by Clay, Verna
"Yes, please." Cecelia took the glass of water to the living room. Her patient had his eyes closed, but when she quietly set the glass on his table, he opened them and studied her face. He said, "Sorry if I was rude. I'll try to watch it."
"Oh, no. I didn't think you were rude. I'm sorry you're in so much pain." She was at a loss as to what else to say.
Mac adjusted his position in the chair and winced. He said through clenched teeth, "This sure as hell better be worth it."
Cecelia patted her hands against her thighs in a helpless gesture. "Is there anything I can do? Maybe a pillow would help."
Mac released a frustrated breath. "No, I'm fine. Go on back to the kitchen and see what words of wisdom Dr. Frankenstein has for you."
In spite of her nervousness, Cecelia grinned and Mac returned it—in a fashion.
Returning to the kitchen, Dr. Hillsborough motioned to the chair across from him. He pushed a cup of coffee toward her. "Have a seat, Cecelia. Do you mind if I call you by your first name?"
"Not at all. Thanks for the coffee." She reached for the metal pitcher of cream and poured a liberal amount into her cup. She watched the swirls created by stirring and waited for the doctor to speak what was on his mind.
The man was obviously in no hurry and sipped his brew. For a few minutes he talked about how much he'd enjoyed the drive from Denver and that Mac had slept most of the way.
Cecelia listened with interest. Everything about Mac fascinated her, even the mundane.
Finally, Dr. Hillsborough said, "We won't know about the success of the operation for at least six to eight weeks. For Mac's sake, I hope it's a success." He looked away and then back again. "If it isn't, he's going to lose the use of his painting hand and that will affect him–" He glanced away again. "–in a bad way. With the death of his wife and the loss of his child, his creative expression is the only thing that's kept him going." The doctor returned his stare to Cecelia. "You do know about his child, don't you?"
Cecelia could hardly speak past the lump in her throat. "I only know his baby was airlifted to a hospital after the accident."
The doctor scratched his chin, pursed his lips, and then seemed to make a decision. "I'll tell you truthful, Cecelia. I think you're just what the doc ordered for that stubborn man." He smiled slightly, "Pun intended."
Cecelia also smiled slightly.
Dr. Hillsborough continued, "The boy only received minor injuries. With Rose dead, Mac was left with a baby and no family to raise him. Mac and his wife both came from the foster care system; both were orphaned while in high school, which meant adopting them out was not likely. They met while living in the same foster home. Mac was a year older than Rose and when he turned eighteen he got a job working in a factory. As soon as Rose turned eighteen, they married and both worked blue collar jobs. He once confided that they were very happy having each other and living in their own place, as tiny as it was. In their early twenties, they had saved enough money for a vacation on Santorini, an island in the Mediterranean famous for its beauty and a place that Mac had always wanted to paint. Those paintings launched his career when they were shown in a Dallas gallery. He became an overnight success." Dr. Hillsborough glanced at Cecelia's cup. "Would you like a warm up?"
"No. I'm good. Thank you."
"So, after the accident, Mac was left with a baby he couldn't raise. Having been through the foster care system, he didn't want that for his child, so he opted to allow his son to be adopted into a loving family."
Suddenly, pieces of a puzzle started falling into place for Cecelia and she gasped, "Loving Arms Adoption Agency was the facility that handled the adoption!"
Dr. Hillsborough gave her a surprised look. "Yes. I guess you've done some investigating."
Cecelia shrugged. "Yes and no." She didn't elaborate. "Does Mac have any contact with his son? It's my understanding that many agencies encourage the birth parent, or parents, to stay in touch with their child."
The doctor frowned. "Although Mac receives yearly updates with pictures from the adoptive family, he only responds with a cursory thank you. He says he's protecting the child from discovery by journalists that would love nothing more than to track down his boy, but, honestly, I think he's protecting his heart more." The doctor rapped his knuckles on the table. "Which brings us back to the operation."
Cecelia looked questioningly at him.
