by Beth Ciotta
He flicked his hand toward the organized chaos. “I’ll get around to it.”
“When? You moved into this condo three months ago. Don’t tell me you’re strapped for time. It’s not like you punch a clock.”
He hadn’t punched a clock when he’d worked out of the main office either, but he had been under the family’s thumb. As the sole surviving son and heir of RAVI, for the last five years his parents had ridden shotgun over his professional and personal life. Partly because they were control freaks. Mostly because they were afraid if, left to his own devices, Mason would end up meeting with the same fate as his older brother, James. Maybe not as grim, but dead is dead.
“What are you doing here, Mom?”
“I need a reason to visit my son?”
“No. But I’m not exactly around the corner.” He passed her the towel, then folded his arms and leaned against the wall as she inspected his furniture, no doubt looking to perch in a Rush-free zone. Good luck with that.
“Why are you in Denver?” he tried again. His parents lived in an affluent suburb of Lincoln, Nebraska. Seven hour drive from their door to his. Under two hours by air. Knowing his mom, she’d chartered a plane. The question was, why. “And don’t tell me you flew in for an afternoon of Christmas shopping,” he said, borrowing one of her favorite sentence starters.
After frowning at his sofa and scowling at the matching love seat, she spread the towel on the ottoman and perched gingerly on the edge. “I’m here to ask a favor.”
Mason frowned.
“I know it’s useless to ask you to move back to Lincoln. Where you belong. So I’ll just ask you this. Come home for the month.”
He retained his relaxed position even though every muscle bunched. “My work is here.”
“According to your father there are at least three other people in the company who could do what you’re doing here. Your cousin, Charles, for one. You remember him. The man sitting behind the desk formerly occupied by you. The man who took on your responsibilities when you selfishly indulged your rebellious streak. Again,” she added with a fabricated sniffle of distress.
This is why he traded his position as second-in-command at RAVI headquarters for a sales and developmental position in the field. To escape the relentless guilt trips, the rigid expectations, and the life he’d never wanted. After five long years, he’d tired of filling his brother’s shoes. It had never been a good fit. He’d forced it. For his parents. And, if he were brutally honest, for himself.
“Charlie was Jimmy’s right hand man, Mom. He’s qualified. He’s motivated. He’s family. The position should have gone to him in the first place. Not me. Just took me a while to do the right thing. Can we drop this now?” Mason shoved off the wall, fighting to compartmentalize a dozen emotions. “Are you hungry? Come on. I’ll take you to lunch.”
Rush, an Irish Wolfhound mix with a heart of gold, meandered into the living room, yawning and stretching, and giving Prissy the stink eye. In Mason’s experience, dogs sensed when people weren’t animal friendly. Or at least Rush always did. The big scruffy mutt gave her the cold shoulder and sat in front of Mason, thick tail thumping hard on the carpeted floor.
“I guess this means he needs to relieve himself,” Prissy said, taut face pinched with impatience.
“It means he wants to eat. I said the magic phrase. Or at least one of them.”
“What phrase?”
“Are you hungry?”
This time Rush barked in answer.
Prissy raised a skeptical brow. “He was in the other room when you asked me that.”
Probably sleeping on Mason’s bed. Since they’d relocated, Rush had lapsed into a few bad habits. Sort of like his person. “A typical dog’s sense of hearing trumps any humans,” Mason said. “And Rush trumps a typical dog. He can perceive frequencies—”
“Don’t go audio on me.” Another one of her favorite sayings. She may have married a man who’d made a fortune developing and selling audio and video equipment, but she’d never understood or cared to learn the technical aspects or practical theories pertaining to the business. “Let’s get back to the subject at hand.”
Mason reached down and gave Rush’s head an affectionate scratch. “Which is?”
She clasped her hands in her lap, sat rigid. She was beautiful in an icy sort of way. Easy to see why she’d caught Boyd Rivers’ attention. When it came to women, the audio kingpin had a weakness for exceptionally attractive women. In that regard, and that regard only, Mason was a chip off of the old man’s block.
