’s my favorite.”
The movie, as it turned out, was To Have and Have Not. Julia sat next to Max in the darkened theater, watching one of the great screen pairings of all time. When it was over, and she and Max were walking through the beautifully restored lobby of the Rose Theater, Julia got the feeling that they were being stared at.
“People are talking about us,” she said, sidling close to him.
“Welcome to Rain Valley.” He took her arm and led her out of the theater and across the street to where his truck was parked. “I’d take you out for some pie, but everything’s closed.”
“You do like your pie.”
He grinned. “And you thought you knew nothing about me.”
She turned, looked up at him, no longer smiling. “I don’t know much.”
He stared down at her; she expected him to come up with some smart-ass comeback. Instead he kissed her. When he drew back, he said quietly, “There. You know that.”
When she didn’t say anything, he opened the door and she got in.
All the way back to her house they talked about things that didn’t matter. The movie. The baby he’d delivered tonight, the waning salmon populations and declining old-growth forests. His plans for Christmas.
At her front door she let him take her in his arms. It was amazing how comfortable she felt there. This time, when he bent down to kiss her, she met him more than halfway, and when it was over and he drew back, she wanted more. “Thanks for the movie, Max.”
He kissed her again, so softly she hardly had time to taste him before it was over. “Good night, Julia.”
By late December the holidays were first and foremost on everyone’s mind. The Rotary Club had hung the streetlamp decorations and the Elks had decorated their Giving Tree. On every corner in town there were tree lots set up; local scout troops were going door-to-door, selling wrapping paper.
Today had dawned bright and clear, with an ice-blue sky unmarred by even the thinnest cloud. Along the riverbanks, where the ground was warmer than the air, a layer of pink fog rose from the bending shoreline to the lowest branches of the trees, turning everything beyond it to a blurry uncertainty. It was easy to picture magic in that haze; fairies and spirits and animals that lived nowhere else on Earth.
All day, as usual, Julia had been at Alice’s side. They’d spent a lot of time outside in the yard.
Julia was trying to prepare Alice for the next big step. Town.
It wouldn’t be easy. The first hurdle was the car.
“Town,” Julia said quietly, looking down at Alice. “Remember the pictures in the books? I want us to go to town, where the people live.”
Alice’s eyes widened. “Out?” she whispered, her mouth trembling.
“I’ll be with you all the time.”
She shook her head.
Julia carefully extricated herself from Alice’s clinging hold. Very carefully, she held Alice’s hands in hers. She wanted to ask the girl if she trusted her, but trust was too complicated a concept for a child with such limited verbal skills. “I know you’re scared, honey. It’s a big world out there, and you’ve seen the worst of it.” She touched Alice’s soft, warm cheek. “But hiding out here with me and Ellie can’t be your future. You’ve got to come into the world.”
“Stay.”
Julia started to respond, but before she’d formed the first word, she was interrupted by a honking horn.
Alice’s face lit up. “Lellie!” She let go of Julia and ran to the window by the front door. The dogs followed her, barking out a welcome, falling over themselves in a rush. Elwood knocked Alice over. The girl’s giggles rose up from the tangle of bodies on the floor. Jake licked her cheek and nudged her.
The front door opened. Ellie stood there, grinning, then dragged a Christmas tree into the house.
For the next hour Julia and Ellie struggled to get the tree in its stand, upright, and clamped down. When they were finally finished, both of them were sweating.
“No wonder Dad always drank heavily before he put up the tree,” Ellie said, standing back and surveying their work.
“It’s not absolutely straight,” Julia pointed out.
“Who are we? NASA engineers? It’s straight enough.”
The dogs, sensing that Ellie was finally done with her task, made a run across the floor.
“Boys! Down!” Ellie said, just before they ran into her and sent her flying.
Alice giggled. The minute the sound slipped out, she covered her mouth with her hand. She looked at Julia and pointed at Ellie.
“Your Lellie needs to get control over her animals,” Julia said with a wry smile.