He said, "If this operation is not successful, Mac's going to need all the support he can get. And the way he keeps everyone at arm's length, support will be difficult to come by." The doctor studied Cecelia's face. "For whatever reason, the man has allowed you into his life. He could have hired the most discreet and experienced nurse to stay with him, but he didn't. He chose you." With frankness, he asked, "Why do you think that is?"
Cecelia whispered, "I have no idea."
Dr. Hillsborough placed his elbow on the table and put his chin in his palm. "Well, whatever the reason, I believe you have touched the man's heart."
Cecelia blinked back tears.
"And obviously, he's touched yours," the doctor concluded. He puffed a breath. "So, that brings us back to his care over the next few weeks." Dr. Hillsborough then proceeded to outline the medications and daily routine for Mac week by week.
Chapter 12: Santa's Workshop
Cecelia grinned at her employees, who were now close friends, and said during one of their early morning meetings, "You realize, don't you, that there are only a couple of months until Christmas?"
Julie said, "I love this time of year. When do you want to start decorating?"
"That's just what I wanted to talk about. When did Dixie usually put up the decorations?"
Justin interjected, "Around the middle of November."
"So that means we should make this place look like Santa's workshop in three weeks," Cecelia responded.
"Santa's workshop?" questioned Justin.
Cecelia couldn't contain her excitement. "I've been searching online and found the most awesome decorations for creating Santa's workshop." She opened the folder in her hands and passed out pictures she had downloaded.
Samantha's eyes widened. "It's fantastic! We'll have customers lined out the door."
Cecelia grinned. "And we can create some special treats and drinks for the children. I was thinking of some names and slogans like, Rudolf's Hot Chocolate to warm your red nose, or Frosty's—Frosty no more—hot apple cider."
Julie clapped her hands. "I love it! And Tilly and Angie will, too! They always get into the Christmas Spirit." She waved the printout. "How soon until Santa's workshop arrives?"
"Well, I wanted to run this by all of you before ordering to make sure you think it's a good idea, too."
Julie squealed, "It's a wonderful idea!"
Justin and Samantha agreed with big grins and nods.
Cecelia had one last item to mention. "I'll order it today. It should be here in plenty of time. But there's something else we need to discuss." She lifted another printout from her folder. "What would you think about dressing the part?"
Justin reached for the page she handed him and his eyes widened. He started laughing, "Did you go all out like this in New York?"
Cecelia smiled, "Oh, yes. Everyone dressed up at my last job. It was fabulous fun. All year we wore stuffy suits and looked like perfect yuppies. But when Christmas came, we became every imaginable character. In fact, I brought my costumes with me. I have a couple of elf outfits, Mrs. Claus's dress with matching apron, Frosty the Snowman, Rudolph, of course, and Santa's favorite puppy."
"You have a puppy outfit?" Julie laughed.
"It's the cutest thing you've ever seen with a big red bow around the neck and a tail that really wags. So, what I'm asking is if ya'll will dress the part?"
Justin wagged his finger at Cecelia. "Do you know what you just did?"
She creased her brow. "What?"
"You just said, 'ya'll'." He stuck his hand up for a high-five. "You are now officially a cowgirl."
>
Cecelia slapped her hand against his and felt her heart glow with happiness.
Justin continued, "As for wearing costumes, I refuse to dress as Mrs. Claus, but anything else, I'm game."
"Count me in, too," said Samantha.
"I can't wait," said Julie.
Cecelia said, "Wonderful! I'll bring the costumes in tomorrow and then we can get Mrs. Doolittle to alter them as needed. Of course, if you have your own costume or see something on this printout you like, just let me know. I'll be happy to order more outfits."
*
Mac listened to Cecelia humming in the kitchen. For two weeks, he'd been miserable. The burning sensation running from his fingertips to his shoulder had only lessened slightly. It also appeared that he was losing the battle against depression. If he lost his ability to paint he figured his life was over. He'd just shrivel and die within a few years.