“It’s December,” Prissy said. “You know how morose your dad gets around the holidays. How can you be so cruel?”
“Holidays are rough for a lot of people, Mom. Including me.”
“So why spend them alone?”
“I’ll join you for Christmas Eve and day.”
“But—”
“My being there won’t fill the gap left by Jimmy. Not for you. Not for Dad.” Pride and temper reared its ugly head. “I’m done with pinch hitting for the favorite son.”
Prissy paled.
Mason cringed. Not because he regretted the words, but because he’d spewed in anger. He was the one who’d allowed his parents to manipulate him. He was the one who’d suffered in relative silence for five freaking years. Distancing himself and starting anew wouldn’t be easy but it didn’t need to be messy.
Expression now eerily neutral, his mother stood and fussed with the buttons of her buttoned coat. “Lunch would be nice,” she said in a detached tone. “That’s if the offer still stands. I’ll fill you in on family and local gossip. That is if you care.”
“I’ll grab my coat.” Mason strode toward his bedroom, Rush walking alongside. For the Rivers, any sense of familiar warmth had died along with his brother. Things were always tense. But never more so than around the holidays.
God, what I wouldn’t give for a little old fashioned Christmas cheer.
Mason nabbed his wool pea coat from the closet, snagged a gourmet biscuit from the treat jar on his dresser and tossed it to his loyal companion. “Do me a favor, Champ, and don’t destroy anything while I’m gone.” Which of course you will. Even if it is just a piece of junk mail.
That thought reminded Mason of the tickets he’d scored for this weekend’s popular Mile High Christmas Extravaganza. He grabbed the envelope from his nightstand and tucked it in a drawer. Not exactly the kind of Christmas cheer his soul craved, but it sure as hell was a start.
* * *
Once upon the same night in Nowhere
Chrissy rolled into her driveway a half hour later than normal. Two back-to-back snowstorms had blanketed Dawes County in two feet of snow. The road crews had been diligent but the feisty and relentless winds wreaked havoc with plowed drifts, obscuring long stretches of country roads with the fluffy white stuff. That wouldn’t be so bad, but the white stuff concealed the odd patch of black ice. Rather than risking an accident, Chrissy took her time on the drive home from work. She couldn’t afford to trash her car. Or her body for that matter. She had Melody to think about. And damn if she didn’t think about that kid all the time. Most recently, she’d been obsessing on their upcoming trip to Denver.
Melody was over the moon excited.
Chrissy was ramped to the max with dread. Her trepidation about running into Mason was equally matched only by Georgie’s perseverance regarding procuring tickets for the Mile High Christmas Extravaganza. Yes, Melody would enjoy the visuals—the scenery, the costumes, the dancing—but she wouldn’t hear one note of music. That grated on Chrissy’s nerves along with the knowledge that she herself would be forced to suffer through every beautiful song played by the featured symphony.
Ever since she was a child, Chrissy had dreamed of making her living as a concert violinist. She had the gift. She had the training. But her passion for music died the moment the doctors pronounced her baby deaf. How could she enjoy what her daughter would never hear? She hadn’t played her violin in almost fiv
e years and she’d shunned music in general, something her friends and family had respected for a while, but not so much this past year.
Nerves taut, Chrissy dumped her keys into her knitted slouch bag and squinted through the windshield at her tiny cabin home. Only six pm and already dark as the dead of night. Her kitchen window glowed with golden light and she could see her mom working at the sink. Probably washing dishes after making Melody supper. Or maybe they’d baked cookies together. Again. Even though Chrissy brought home a weekly sampling of the cookies she made at the bakery, Melody was all about the process of mixing up and decorating her own sugary delights. The thought of her daughter’s sweet smile and endless effervescence prompted Chrissy to slap on a happy face as she looped her scarf around her neck and braved the frigid temps.