Ellie emerged from the tangle of canine bodies. Laughing, she pushed the hair from her eyes. “I should have disciplined them as puppies, it’s true.” Climbing free, she stepped away from the dogs and headed for the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Julia called after her.
“You’ll see.”
A few moments later Ellie came back downstairs; she was carrying several huge red poinsettia–decorated boxes, which she set down on the floor by the Christmas tree.
Julia recognized them instantly. “Our ornaments?”
“Every one.”
Julia moved closer. Lifting the first box top, she found skeins and skeins of lights. All the bulbs were white, because Mom said it was the color of angels and hope. She and Ellie coiled the tree in those lights, wrapped the branches in the way they’d been taught. It was the first time they’d decorated a tree together since high school.
When the lights were all in place, Ellie plugged the cords into the wall.
Alice gasped.
“You think she’s ever seen a Christmas tree before?” Ellie asked quietly, standing beside Julia.
Julia shook her head. She went to the box and picked up a shiny red apple ornament. It hung from her finger on a filigree gold thread. Kneeling in front of Alice, she offered the girl the ornament. “On the tree, Alice. Make it pretty.”
Alice frowned. “Tee?”
“Remember the book we read? How the Grinch Stole Christmas?”
“Ginch.” She nodded, but her frown didn’t ease.
“Remember the Whos’ tree? Pretty tree, you said.”
“Oh,” Alice said, blowing out her breath on the word. She understood.
Julia nodded.
Alice took the ornament carefully, as if it were made of spun sugar instead of bright plastic. She walked slowly across the room, stepped over the dogs and stopped, staring at the tree for a long time. Finally, she placed the gold thread on the very tip of the highest branch she could reach. Then, slowly, she turned around, looking worried.
Ellie clapped enthusiastically. “Perfect!”
A smile broke over Alice’s face, transforming her for this wonderful moment into an ordinary little girl. She ran to the box, chose another ornament, then carried it carefully t
o Ellie. “Lellie. Prittee.”
Ellie bent down. “Who is giving me this pretty ornament?”
“Girl. Give.”
Ellie touched Alice’s hair, tucked a flyaway strand behind her little shell-pink ear. “Can you say Alice?”
She pointed emphatically toward the tree. “Put.”
“You’re creating a little dictator here, Jules,” Ellie said, moving toward the tree.
“A nameless one,” Julia said quietly. It stuck in her craw that Alice couldn’t give them her name and wouldn’t take the name they gave her.
Alice ran to the box and chose another red ornament. After clapping and hopping up and down at Ellie’s placement of her ornament, Alice darted over to Julia. “Jew-lee. Prittee.”
Alice was literally sparkling right now. Julia had never seen the girl smile so brightly. She swept down and pulled Alice into her arms for a hug.
Alice giggled and hung on. “Kiss-mas tee. Nice.”
Julia twirled her around until they both were breathless. Then, smiling, they moved on to the task of decorating the rest of the tree.
“It’s the prettiest tree we’ve ever had,” Ellie said, sitting on the sofa with a mug of Bailey’s in her hand and a Costco fake mink throw rug over her feet.
“That’s because Dad used to buy the biggest one on the lot, then cut off the top to make it fit in the room.”
Ellie laughed at the memory. It was one she’d forgotten: The great big tree, taking up the whole corner of the room, its top hacked off; Mom frowning in disappointment, swatting Dad’s arm. You never listen, Tom, Mom would say, a tree isn’t supposed to be trimmed on top. I should make you get us another one.
But it took only moments, sometimes less, before he had her smiling again, even laughing. Now, now, Bren, he’d say in that gravelly voice of his, why should our tree be like everyone else’s? I’ve just given us a bit of oomph, I have. Right, girls?
Ellie had always answered first, shouting out her agreement and then running to her dad for his hug.
For the first time, as she held a memory in her hands, she tilted it, saw it instead from a different angle. The other little girl who’d been in the room, who’d never called out agreement with her father, whose opinion had never been sought.
Ellie looked at Julia over the rim of her mug. “How come he did it every year? Cut the top of the tree, I mean.”
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