His for Christmas

by Cara Colter

  His daughter looked so beautiful on that perch above the tree, her eyes closed, her arms extended, singing with exuberance that was attractive, even if the tone was not. He recognized the song and realized Ace had been humming and singing that same tune around the house for days.

  “Angel of Hope,” the number Brenda Weston had been chosen to sing.

  As Ace poured her heart into singing now, there was a look on her face that every parent lives to see on the face of their child.

  As if she was sure of her place in the world, and was claiming it. And as if she was accepting the world embracing her back.

  But for as ethereal as the moment was, Nate realized he could not be transfixed by this! He was her father. And he had to do the responsible thing, even if it hurt. And it was going to hurt, him more than her, not that she ever had to know.

  He stepped out from the cottage, stood before the Christmas tree, gazing up at her, his arms folded over his chest.

  It took Ace a minute to realize she had an audience. Her eyes opened, her voice faltered and then died. She looked down at him.

  “Daddy?”

  “Get down from there,” he said.

  She came down slowly, not demonstrating even half the confidence she had gone up the staircase with. Finally, she stood in front of him, not looking at him, scuffing her toes against the floor.

  The backstage door opened again.

  “Cecilia?”

  The curtain parted again and Morgan stood there, but he held up a hand and focused on his daughter.

  “What were you doing?” he asked Ace.

  “Just practicing,” Ace said in a small voice.

  “Practicing what?”

  She hesitated. She looked at Morgan for help. Good God, was Morgan in on this?

  “Practicing for what?” he said again.

  “To be the Christmas Angel,” Ace muttered.

  “What?”

  “I’m going to be the Christmas Angel.”

  “No, you aren’t.”

  “I am so! I’m going to be the Christmas Angel!” Ace shouted at him.

  “Oh, Cecilia,” Morgan said, and stepped forward, but he stopped her with a look. It seemed his daughter’s ridiculous, impossible, unrealistic hopes only mirrored his own. It felt as if that ring was burning a hole through his shirt pocket.

  He didn’t need any of what Morgan was bringing to his daughter. Or to him. All that softness and light. And hope.

  He’d even started to think, just like his daughter, that an angel was looking after them! It was enough.

  False hopes had to be dealt with. And destroyed.

  Before they destroyed the one who harbored them.

  “You…are…not…going…to…be…the…Christmas…Angel.” He enunciated every word carefully. He wanted his daughter to understand how dangerous his mood was.

  “I am!” Ace shouted. “I am. My mommy told me I was.”

  He closed his eyes and asked for the strength to do what needed to be done. “Ace, your mother is dead. She’s been dead a long time. She didn’t tell you anything.”

  “She did so! In the dream. She told me! She was an angel.”

  “There are no angels,” he said. He said it firmly, but he could feel something dip inside himself. Who was he to make a statement like that? Still, it felt as though to show his daughter one bit of doubt right now would be the wrong thing. The worst thing.

  Tears were coming up in Ace’s eyes, furious, hurt, and he knew he couldn’t react to them. Or to that funny feeling that he had just said something really, really bad.

  For her own good, these hopes had to be dashed.

  “Dreams aren’t real,” he said. “You aren’t going to be the Christmas Angel. Not ever. There’s no use thinking it. Brenda Weston is the Christmas Angel.”

  His daughter looked at him mutinously, not backing down.

  “You can’t sing,” he told her, feeling like Simon in American Idol. “You sound awful.”

  Ace’s mouth moved, but for a moment, no sound came out. When it did it was a howl of pain so pure it reminded him of when he had told her Cindy was dead.

  He made himself go on. “Brenda looks like the Christmas Angel, and she sounds like the Christmas Angel. She’s the perfect Christmas Angel.”

  “I hate you,” Ace screamed, and then ran past him and into Morgan’s arms. She buried her head against Morgan, who was looking at him as if he was the devil himself.

  “How could you?” she asked quietly.

  Yeah, that was the question he was asking himself. How could he have done this? Let hope creep in? Allowed himself and his daughter to believe impossible things? How could he have let things go this far?

  “It needed to be said.” He could hear the grimness in his tone.

  “Not like that, it didn’t.”

  “Yeah. It did. Exactly like that.”

  “You’re breaking her heart.”

  “No,” he said quietly. “I’m not. Her heart has already been broken. Unlike you, I’m doing my best to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  “Unlike me?” Morgan whispered.

  “We don’t need dreams, Miss McGuire. We don’t need the kind of dreams you represent.”

  “You’re right,” she said, her eyes snapping with indignation and anger. “You don’t need dreams. You need a miracle.”

  He could tell she was within an inch of stamping her foot and announcing she hated him, too.

  “We don’t believe in miracles, either,” he said, his tone deliberately flat, even though he felt that same little dip in his chest as he said it.

  Morgan didn’t stamp her foot, or tell him she hated him. That almost would have been easier to deal with than her look of hurt disdain, of absolute betrayal. She gathered Ace in close to her, and they left the stage.

  Only after the door was shut, did Nate allow himself to crumple. He sat on the edge of the stage, and buried his head in his hands.