Cecelia entered the room carrying a tray. She was a good cook, something that surprised him. He figured that her being a rich socialite, she'd had people doing everything for her in New York. She set the tray on the table beside his chair and grinned happily.
"What's with the humming and grins?" Mac asked crankily. His tone didn't change her countenance.
"Let me get my tray and I'll tell you all about what's happening at the coffee shop."
She returned a few minutes later, sat on the couch across from his recliner, and settled her tray comfortably on her lap. He waited for her to eat the first bite of spaghetti. Twirling the tines of her fork, she lifted noodles dripping sauce to her mouth. He watched her suck a noodle until it disappeared into her pursing lips. Quickly, he looked away. He certainly didn't need his body coming awake when he felt like crap.
Cecelia said, "I love Christmas!"
Mac returned his gaze to her happy face. She took another bite and sucked another noodle. "Sorry about that. I'm a sloppy spaghetti eater."
Mac shifted his gaze away again. "You were saying you love Christmas…"
"Oh, yes. Anyway, I'm making the coffee shop into Santa's workshop for the holidays. I wasn't sure how my employees would feel about it, but they loved the idea! We're even going to dress the part!"
Mac almost smiled at her joyous chatter.
She continued, "I can't wait to see the happy faces on the children. We're creating special drinks and snacks just for them."
"That's nice," he said without much enthusiasm. He felt like Scrooge.
Cecelia didn't seem to notice. She said, "But enough about me. How was your day? Did you do this week's exercises?"
Mac wanted to answer like a petulant child and say, "Yeah, but they're useless," but he merely answered, "Yes."
Cecelia furrowed her brow and started to say something when his cell phone rang. He reached for it on his table and frowned. There was only one person he knew in that area code. "Hello."
Chapter 13: Cell Phone Surprise
Cecelia watched Mac's brow crease when he glanced at his cell phone. She could tell he'd had a rough day and she wished there was more she could do to help him. Dr. Hillsborough had said the first month would be rough, and so far the two weeks since Mac's return had proven the doc's words accurate.
Mac answered his phone and his scowl turned to surprise and then back to a scowl as he shouted, "What!"
Cecelia decided to leave the room. Obviously, this was a private conversation. He didn't appear to even notice when she lifted her tray and returned to the kitchen. Sitting at the table, she could still hear snatches of his conversation when his voice rose in volume. "He can't come here! — What do you mean he's going to run away? — Let me think about it!"
When there was silence for several minutes, she stepped back into the living room. Mac had his good hand pressed to his forehead. When he glanced up, she saw a tortured expression that ripped her heart to shreds. Rushing forward, she knelt beside his chair. "Mac, what's wrong? Is there anything I can do to help?"
He blinked and stared at her for a long moment. Then he said, "I have a fifteen year old son that I haven't seen since he was a baby. He was adopted by a wonderful family and they've never kept the fact of his adoption from him. But they have kept my identity a secret, even leading him to believe I'm dead because that was something I required for the adoption to take place." He reached his good hand and rubbed the shoulder of the arm that had been operated on. Cecelia lifted her hand and said, "Let me do that." She gently massaged the tense muscles.
Mac closed his eyes and continued speaking. "I receive yearly updates and pictures of my child from his adoptive parents. My response is always a polite thank you." He blew a breath. "It seems the boy pried open the lock of a desk drawer holding copies of all the letters sent to me over the years and my responses." He opened his eyes. "He's furious that I've never contacted him and wants to know why he was told I died in a car accident. Ruth, that's his adoptive mother, said he still doesn't know my identity and is demanding to know. All my mail is addressed to a trust and I sign my name only as Mac on my letters."
Cecelia moved her massaging hand slowly down to Mac's elbow. When he didn't wince, she gently rubbed that area.
He continued, "The boy has threatened to run away if I don't see him."
Softly, Cecelia asked, "Do you want to see him?"
Mac's tortured eyes captured and held hers. "Honestly, my answer would be yes and no."
