The Perfect Christmas

by Debbie Macomber

  “Will we reach Boston before noon?” That question came from the woman with the baby seated across from him.

  Len was grateful she’d asked; he was looking for answers himself.

  “Hard to say with the snow and all.”

  “But it has to,” she groaned, again voicing his own concerns. “We’ll never catch our flight otherwise.”

  “I heard the airports are closed between Bangor and Boston,” he said amiably. He scratched the side of his white head as if that would aid his concentration. “The train’s running, though, and you can rest assured we’ll do our best to see you make it to Boston in time.”

  His words reassured more than the young couple with the baby. Len’s anxious heart rested a little easier, too. Glancing at the older woman in the seat next to him, he decided some conversation might help distract him.

  “Are you catching a flight in Boston?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, tugging on the red yarn. “My daughter and her family live in Boston. I’m joining them for Christmas. Where are you headed?”

  “Rawhide, Texas,” Len said, letting his pride in his state show through his words.

  “Texas,” she repeated, not missing a stitch. “Ron and I visited Texas once. Ron wanted to see the Alamo. He’s my husband…was my husband. He died this October.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” she murmured with such utter sadness that Len had to look away. She recovered quickly and continued. “It’s mind-boggling that people can fly across this country in only a few hours, isn’t it?”

  It was a fact that impressed Len, too, but he was more grateful than astonished. He felt even more appreciative when the whistle pierced the chatter going on about him. Almost immediately the train started to move, then quickly gained speed. Everyone aboard seemed to give a collective sigh of relief.

  Len and the widow chatted amicably for several minutes and eventually exchanged names. Cathy asked him a couple of questions, about Texas and the navy, and he asked her a few. After a while, their conversation died down and they returned to their own thoughts.

  The train traveled at a slow but steady pace for an hour or so. The unrelenting snow whirled around them, but the passengers were warm and cozy. For all the worry this storm had caused earlier, it didn’t seem nearly as intimidating from inside the train. Relaxed, Len stretched out his legs, confident that with a little luck, he’d connect with the flight out of Logan International.

  The train stopped now and then at depots on the way. Each stop resulted in a quick exchange of passengers. Len noticed that the storm appeared to have changed people’s holiday plans; far more exited the train than entered. The brief stops lasted no more than ten minutes, and soon there were a number of vacant seats in the passenger car. Before long Len heard the conductor say they’d be crossing into New Hampshire.

  Len figured you could fit all of these tiny New England states inside Texas. He’d seen cattle ranches that were larger than Rhode Island! The thought produced a pang of homesickness. The song sure got it right—there’s no place like home for the holidays. His life belonged to the navy now, but he was a Texas boy through and through.

  “Do you have someone at home waiting for you?” Cathy asked him.

  “My family,” Len told her, and added, prematurely, “and my fiancée.” Saying the words produced a happiness in him that refused to be squelched.

  “How nice for you.”

  “Very nice,” he said. Then thinking it might help ease his mind, he opened the side zipper of his carry-on bag and pulled out Amy’s most recent letter, dated two weeks earlier.

  Dear Len,

  I waited until ten for you to phone, then realized it was eleven your time and you probably wouldn’t be calling. I was feeling low about it, then received your letter this afternoon. I’m glad you decided to write. You say you’re not good at writing letters, but I disagree. This one was very sweet. It’s nice to have something to hold in my hand, that I can read again and again, unlike a telephone conversation. While it’s always good to hear the sound of your voice, when we hang up, there’s nothing left.

  Everything’s going along fine here at home and at work. For all my complaining about not finding a more glamorous job, I’ve discovered I actually enjoy being part of the nursing-home staff. The travel agency that didn’t hire me is the one to lose out.

  Did I tell you what happened last week? Mr. Perkins exposed himself in the middle of a pinochle game. All the ladies were outraged, but I noticed that the sign-up sheet for pinochle this Thursday is full. Mrs. MacPherson lost her teeth, but they were eventually found. (You don’t want to know where.) I still have my lunch in Mr. Danbar’s room; he seems to enjoy my company, although he hasn’t spoken a word in three years. I chatter away and tell him all about you and me and how excited I am that you’re coming home for Christmas.

  I was pleased that your mother asked me if I wanted to tag along when she and your dad pick you up at the airport on Christmas Eve. I’ll be there, you know I will—which brings me to something else. Something I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time.

  Do you remember my joke about sailors having a woman in every port? You laughed and reminded me that, as a submariner, you didn’t see that many ports above water. Bangor’s a long way from Rawhide, though, isn’t it? I guess I’m asking you about other women.

  Well, I’d better close for now. I’ll see you in two weeks and we can talk more then.

  Love,

  Amy

  Len folded the letter and slipped it back inside the envelope. Amy shouldn’t need to ask him about other women. He didn’t know what had made her so insecure, but he’d noticed the doubt in her voice ever since he returned in September.

  The diamond ring should relieve her worries. He smiled just thinking about it. He could hardly wait to see the look on her face.

  Cathy set her knitting aside and stared sightlessly out the train window. The snow obliterated everything, not that the scenery interested her. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about Ron.

