Carol chuckled, then caught another flicker of movement from the corner of her eye. "Okay, Baby Jesus is definitely moving." Her stomach fluttered with a weird little pitch and roll. What the hell is going on? She looked at the huge, gray dog. "Plaster statues rarely move, just in case you didn't know, so this is truly something weird."
Quinn didn't seem to care.
That made one of them.
"So, either we go wake up Father Reilly to document a miracle, or we alert the Enquirer!' She shifted her gaze back to the Nativity, just ten short feet away. "But either way, we really ought to get a closer look, huh?"
Everyday life was a little different when you lived in Christmas, California. Here, Carol told herself, where the Spirit of Christmas thrived 365 days a year, all things were possible.
Still, statues that moved on their own would be of some interest, even in Christmas.
Carol knew Christmas like the back of her hand—and she loved every square inch of it. Had from the very beginning. She'd seen the place first as a tourist, but she'd known immediately that this was the place for her. It hadn't taken her long to go back to LA, quit her job, sell her condo near the beach, and move back to the place that kept Christmas alive all year round.
In the two years she'd lived there, she'd made it a point to become a part of the town. She knew every single strand of lights, every candy cane hanging from every light pole, every favorite haunt of the tourists—who were a constant stream into town—and she knew every shop owner by their first names. She went to the city council meetings, volunteered whenever she had the chance, and hired as many local part-time workers for her own shop as she could afford.
Christmas had a sense of community, a sense of. .. family, that made it almost the proverbial small town. It was what people always thought a small town should be. A slice of life straight out of a Currier & Ives painting— minus the snow, of course. Everyone in Christmas knew everything about everybody else.
That's why she knew that the Nativity scene was not animatronic.
The plaster statues that sat, year round, in the town square didn't move. They didn't wave to the tourists who posed within the life-sized manger, draping friendly arms across Joseph's shoulders; the statues didn't shift position when they grew tired of kneeling. Didn't stretch and yawn as plaster muscles cramped from disuse. Didn't get bored with the whole "stuck in a straw-filled manger" thing and go to Tahiti on a whim. Which meant, Carol told herself, the night had just taken a sharp turn toward the Twilight Zone. She shivered, despite the lingering heat in the night.
A long strand of blond-streaked hair flew across her eyes, and she whipped it back and out of her way. She glanced around at the surrounding shadows and wondered if someone was out there now, watching her. Strange prickles of sensation crawled along her neck and down her spine. Mouth dry, she realized that this was the first time since coming to Christmas that she'd been the least bit... edgy.
Not scared, of course. That would be dumb. Nothing ever happened in Christmas. So what was there to be scared ofl
Quinn whined piteously and Carol almost joined him.
Baby Jesus had moved.
But this was no miracle.
Well, okay, it was a miracle, but not the kind that made headlines in the tabloids or anything.
This was one of those everyday miracles that most people tended to take for granted.
An honest-to-God, real-live baby lay swaddled—she was pretty sure that was the word—in the straw-filled wooden cradle.
Stunned, Carol dropped the bright red leash and Quinn moved closer to the cradle. His big head was nearly the same size as the baby, but Carol wasn't worried Quinn was the epitome of an Irish wolfhound. A gentle giant. And true to his nature, Quinn walked silendy to the baby's side, carefully snuffled its little head, then promptly sat down beside it, as if ready to stand guard. Carol smiled, but couldn't take her eyes off the baby.
The infant squirmed, screwed up its tiny red features, and let out a mighty ... whimper. Its impossibly small fists raged against the air and its little legs kicked at the pale yellow blanket wrapped around them. The baby looked pretty ticked off, and truth to tell, Carol really couldn't blame it. Not exactly a warm welcome into the world, she thought and took a step closer even as she looked around at the quiet, empty town square.
A baby didn't just crawl across the grass, toss Baby Jesus out of his bed, and climb into it himself! It had had help. But who? Who in Christmas would have abandoned a brand-new baby? And maybe more importantly, where were they now?