Her dad had shoveled and salted the path—just one of the perks of living in a guest cabin on her parents’ ranch—but even so, walking without slipping was dicey. By the time she pushed through the side door and into the cozy kitchen, her smile was more like a crooked grimace.
“Rough drive?” her mom asked.
“A little tricky,” Chrissy said as she stomped her boots free of snow. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem. I made a meatloaf ahead of time. All your dad had to do was pop it in the oven. I should go though. He hates eating without me.”
Chrissy didn’t respond but her mind gushed with compliments and envy. Roger and Eva Mooney were two of the most loving and generous people she’d ever known and an adorable couple to boot. Crazy in love and forever devoted. Every so often they still acted like a pair of smitten teens. Chrissy had known that kind of giddy infatuation with Mason. Unfortunately, he’d tanked in the devotion department. Then again, Chrissy had fallen in love with a smooth-talking musician, a man only known to her at the time as Romeo. Bewitched by love at first sight, but committed to opposing dreams, they’d agreed to indulge in a fantasy, embarking on a week-long affair under assumed names.
What happens at the Oakley Festival stays at the Oakley Festival.
Only it hadn’t.
“Melody’s had her supper and bath,” Eva said as she dried her hands on a dishrag. “She’s in the living room, working on a holiday craft. She’s really got the spirit this year, honey. We made snowball cookies earlier and she asked me to help her write a letter to Santa. Said my writing’s prettier.”
Wearing a festive bulky sweater that countered her now grim expression, Eva snagged an envelope from the counter and handed it to Chrissy. “She asked me to mail it for her, but I think you should read it first.”
Scarf still looped about her neck, coat drooping off her shoulders, Chrissy opened the enveloped marked for a North Pole delivery. Her mom’s expression suggested she was in for a shocker. Had her daughter asked for a big ticket item? Something beyond Chrissy’s limited budget? Had she asked to hear, like other people? Or damn, oh, crud, had she asked for a daddy? As Mel had grown older, she’d become more confused about her single parent status. So far Chrissy had skated over the truth. Maybe those days were over.
Stomach churning, she unfolded the letter and read the content as dictated by Mel via sign language. She could easily imagine her daughter’s tiny flying fingers.
“Dear Santa,” Chrissy read aloud. “Grandma says I’ve been a good girl and good girls are on your nice list and that means I’ll get presents. She told me to think hard and ask for what I want most. I thought really hard and I know what I want. It’s not for me. It’s for my mommy.” Chrissy swallowed hard and blinked back tears. “She’s always sad even when she’s smiling. Instead of making her a toy, can your elves make her happy? Your friend, Melody.”
“Tear jerker, right?” Eva asked as she pulled on her coat. “And I’m the one who heard it straight from Mel.”
She paused, relieved Chrissy of the letter and envelope, then gave her arm a kind squeeze. “Leave it to my ever-starry-eyed granddaughter to ask for the impossible. Santa can’t make you happy, honey. Nor is it something easily tackled by me or your dad or your brother, or even Melody. It’s up to you to reconnect with pure joy. You remember that feeling, right? Pure joy? You used to sparkle with it. Like Melody.”
She kissed Chrissy on the cheek then moved to the door. “Maybe Melody’s note is a sign that it’s time to stop depriving yourself of what you think you don’t deserve. I won’t tell you what to do,” she said on her way out, “but dragging your fiddle out of the cedar trunk might be a good start. End of lecture.”
The door closed and Chrissy stood shell-shocked as her mom headed toward the main house. She’d always gone out of her way to put on a cheery front for her daughter. Mostly it wasn’t an act. No one made her smile like the light of her life. Either Melody was weirdly intuitive or Chrissy was more miserable than she’d realized. If she put bow to strings would she feel pure joy? Or only bitter regret for a forfeited dream? Was the lack of music in her life the root of her frustration? She didn’t think so. Although she conceded it could be a contributing factor.
Chrissy eyed the platter of whimsical snowball cookies, feeling as bland as unflavored dough. “How does one find her happy?”
Leave it to my ever-starry-eyed granddaughter to ask for the impossible.