  Other years, she’d been working in her kitchen Christmas Eve day, baking cookies and pies, getting ready for the children and grandchildren to arrive. As a surprise—although it had long since ceased to be one—she’d always baked Ron a lemon meringue pie, his favorite. And he’d always pretend he was stunned that she’d go to all that trouble just for him.

  Christmas had been the holiday her husband loved most. He was like a kid, decorating the outside of the house with strand upon strand of colorful lights. Last year he’d outdone all his previous efforts, as if he’d known even then that he wouldn’t be here this Christmas.

  She remembered how, every year, Ron had wanted to put up the tree right after Thanksgiving. She was lucky if she could hold him off until it was officially December.

  It took them an entire day to decorate the tree. Not that they ever chose such a large one. Trimming their Christmas tree was a ritual that involved telling each other stories about past Christmases, recalling where each decoration came from—whether it was made by one of the girls or bought on vacation somewhere or given to them by a friend. It wasn’t just ornaments, baubles of glass and wood and yarn, that hung from the evergreen branches but memories. They still had several from when they were first married, back in 1957. And about ten years ago, Cathy had cross-stitched small frame ornaments with pictures of everyone in the family. It’d taken her months and Ron was as proud of those tiny frames as if he’d done the work himself.

  Memories… Cathy couldn’t face them this Christmas. All she could do was hope they brought her comfort in the uncertain future.

  Since he’d retired from the local telephone company four years ago, Ron had used his spare time puttering around his wood shop, building toys for the grandchildren. Troy and Peter had been thrilled with the race cars he’d fashioned from blocks of wood. Ron had taken such pride in those small cars. Angela and Lindsay had adored the dollhouse he’d carefully designed a
nd built for them. The end table he’d started for Cathy remained in his wood shop unfinished. He’d longed to complete it, but the chemotherapy had drained away his strength, and in the months that followed, it was enough for him just to make it through the day.

  Ron wouldn’t be pleased with her, Cathy mused. She’d made only a token effort to decorate this year. No tree, no lights on the house. She’d set out a few things—a crèche on the fireplace mantel and the two cotton snowmen Madeline had made as a craft project years ago when she was in Girl Scouts.

  Actually Cathy couldn’t see the point of doing more. Not when it hurt so much. And not when she’d be leaving, anyway. She did manage to bake Madeline’s favorite shortbread cookies, but that had been the only real baking she’d done.

  Resting her head against the seat, Cathy closed her eyes. She tried to let the sound of the train lull her to sleep, but memories refused to leave her alone, flashing through her mind in quick succession. The sights and sounds of the holidays in happier times. Large family dinners, the house filled with the scents of mincemeat pies and sage dressing. Music, too; there was always plenty of music.

  Madeline played the piano and Gloria, their oldest, had been gifted with a wonderful voice. Father and daughter had sung Christmas carols together, their voices blending beautifully. At least one of their three daughters had made it home for the holidays every year. But Gloria couldn’t afford the airfare so soon after the funeral, and Jeannie was living in New York now and it was hard for her to take time off from her job, especially when she’d already asked for two weeks in order to be with her father at the end. Madeline would have come, Cathy guessed, if she’d asked, but she’d never do that.

  Dear God, she prayed, just get me through the next three days.

  Matthew McHugh’s patience was shot. The cranky baby from the station was in the same car and hadn’t stopped fussing yet. Matthew’s head throbbed with the beginnings of a killer headache. His argument with Pam played over and over in his mind until it was so distorted he didn’t know what to think anymore.

  If Pam was upset about his being gone this close to Christmas, he could only imagine what she’d say when he arrived home hours later than scheduled.

  He could picture it now. His parents, Pam and the kids, all waiting for him to pull into the driveway so they could eat dinner. When he did walk in the house, they’d glare at him as though he’d stayed away just to inconvenience them. He’d seen it happen before. As though he were somehow personally responsible for weather conditions and canceled flights.

  As for Pam’s complaining about having to do all the shopping and cooking herself, he didn’t understand it. If she preferred, they could order one of those take-out Christmas dinners from the local diner. She didn’t need to do all this work if she didn’t want to. The choice was hers. He couldn’t care less if the jellied salad was homemade or came out of a container. Pam was putting pressure on herself.

  The same thing applied to inviting his parents for Christmas Eve dinner. He wasn’t the one who’d asked them. That had been Pam’s doing. His mom and dad lived less than an hour away; they could stop by the house any time they wanted. To make a big deal out of having a meal together on Christmas Eve was ridiculous to him, especially if Pam was going to bitch about it.

  The baby cried again. Matt clenched his fists and tried to hold on to his patience. The infant wasn’t the only irritation, either. A little girl, five or so, was standing on the seat in front of his, staring at him.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Scrooge.”

  “My name’s Kate.”

  “Shouldn’t you be sitting down, Kate?” he asked pointedly, hoping the kid’s mother heard him and took action. She didn’t.

  “It’s going to be Christmas tomorrow,” she said, ignoring his question.

  “So I hear.” He attempted to look busy, too busy to be bothered.

  The kid didn’t take the hint.