Another thready cry erupted from the baby and brought Carol back to the moment at hand. "What am I talking about, huh? Who left you behind doesn't matter, does it?" she half-crooned as she went down on one knee in the dewy grass. Dampness soaked into her faded Levi's, but she didn't even feel it. "You're the important one here, aren't you?" Reaching out, Carol tugged the thin yellow blanket up over the baby's narrow, naked
chest and let her fingers linger there just long enough to feel its racing heartbeat.
Her heart ached. And her hands itched to hold it. But maybe she shouldn't pick it up. Maybe she should call the police or something. Damn it. A baby. Left alone. In the dark.
Quinn lowered his massive head until his hairy chin was resting on the edge of the cradle. The baby's flailing fists made contact with the dog's nose, but Quinn didn't even flinch. Instead, he sighed, deeply enough to flutter the blanket.
"Okay," she said softly, mentally dismissing thoughts of waiting around here for the police. "I know you don't know me or anything, but I'm going to pick you up now, okay?" The baby squirmed and shook its little fists and Carol scooped it up, blanket and all. Light as air, she thought, and despite the summer night, the child was shivering. She tucked the blanket it had been wrapped in more tightly around it, then held it carefully, tucking it in close to her. Smoothing her palm across its downy hair, she felt her heart twist a little. Once upon a time, she'd wanted a family. Children. But it hadn't happened, and now, holding this tiny new life close, she realized just how much she wished things had been different.
But this baby wasn't hers and she knew she had to keep her heart from getting too involved. For her own sake.
"Nothing personal, little guy ... or girl... whichever," she said, staring down into milky blue eyes that studied her as if understanding every word she said. "Where's your mommy?" she whispered, tracing the tip of one finger along the baby's face. Instinctively, the infant turned its head toward her touch, opening its tiny mouth in a futile search for food. "Poor little thing," Carol said. "You're
hungry, you're cold, and I'm standing here asking you questions you can't answer. It's okay. We won't talk about your mommy anymore." If babies really could understand what was happening around them, then Carol wasn't going to be the one to bad-mouth this one's mother. At least, not to its face.
Frowning, she hunched her shoulders as that tight, prickly sensation crawled up her neck again. Carol turned, letting her gaze sweep across the darkened town square. The only lights were those behind her, focused on the manger and the statues inside it.
Shadows of varying degrees of darkness surrounded her. Pale moonlight drifted down through the oaks and elms studding the border of the square and a quiet ocean breeze danced through their leaves with a rustle of movement. Park benches, lonely in the dark, waited for morning, and the tourists who would plop themselves down and drip ice cream across the glossy, green surfaces.
Up and down the main street, otherwise known as North Pole Avenue, stores were closed, sidewalks were empty, and fog lamps shone in yellow halos. The Fourth of July weekend would be starting in two days and it was as if the whole town was taking a nap to prepare. But then, Christmas wasn't
exactly a hot spot of late-night entertainment anyway. The stores closed at nine and by ten, the sidewalks were rolled up and tucked away until the next morning.
"Well, except for you, huh?" Carol stroked the palm of her hand across the soft, downy dark hair atop the baby's head.
The quiet nights were just one of the reasons Carol had moved to the little seaside town in central California. Although, she thought, she wouldn't mind a little company right about now.
u
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Some Kind of Wonderful 7
"But I bet you're lonelier than me, aren't you?" The baby just blinked at her.
Every other night, she and Quinn walked through the sleeping town, the big dog snuffling at every square inch of ground as though he'd never seen it before. They listened to the silence and wandered for blocks, almost never seeing another soul. In quiet houses, lamplight played behind drapes, penned-up dogs barked at Quinn's passing, and occasionally, they ran across teenagers steaming up car windows. There was peace in their nightly ritual, Carol thought. A kind of... magic, she supposed. Especially for someone like her, who'd grown up in the rush and noise of LA, always surrounded by too many people, having to scratch out one small corner of solitude to call her own.
But tonight, that had all changed.