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay, if there are angels, or miracles, I could sure use one now.”

  He felt instantly ridiculous.

  And all he felt was that same yawning emptiness he had felt on those pitiful occasions he had gone to Cindy’s grave, hoping to feel something. Anything.

  It felt as though the darkness was gathering around him, pitch-black, tarlike, so thick and so sticky that nothing, least of all light, would ever penetrate it again.

  Morgan looked around her little house. The tree was down. Most of her dishes and clothing were packed in boxes stacked along her living room wall.

  The coat hangers remained in the hall. She could not bear to take those with her.

  She had, she acknowledged, had a problem her whole life. She cared about everything way too much, way too deeply.

  She had fallen in love with Ace Hathoway.

  And even more, she had fallen in love with her father.

  Over the past few weeks, she had cherished a dream. That they were all going to be together, that they were going to be a family. With each moment spent with Nate, with each time he had held her hand, teased her, looked at her, kissed her, her dreams had billowed to life. Filled her. Made her feel something she had never really felt.

  Complete.

  How could she stay here, feeling that way, loving them both so much and knowing her dreams, like Ace’s own, were not based in reality?

  It was just wishful thinking. It was just dreams.

  “We don’t need dreams, Miss McGuire. We don’t need the kind of dreams you represent.”

  The words had been hurtful enough. The way he had been so harsh with Ace had been devastating. The memory of the look on his face—angry, closed—still had the power to make Morgan shiver.

  She’d made a mistake thinking she saw things in him that weren’t there. She’d made a mistake of the heart.

  She was always making mistakes of the heart.

  But the thought of him knowing how deeply he’d hurt her was unbearable. She had to get out of here w
ith what little was left of her pride intact.

  So, as soon as she got her kids through the production of The Christmas Angel, she was going.

  On Christmas Day, when everyone was busy with their families, cocooned in those circles of love she had longed for, Morgan would and could just slip away unnoticed. She would get in her little car, the tank already filled with gas, and she would go to anywhere. It didn’t matter where. She had some savings. She would leave a check here for January’s rent. And then, when she found where she wanted to be, she would hire movers to come get her things.

  But maybe she’d tell them to leave the purple sofa.

  Maybe she’d just leave everything. Maybe she’d join her mother and they could be blissfully single in Thailand together.

  No, her mother was not going to make her happy. And neither was being single.

  It was only part of the lies she had spun around herself. The lie that independence could be a suitable replacement for her heart’s greatest longing. It was a lie he had shattered at the same time he had no intention of replacing it.

  She had seen that in his face.

  Morgan had seen something so hard and cold in his face, she knew she could not trespass there.

  If only she had paid attention to that sign, the first day, that said everything she had needed to know about Nate Hathoway.

  Go Away.

  Now she would. For her own self-preservation she would go away.

  What about my kids? She wailed to herself. How would they find a replacement at this time of year. Who would teach them?

  But then she pulled herself up. She was not thinking one thought that made her weak instead of strong. Not one.

  Nate thought, by deciding to not call Morgan ever again, by deciding not to give her that ring, he could manage to cheat grief.

  Instead, he found out his acquaintance with grief thus far had only touched the surface of where that emotion could go.

  With Cindy and with David, there had been no second chances, no second-guessing, no going back…

  He’d been forced to say goodbye.

  But Morgan lived. She breathed. Her presence in his town, just minutes away from him, beckoned and called.

  It made him question himself, his decisions, his sanity.

  Ace, who normally forgave him everything, was not forgiving him this. Living with her holding a grudge against him was a form of torment he could not have imagined. And yet to back down, what would that mean?

  What would it mean in the long run if he encouraged his daughter to believe in impossible dreams?

  Gee, Ace, go ahead. Believe you’re going to be the Christmas Angel. Believe it right up until the moment it doesn’t happen. Go ahead.

  It wasn’t the responsible thing to do.

  Falling for Morgan had not been the responsible thing to do, either.

  To add to his sense of grief he was furious at himself. He was in a pit of recrimination and failure.

  He thought he had known darkness before. But he had not even touched the surface of that place that was so black it could swallow a man’s soul, whole.

  Christmas Eve. Ace had been dropped off in her choir angel costume at the school. She had not looked at him, nor kissed him goodbye.

  The absence of the words, I love you, Daddy made the world he moved in darker.

  Molly and Keith had asked him to join them at the community hall to watch the live feed of the concert, but he wasn’t going to.

  He was going to sit at home, in his darkness, revel in it, relish it.

  And that was exactly what he was doing, when his doorbell rang.

  And then, when he chose to ignore it, again, and then again.

  Finally, when whoever stood out there made it evident they had no intention of giving up, Nate went and answered it ready to let all his bad temper out on an unsuspecting someone.

  But he was astonished that it was Wesley Wellhaven standing here.

  Wesley was already in the dark tux he would perform in. He looked wildly uncomfortable. And at the same time, as he had shown by ringing the doorbell over and over again, determined.

  “Mr. Hathoway, you need to come.” His voice carried urgency. “I have a place for you at the concert.”