  “Santa Claus is coming to Grandma’s house.”

  “Wonderful.” His voice was thick with sarcasm. “Don’t you know it’s impolite to stare?”

  “No.” The kid flashed him an easy smile. “I can read.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Do you want me to read you How the Grinch Stole Christmas? It’s my favorite book.”

  “No.”

  An elderly black couple sat across the aisle from him. The woman scowled disapprovingly, her censure at his attitude toward the kid obvious. “Why don’t you read to her?” Matt suggested, motioning to the woman. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “You’re working?” shrieked Kate-the-pest.

  “Yes,” came his curt reply, “or trying to.” He couldn’t get any blunter than that.

  “Can I read you my story?” Kate asked the biddy across the aisle from him. Matt flashed the old woman a grin. Served her right. Let her deal with the kid. All Matt wanted was a few moments’ peace and quiet while he mulled over what was going to happen once he got home.

  Some kind of commotion went on in front of him. The little girl whimpered, and he felt a sense of righteousness. Kate’s mother had apparently put her foot down when the kid tried to climb out of her seat. Good, now maybe she’d leave him and everyone else alone. If he’d been smart he would have pretended he was asleep like the man sitting next to him.

  “Mom said I have to stay in my seat,” Kate said, tears glistening as she peered over the cushion at him. All he could see was her watery blue eyes and the top of her head with a fancy red bow.

  Matt ignored her.

  “Santa’s going to bring me a—”

  “Listen, kid, I don’t care what Santa’s bringing you. I’ve got work to do and I don’t have time to chat with you. Now kindly turn around and stop bothering me.”

  Kate frowned at him, then plunked herself back in her seat and started crying.

  Several people condemned him with their eyes, not that it concerned Matt. If they wanted to entertain the kid, fine, but he wanted no part of it. He had more important things on his mind than what Santa was bringing a spoiled little brat with no manners.

  The train had been stopped for about five minutes. “Where are we now?” Kelly asked, gently rocking Brittany in her arms. The baby had fussed the entire time they’d been on the train. Nothing Kelly did calmed her. She wasn’t hungry; her diaper was clean. Kelly wondered if she might be teething. A mother was supposed to know these things, but Kelly could only speculate.

  It helped that the train was becoming less crowded. With the storm, people seemed to be short-tempered and impatient. The guy who looked like a salesman was the worst; in fact, he was downright rude. She felt sorry for Kate and her mother. Kelly appreciated what it must be like traveling alone with a youngster. She’d never be able to do this without Nick. Frankly, she didn’t know how anyone could travel with a baby and no one to help. An infant required so much stuff. It took hours just to organize and pack it all.

  “According to the sign, we’re in Abbott, New Hampshire,” Nick informed her.

  Kelly glanced out the window, through the still-falling snow. “Oh, Nick, look! This is one of those old-fashioned stations.” The redbrick depot had a raised platform with several benches tucked protectively against the side, shielded from the snow by the roof’s overhang. A ticket window faced the tracks and another window with many small panes looked into the waiting room.

  “Hmm,” Nick said, not showing any real interest.

  “It’s so quaint.”

  He didn’t comment.

  “I didn’t know they had any of these depots left anymore. Do you think we could get off and look around a bit?”

  She captured his attention with that. “You’re joking, right?”

  “We wouldn’t have to take everything with us.”

  “The baby shouldn’t be out in the cold.”

  Her enthusiasm faded. “Of course…she shouldn’t.”

  The conductor walked down the center aisle and nodded plea
santly in Kelly’s direction.

  “That’s a lovely old depot,” she said.

  “One of the last original stations in Rutherford County,” he said with a glint of pride. “Built around 1880. Real pretty inside, too, with a potbellied stove and hardwood benches. They don’t make ’em like this anymore.”

  “They sure don’t,” Kelly said, smiling.

  “Shouldn’t we be pulling out soon?” the man in the navy uniform asked, glancing at his watch.

  “Anytime now,” the conductor promised. “Nothing to worry about on this fine day. Snow or no snow, we’re going to get you folks to Boston.”

  Chapter 3

  “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”

  “It’s been twenty minutes,” Len said, straining to see what had caused the delay. Cupping his face with his hands, he pressed against the window and squinted at the station. The snow had grown heavier and nearly obliterated the building from view. The train had been sitting outside the depot in Abbott twice as long as it had at any previous stop. Apparently the powers-that-be didn’t fully grasp the time constraints he and several other passengers were under to reach Logan International. Too much was at stake if he missed his flight.

  “I’m sure everything will be all right,” Cathy assured him, but he noticed that she was knitting at a frantic pace. She jerked hard on the yarn a couple of times, then had to stop and rework stitches, apparently because of a mistake.

  Len saw that he wasn’t the only one who seemed concerned. The cranky businessman got out of his seat and walked to the end of the compartment. He leaned over to peer out the window at the rear of the train car, as if that would tell him something he didn’t already know.

  “Someone’s coming,” he announced in a voice that said he wasn’t going to be easily pacified. He wanted answers, and so did Len. Under normal circumstances Len was a patient man, but this was Christmas Eve and he had an engagement ring in his pocket.