Quinn leaned against her and Carol staggered with the effort to stay upright. Then bending down, she snatched up the dog's leash and talked to the baby. "We're gonna take you to see Aunt Phoebe. Aren't we, Quinn?"
Rather than taking off like a shot, as he would normally do, Quinn walked slowly, keeping time with Carol and the baby.
Jack Reilly stared long and hard at the small medical clinic at the edge of town. Like every other business in Christmas, it was decorated with tiny twinkling lights and candy-cane-red ribbon bedecked the front door. He shook his head and sighed. He'd grown up here and still could be surprised at the amount of holiday cheer the town threw at you every day.
Christmas, California, was far off the main coast road, tucked into a small dip in the hills that would have been a
valley with a little more effort. But because of its location, Christmas had missed its chance to grow and sprawl into more than it was. Urban growth, like the highway, had bypassed Christmas, leaving it to find a way to survive on its own.
It had.
A couple hundred years ago, the founders had called it Billingsley, for the first man to stumble across the hills and set up a tent. But some smart guy in the twenties had come up with the idea of renaming the little town in an attempt to bring tourists in. So they'd come up with the notion of year-round Christmas. With a few changes to street signs and storefronts, they'd reinvented themselves as a place to find "magic." The plan worked.
The town thrived on tourism and clung to the familiarity of small-town life. People looking for a fun way to spend a weekend, or a place to buy ornaments and decorations, found their way to Christmas. Tourists sought it out, despite having to take a narrow, two-lane road that zigged and zagged with wild abandon along a cliff's edge.
They came in droves. As inevitable as taxes and death, the camera-toting crowd arrived daily, dragging their kids along with them. They posed for pictures outside the Reindeer Cafe and laughed over the street signs. Kids crawled all over the Nativity set and their parents paid to let them enter a petting zoo, where they could see Rudolph and his buddies up close and personal. Every summer, the tourists outnumbered the townies by three or four to one and, in December, their numbers were staggering. But no one complained. The tourists brought their credit cards and wallets and that kept the town going.
It was corny and old-fashioned and everything sleepy
little towns should be. he supposed. The only problem was. Jack was busily trying to forget all about the holiday that came around even." December 25. Now. for at least the next few weeks, that particular date was going to be in his face, on his mind, and churning in his gut.
"Perfect." He opened the car door and stepped out into the cold, damp air. Heading across the nearly empty parking lot. he grabbed the doorknob and gave it a turn. He ducked his head as he stepped into the eerily quiet clinic. At six feet four inches, he had a habit of tucking his head in—otherwise he'd be constantly bumping it. Pausing just inside the doorway, he did a quick scan of the clinic he hadn't seen in years.
In the middle of the night, the place looked deserted, abandoned. Quiet and almost empty, it lay shadowed under the dim light of only half the overhead fluorescent*. Either the clinic was saving energy, or they figured why light the place up when there weren't any patients 0
Pastoral watercolors in primary-colored frames decorated the soft blue walls and the blue and gray linoleum gleamed from recent scrubbing. The front desk, manned by a nurse currently reading a magazine, was adorned with coloring-book scribbles, thumbtacked to the cream-colored beadboard.
And naturally, because this was Christmas, tinsel garlands ringed the room, draped from the ceiling to fall in festive, upside-down arches. Man. Even in the clinic, he couldn't get away from year-round Christmas.
The smell of antiseptic clung to the air and twitched at Jack's nose. He never had liked medical buildings. Logically, he knew the antiseptic was to keep things clean— but a part of him had always wondered if that strong smell wasn't some sly way to try to cover up the stench of fear and misery.
Oh, yeah, Jack thought He was just the guy to be out dealing with people in the middle of the night Shaking his head, he took another step inside and his shoes thunked heavily enough to get the nurse's attention. She looked up and her eyes brightened as soon as she saw him.
"Jack, hi."