Cecelia replied, "You may not believe this, but I understand what you're saying. Although the circumstance was different, after my brother's accident that laid him up in a hospital paralyzed, I wanted to see him, but at the same time, I didn't." Cecelia moved her hand to Mac's wrist and stroked it.
He took a deep breath. "That feels good." After a few minutes he said, "I guess I'll have to see the boy."
Cecelia asked, "What's his name?"
A pained expression crossed his features. "I suppose it doesn't speak well of me to refer to my own son as 'the boy'."
Cecelia responded, "You're too hard on yourself."
"His name is Sean."
She entwined her fingers with Mac's and held his hand. He said, "Ruth and James want to send him here for two weeks. Things could get hairy. Would you please not leave?"
Increasing the pressure of her hand only slightly so as to not hurt him, but wanting Mac to realize she was in this with him, she said, "You can count on me for whatever you need."
*
A week later, Cecelia paced the Cortez Airport. Nervousness had her twisting the fabric of her skirt. How can a short commuter flight from Denver be late? They do this every day.
She paused at a window in the lobby and watched a new plane come into view. Within minutes it was taxiing to the debarking area. A crackling voice came over the loudspeaker announcing the flight.
That's him! Cecelia was amazed at her reaction. You'd think he was my child. She walked to the door for debarking passengers and held up the paper she'd scrawled the name "Sean" on.
There were only a handful of commuters and soon a teenage boy entered. Cecelia sucked a breath. The boy was the image of his father—tall, dark, and handsome. She almost smiled at the descriptive words used by women throughout the ages.
The only negatives were his scowl and swagger. He hoisted his backpack higher and then saw her. His scowl turned into a frown. He approached and she tentatively said, "You must be Sean."
The boy glanced past her and said nastily, "The old man couldn't be bothered to pick me up in person?"
Cecelia was taken aback by his attitude, but reminded herself that he'd just discovered he had a living birthfather and was hurting because he'd never been contacted. She smiled brightly, "It's so good to meet you, Sean. Your father asked me to pick you up because he's recovering from surgery."
Cecelia was rewarded when surprise crossed the young man's features. They soon settled back into a scowl.
"The car isn't far away. Do you have luggage to be collected."
"No."
"Okay. Follow me and I'll get you ho
me." Cecelia wished she could take her words back when Sean sent her a snarky look. She sighed as they headed out of the airport.
Chapter 14: Fifteen Years Too Late
Mac ran a comb through his hair again, and then again. The damn cowlick that always gave him problems wouldn't stay down. He turned the faucet on and doused it with water. On his next trip to Denver, maybe he should have his shoulder length locks cropped military style.
Really looking at himself in the mirror, he knew he looked like hell. That's what pain did—it made you want to shut yourself away and never face anyone. He said a few choice words because he felt and looked terrible, and he was about to meet his son after fifteen years…and the kid hated him.
Scenarios of explanations danced across his mind. He could tell Sean he'd wanted him to be raised in a loving home, free of knowing the sadness of their past; he could tell the boy that he was riddled with guilt over the car accident that killed his mother, always wishing he'd been more vigilant while driving; he could tell him that he had suffered from depression for years—and all of that would be true—but the real reason was because he was a coward. He was a coward who hid from the world and only found release in painting the images always appearing in his mind.
If it hadn't been for Cecelia, he didn't know what he would have done. From the panic in Ruth's and James' voices, they truly believed the boy would run away and that was something he couldn't allow. He knew what happened to boys who ran—they ended up in foster homes. He'd never wish that on his child.
The sound of the front door opening distracted his melancholy thoughts and he inhaled deeply, gave a last pat to the cowlick, and walked down the hall to the living room, leaving his cane behind. He knew he shouldn't be up and around, but he damn well wouldn't have his son's first impression of him be that of a handicapped man. Just as he entered the room, Cecelia walked in and held the door open for Sean.
Time stopped as Mac froze, staring at his child. Sean also froze. The two of them appraised each other for a long moment and Mac felt his eyes grow moist. There was so much of Rose in the boy, but so much of himself, too. He lifted his good hand and said, "Hello, Sean."