Chrissy flashed on another avid optimist in her life. A few months back, her cousin Bella had shot for the stars. Via an internet site, she’d literally applied for an impossible dream and, after bucking certain odds and utilizing a strong dose of derring-do, she’d made that dream come true.
Snagging her phone from her purse, Chrissy connected to the internet and pulled up the bookmarked site. Just as she had several times before, she read the whimsical come-on.
Impossible Dream.com
Making magic since 1956
Yearning for your dream job? Dream vacation? Dream home? Our data analysts and researchers pride themselves on working magic.
Chrissy wasn’t the fanciful sort, but she’d been toying with applying to ID.com for weeks. She’d wrestled with the precise wording for the data form, something that would benefit Melody.
The wording was still up in the air, but the dream was suddenly and painfully clear. Tonight, she thought as she moved into the living room to bid her daughter hello. After she put Mel to bed, she’d fire up her laptop and fill out the application.
“Time to put stock in magic.”
Chapter Three
Once upon a Winter Weekend
Wanting to believe in miracles and magic and having complete and unshakeable faith were two vastly different things. Bella had that kind of faith. Melody had that kind of faith. Chrissy had stared at the responding email and attached document from Impossible Dream thinking, what the hell?
Several nights ago, she’d spent two hours toiling over that extensive data form, sharing things about her life that she hadn’t even shared with the Inseparables, with the exception of Sinjun. When it came to stating her actual dream, Chrissy kept it simple.
I want to find my happy. To feel pure joy. Not for a moment or a day, but forever.
On the one hand it seemed an unforgivably selfish wish. If asking for the impossible, why not ask that Melody be blessed with the gift of hearing? Honestly, that dream nipped at Chrissy’s soul every day. But something about that wish hinted that Melody was somehow imperfect or unhappy—which she wasn’t. She was simply audibly challenged.
More worrisome was the possibility that Chrissy’s negative mindset and damaged spirit were weighing heavy on her daughter’s heart. Knowing her cynicism might someday dull her daughter’s sparkle was unacceptable. So in that regard her dream wasn’t purely for herself but for Melody and everyone within Chrissy’s beloved circle.
Attaining pure joy “forever and always” struck Chrissy as so farfetched that she’d expected ID.com to reject her application. She hadn’t expected an affirmative response within a short span of three days. That’s if you could call a confirmed reservation for concert tickets and a cryptic message as “affirmative”.<
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Impossible Dream offers the most likely prospects based on data, research, and ID-tuition. It’s up to the applicant to follow through. We provide the magic. You provide the derring-do. True passion and faith required. Patience recommended.
If she remembered right, it was pretty much the same message as received by Bella. And because of Bella, Chrissy knew that derring-do involved bold behavior. Courage. She’d never considered herself a wuss, so… Whatever it took. Bring it on.
True passion wasn’t a problem because she was determined to succeed for Melody’s sake.
Faith. That one was tricky.
Patience implied her path to “pure joy” wouldn’t be an easy one. Which was pretty much a no brainer.
Still, she wished ID.com would have given her greater guidance. At least she’d made Georgie’s day when she’d informed her of the supplied tickets.
“I can’t believe you got four tickets to the Extravaganza!” she’d said. “I’ve been checking back for weeks, hoping for cancellations.”
“Dumb luck,” Chrissy had said.
Which was sort of true.
She couldn’t imagine why Impossible Dream hooked her up with tickets to the Mile High Christmas Extravaganza, of all things. Was it because the musical portion of the program was being performed by the Mile High Symphony Orchestra? She’d boycotted live concerts, most especially those featuring orchestras, for the last several years. Would she find her happy by reconnecting with an experience that once stirred her soul? Maybe she’d have some sort of world-altering epiphany, accepting what others already believed. That Melody could enjoy musical performances, albeit in a different way. Or maybe the epiphany would result in realizing how fortunate she was to have a group of friends who’d gone out of their way to shine some extra love on her pre-birthday celebration.