"Tina." He nodded and crossed the floor in a few long strides. Tina Mitchell-Graves now, he reminded himself. Although her round, pregnant belly would have served as a big hint that a lot of time had passed since he'd last seen her. "I got a call at the station from Dr. Hightower about—"
"I know." Tina pointed off down the hall behind her. "She's in the back, waiting for you."
"Thanks." He started for the hall.
"So, are you back home to stay?"
He stopped briefly and shot her a quick look. "No," he said, wanting to make sure she got that little news bulletin out onto the jungle grapevine fast. "I'm only standing in for Sheriff Thompson until he's well enough to come back."
And he wouldn't have been doing that much if he'd been able to think of a way around it. Right now, he could be on his way to ... anywhere would do, actually. He could be on a beach with a mai-tai... or in a bar with a beer. Either of which sounded better than being rousted out of bed at one in the morning. Which just went to prove his father had been right. "No good deed goes unpunished, Jack." He could practically hear the old man muttering it now, which was a hell of a job of remembering since Jack's dad had died more than ten years ago.
"That's a shame," Tina said and pushed herself up from her chair.
Jack's gaze dropped to her swollen belly and his jaw clenched. "You better sit down, Tina."
She waved off his concern. "Please. This is number three. With two kids under the age of five, who gets to sit?"
Jesus, he was getting old. Tina Mitchell had two and a half kids. Just yesterday, she'd been leading cheers while he ran for touchdowns. Shaking his head, Jack headed off down the hall, following the sound of voices drifting to him from the last examination room on the right.
"A healthy, six-pound, two-ounce baby girl," the doctor proclaimed after a thorough examination.
"And human, right?" Carol asked.
Dr. Phoebe Hightower looked over at her friend and lifted a finely arched red eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Hey, not such a weird question." Carol grinned at her. "On the walk over here, it— she was making some really strange sort of. .. bloopy noises."
"Define 'bloopy.'" Phoebe tucked her short, coppery hair behind her ears and looped her stethoscope around her neck. "I'm fascinated."
"You know..." Carol shrugged and jammed both hands briefl
y into her jeans pockets before pulling them out again to wave. "Noises coming from both ends. And lots of.. .fluids."
"Yeah, sure sign of an alien life-form."
"Hey, I'm not an idiot," Carol said. "I know babies have fluids. But you checked? No venom sacs in her cheeks? No forked, suspiciously reptilian tongue?"
Phoebe stared at her friend for a long count of five. "You've been watching the V marathon on the Sci-Fi channel again, haven't you?"
"Lizard babies in human suits." Carol grinned and shrugged. "Hey, you'd feel pretty silly if you missed diagnosing an alien baby, wouldn't you?"
"How embarrassing that would be."
"See? Only looking out for you, pal."
"Uh-huh. And you found her in the manger?"
"Yeah." The smile slipped from Carol's face as she stared down at the little girl, now wearing a diaper and wrapped in a nice clean blanket. She reached out one hand and tentatively stroked the tiny palm with the tip of her finger. The baby grabbed at it, and Carol felt that grip tighten around her heart.
This probably wasn't a good thing, she thought, even as she concentrated on the feel of those tiny fingers wrapped around her own. With every moment that ticked past, this baby was slipping quietly past Carol's defenses. The heck of it was, she wasn't at all sorry. Maybe she would be later, but at the moment, everything in her was busy responding to a kindred spirit.
This child, like Carol herself, had been abandoned. And who knew better than Carol "what that baby would feel as it grew and had to accept the fact that she hadn't been worth keeping?
"Who could just leave her there and walk away?" Phoebe muttered and smoothed her palm over the baby's head.
"Walking away's the easy part," Carol muttered, then deliberately forced a smile. "Or so I'm told."
"Hey ..." Phoebe winced. "I'm sorry, I just didn't think and—"
This time Carol really smiled. Her past was just that. Past. She'd moved past the hurt of never having a family. Of never having a real home to go running to when
times got tough. She'd grown up in spite of everything. And she'd built her own home. Made her own mark. The past was just memories and memories couldn't hurt her anymore.
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