  Nate looked down at the way he was dressed, jeans and a T-shirt. He looked at Mr. Wellhaven’s tuxedo. His mouth moved. He tried to say no, he was choosing darkness, but the words wouldn’t come out.

  “Please don’t make me late,” Wesley pleaded. “We are live tonight. A foolish idea. I can’t tell you how I hate live.”

  It was apparent to Nate that Wesley Wellhaven, for some reason known only to himself, was prepared to keep the whole world waiting while he talked Nate into coming to his production.

  He remembered already thinking, once this week, he could not deprive the world of the gift of this man’s voice.

  With a sigh, he grabbed his jacket out of the coat closet and allowed Wesley to guide him down to where a long stretch limo waited at the end of his walk.

  Once in the limo, Wesley ducked his head, fiddled with his bow tie, glanced at Nate. “I have a confession to make.”

  “To me?” Nate said. This must be some kind of case of mistaken identity.

  “Yes, to you, Mr. Hathoway. I was there.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was there. When you argued with your daughter. I like to sit in the seats of the empty auditorium before a performance. I like to see the stage as the poorest audience member will see it. And then make changes to try and make their experience more enjoyable.

  “And so, I am embarrassed to say, I saw your very private moment with your daughter.”

  “Oh,” Nate said. “I think it’s me who should be embarrassed.”

  The limo pulled up to the school. Wesley pressed a ticket into Nate’s hand.

  “Yes, indeed you should at least share the embarrassment, Mr. Hathoway. How could you tell your daughter there is no such thing as a miracle? Why, they happen all the time.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Wellhaven, no they don’t.”

  “Really? Then see if you can explain how a humble and mild man such as myself was given such a voice,” he challenged. He waited. Nate did not have an answer to that. “Enjoy the performance, Mr. Hathoway. And have faith. If you teach your daughter nothing else, teach her to believe in miracles.”

  And then he was gone.

  And Nate looked at the ticket in his hands, and knew he had no choice but to go in. Or walk home.

  But that day, sitting on the stage, his head in his hands, he’d asked for a miracle. What if this was it?

  Oh, sure, Hath, he chided himself. Believe one last time. But the truth was he could not have prevented himself from going into that auditorium.

  Of course he was the last one in there, and had to shove his way past all the people already seated to what seemed to be the only remaining chair in the whole place.

  And of course, it had to be right beside her.

  Morgan McGuire gave him her snippiest look. And when he scraped back his chair, she placed a finger to pursed lips.

  “Shh,” she said sternly.

  He wondered if she could hear the beating of his heart. To be so near to her, the one he had told himself he could never have, was a form of the purest torture he had ever experienced.

  Then the lights went down, and the children’s choir filed onto the stage. He noticed immediately Ace was not among them.

  Morgan turned to him. “Where is she?” she whispered, real concern replacing her snippiness.

  Nate’s heart began to race in fear. He thought of the cold war at home. And her disappointments.

  Where was his daughter?

  And then, just when he thought he would get up and tear the building apart to look for Ace, he saw the curtain open a tiny crack, and Ace peered out at the crowd, then at the choir.

  “There she is,” he whispered to Morgan.

  “But what is she doing?”

  Ace was lo
oking woefully at the children’s choir. She dropped the curtain again.

  But not before he had seen the look on her face when she had seen Brenda, who now stood in the choir angel costume with the rest of the choir. He looked at Brenda, too. Her normally lovely face was blotchy from crying.

  Oh, God. What had Wesley Wellhaven done? As well-meaning as it was, Nate could sense disaster coming.

  His sense of it was so strong he could barely enjoy the production despite how good the children’s choir had become, despite how amazingly Wesley blended his voice with those of the children. Despite the fact the evening was an inspiration and a gift to the world, just as Nate had hoped, he could not relax. And he could not enjoy it.

  Morgan seemed equally tense beside him.

  Finally, they reached the last number. The lights in the whole building went out, and only one came back on.

  It was true.

  His daughter was the Christmas Angel. There she was on her perch above the Christmas tree, all the lights now turned off except the one brilliantly white spotlight that was on her.

  That familiar music started, and he felt himself cringing waiting for her to begin singing.

  But Ace didn’t start to sing.

  On cue, she began to speak the role that had been a singing one. Her voice, despite the croakiness of it, was loud and strong.

  Then it wobbled.

  She picked up, but then it wobbled again.

  And then Nate’s little Christmas Angel, on live television, in front of the whole world, started crying.

  And then she stopped, and in a voice that had absolutely no croak to it, that was strong and sure and beautiful, Ace Hathoway said, “If for one person to be happy, another has to be sad, that’s wrong. And it’s not Christmas. Brenda, you come be the Christmas Angel.”

  And with grave dignity, she turned around and went down the stairs at the back of the tree, pulled back the heavy velvet curtain and slipped through it.

  Nate got up out of his seat. And somehow his hand was in Morgan’s and he was taking her with him.

  As Brenda quickly made her way up the steps to the top of the tree, Nate and Morgan slipped backstage.

  “How could you, you little wretch?” Mrs. Wellhaven had Ace’s shoulders in her bony fingers and was snarling at her.